“Do you want me to grovel?” I asked. “Because I will. I’ll grovel for you, Jackson Ledbetter. Should I prostrate myself? You know, like priests do, when they get ordained? Will a few prostrations make you feel better?”
“Do you ever shut up?” he asked.
“I tried once. It was the worst thirteen minutes of my life.”
“You made it for thirteen minutes without saying something? I’m surprised it’s not in the Guinness Book of World Records.”
“Does this mean you forgive me?”
“I hate you sometimes, Wiley. You know that?”
“I know.”
“I’m being completely serious here. I sometimes hate your fucking guts and don’t know why the hell I stay. I’d put my foot up your ass, but your head is in the way.”
“Thank you. I’m not perfect, but at least I’m Southern.”
“You’re your own worst enemy.”
“Preach it.”
“But then there’s part of me that loves you. God knows why. But I used to be addicted to ecstasy, so what do I know?”