A Visit from the Goon Squad: A Review

Photo of a hand holding a paperback copy of Jennifer Egan's novel "A Visit from the Goon Squad"

Written for English 364: The Contemporary Novel at the University of Michigan in 2021

A Visit From The Goon Squad shouldn’t work.  A novel with over a dozen major characters and no sense of a linear timeline, made up of interview snippets and a Powerpoint among other perspectives, seems likely to be a jumbled, confusing mess to read.  Against these odds, Jennifer Egan transforms these elements into a cohesive story that chronicles the inevitable passage of time and the universal regrets that plague us all.  Goon Squad has been the most enjoyable novel for me to read so far this year, and its ability to successfully stretch the boundaries of the novel as a category by manipulating time and human connection allows readers to deepen their understanding of the world and of their place within it.

Egan’s novel mainly follows the lives of Bennie Salazar, a retired punk rocker-turned-record executive, and Sasha Blake, his assistant with a mysterious past and a penchant for pickpocketing.  These two characters’ lives are intertwined with many others through numerous complex connections: Bennie is married to and then divorced from Stephanie, who works for La Doll (or Dolly), who goes on to become professionally involved with movie star Kitty Jackson, who is interviewed by Stephanie’s brother Jules.  Sasha goes on a date with a man named Alex who later works with Bennie and Scotty, Bennie’s former bandmate.  Bennie’s mentor Lou goes on a safari in Africa with a local warrior whose grandson will go on to move to America and marry Lulu, La Doll’s daughter.  You get the gist.

I found Good Squad to be one of those “hard to put down” books.  This was mainly due to the “relay race” quality of the chapters.  Each of the chapters contained one or several callbacks and connections to other characters and other stories, whether that was through an ex bandmate’s former assistant’s husband or a dictator’s fake girlfriend’s daughter.  These small snippets of information kept me interested and invested in each of the characters, even when they were introduced at random.  These threads of connection do get confusing the longer you read, so I recommend referencing a character map to help contextualize the characters within the lives of others, as well as making a note of the year or general time period that a chapter takes place in.  Although it does require some referencing back, Egan’s writing style is one of the main reasons that this novel succeeds where any other novel might fail. 

The parent-child relationships in Goon Squad were another major reason for why I think I felt so connected to the novel.  I have spent a lot of time examining my own relationships with my parents and the powerful emotions that arise from these relationships, which are often messy and misunderstood.  My parents went through a tempestuous divorce when I was in middle school that I found myself stuck in the middle of, and this led to me becoming bitter and resentful towards them.  Experiencing the visceral protectiveness and love that Dolly feels towards Lulu despite her daughter’s embarrassment of her past failures parallels certain aspects of my relationship with my parents and reminds me of the guilt I feel when I purposefully hurt them.  Bennie’s divorce from Stephanie also impacts his relationship with his son, Christopher; he feels distant from him and cannot resist “the exquisite connection that came of defying his ex wife in unison.  Betrayal bonding,” in order to forge a connection with his son (Egan 24).  As someone who held the perspective of the child in situations like these with divorced parents, it was poignant for me to experience it from the perspective of a parent struggling to relate to their child after the trauma of divorce.

Goon Squad is, at its core, a novel about time.  The passage of time, the inevitability of time, and every thing, good or bad, that time brings.  Even simply the fact that the chapters aren’t arranged in chronological order calls back to the idea of time.  The random, jumbled order of the stories reminded me as I was reading of how we recall memories–not in a linear fashion but rather through threads that weave all of these memories together.  All of the characters are worried about time–Bennie drinks gold flakes in his coffee to try to rediscover his sex drive, Sasha lies about her age on her dating profiles, Lou stays entrenched in his reckless rockstar ways long into old age.  The characters feel, as most of us do at a certain point, that the best days of their lives are behind them and they are left to pick up the pieces of broken relationships and failed dreams.  As Bennie muses, “nostalgia was the end–everyone knew that.” (Egan 37).  The characters find defeat in the passage of time, but they also find hope.  Lou’s bandmate Scotty performs a wildly successful concert after decades of being a hardworking fisherman, La Doll escapes her failed career in the spotlight and moves to upstate New York to open a gourmet shop, and retired rockstar Bosco successfully completes one last tour before settling down to become a dairy farmer.  The ups and downs of Goon Squad’s characters serve to remind us that life is nebulous, and there is always the chance to start again and to be better.

Interrelated with time, the novel is also interested in human connection.  All of the characters are connected in some way, whether they know it or not.  These unnoticed connections, threading one person to another to another, are the essence of what makes humanity and determines how we live.  Egan’s ability to make her characters flawed and sometimes unlikeable, the way we all are, allows readers to connect with them as well.  Usually when I enjoy a novel, it has a lot to do with the fact that I enjoyed the characters.  In Goon Squad, however, I actually found many of the characters to be rather unlikeable.  Because the chapters are told from their perspectives and the reader gets a look inside their minds, the flaws of the characters are on full display.  Rather than turning me off of the novel, this vulnerability made me more invested in the characters’ lives.  No, they weren’t perfect, but I could understand why they were the way that they were, and I appreciated that.  Egan makes sure that readers finish Goon Squad feeling almost as connected to each of the characters as they are to each other.

The narrative style that Egan chose also subtly reveals aspects of the characters’ personalities and motivations.  “Great Rock and Roll Pauses”, the chapter executed entirely by Powerpoint slides, is told from the point of view of Alison, Sasha’s 12-year-old daughter.  Alison uses these slides to make sense of the world around her, from her mother’s mysterious past to her father Drew’s fractured relationship with her autistic older brother Lincoln.  Oftentimes when author’s attempt to write from the perspectives of children, it ends up feeling fake.  Egan’s use of Powerpoint makes this chapter believable, as well as one of the most powerful chapters in the novel–what twelve year old in this day and age hasn’t messed around making Powerpoints or other types of technological presentations?  I especially appreciated this chapter’s placement within the novel.  Its title references Lincoln’s fascination with early pauses in songs, when you think the song is over but it starts up again.  As Sasha explains to Drew, “‘The pause makes you think the song will end.  And then the song isn’t really over, so you’re relieved.  But then the song does actually end, because every song ends, obviously, and that time the end is for real.’” (Egan 281).  The chapter is the second-to-last chapter in the book, a literal early pause in the novel–you think it will end with this extremely unique writing style, Alison’s innocence and simplistic worldview acting as a tidy ribbon tying up an otherwise sophisticated, mature novel.  But then comes a final chapter back in regular prose discussing a futuristic New York City.  Although Egan asserts that the chapters of the novel can be read in any order, this chapter’s placement feels meaningful.  The fact that the chapter is centered around a father’s distant relationship with his son who he struggles to connect with also points back to that central idea of the power of parental and familial relationships.

Egan’s personal life also seems to have influenced the novel.  There are many references both positive and negative to the impact of technology on our modern society, and it seems likely that this is partly due to the fact that Egan was in a relationship with Steve Jobs during her college years when he had already found fame and success as the founder and CEO of Apple and was in the process of inventing the Mac computer.  Egan describes feeling in awe of the societal change that Jobs was creating, and this is what eventually ended their relationship.  She says of the relationship, “there were moments when I felt overshadowed by him […] I felt really dwarfed by that.  Like, I felt, Oh, my God, I’m nothing.” (Schwartz).  Egan seemed to recognize that Jobs was in the process of changing the world, and she examines the effects of this in the novel.  Egan’s intimate experience with the dawn of a new technology informed her views when writing Goon Squad; she discusses everything from the digitization of music to the dangers of children growing up with and becoming addicted to technology.  Egan seems lightly critical of technology’s impact on society while also acknowledging how important it has been for innovation and communication, and in the final chapter, “Pure Language”, Egan gives technology the center stage, albeit somewhat unsuccessfully.

As a whole, I felt that this novel flowed well despite being made up of disjointed stories.  The characters, settings, and events all seemed plausible and realistic, and there were callbacks to other characters and times in new chapters that reminded me of what I’d read previously.  The final chapter, however, was my least favorite to read and felt the most disconnected from the rest of the novel.  “Pure Language” follows Alex, the seemingly random man that Sasha goes on an unsuccessful first date with in the first chapter of the novel, as he works with Bennie to promote the comeback concert of Scotty, one of Bennie’s former punk bandmates.  The chapter is set in New York City sometime during the 2020s.  It is Egan’s futuristic prediction of the world, one in which the gravitational pull of the Earth to the sun is off balance, water is threatening to engulf the city, and people communicate over iPhone-reminiscent “handsets” and “T” each other using abbreviated texting slang that seems dreadfully out of date today.  To be fair, it is unreasonable to expect Egan to perfectly explain futuristic culture in a believable way.  As Roth reminds us in his essay “Writing American Fiction”, “And what is the moral of the story?  Simply this: that the American writer in the middle of the twentieth century has his hands full in trying to understand, describe, and then make credible much of American reality.” (167).  It is even harder to try to make the future credible in fiction.  However the chapter’s plot of creating “parrots” to hype up the comeback concert of Scotty, a former punk bandmate of Bennie’s-turned fisherman, seemed unnecessary and contrived.  The concert, an all-ages event that many of the novel’s characters attend, seems like the end of an era, although it doesn’t carry the same weight because there is no prior hinting towards its occurrence.  I give credit to Egan for attempting to imagine this future culture, but because of the fatalistic tendencies of the chapter to predict technology’s hold on society and the rather rushed comeback story of Scotty, Bennie’s former bandmate, I felt as though the chapter was disconnected from the rest of the narrative.  

Although Egan stumbles in the final chapter when trying to explain society through the technological lens of “handsets” and “T’s”,  it is clear throughout Goon Squad that culture is interwoven in every story that each character experiences.  The modern novel is often thought to be an explanation or criticism of the culture that we live in.  Egan seems to criticize certain aspects of journalism and celebrity culture in “Forty-Minute Lunch”, a chapter revolving around an interview that Stephanie’s (Bennie’s ex wife) brother Jules Jones has with up-and-coming but doomed movie star Kitty Jackson.  Jules realizes the banality of his career and tries to write a piece that would catch readers’ attention again, but ends up in prison after the interview goes awry and he attempts to rape Kitty.  Like many other writer’s Jules is preoccupied with the need to create something new in an oversaturated literary and journalistic world.  Bennie, meanwhile, struggles in his role as a record executive as he realizes his disdain for the new age of music which was “too clear, too clean.”  In Bennie’s words, “the problem was precision, perfection; the problem was digitization, which sucked the life out of everything that got smeared through its microscopic mesh.”  (Egan 23).  This critique of technology’s impact on art is even more powerful today, as traditional art forms are quickly being replaced by newer, faster, more efficient methods.  Both Egan and the Goon Squad characters hold opinions about their societies, and these opinions are important to the novel’s overall message.  

Although the novel examines and criticizes culture and society in equal measure, it isn’t pretentious about it.  The characters experience life through their own points of view, and any cultural dialogue is authentic to who they are as regular people just trying to get through life.  The best thing, in my opinion, about Goon Squad is its self-confident assertion that it doesn’t necessarily need to have a point or a “why does it matter?” moment.  It doesn’t take itself too seriously, and because of this we as readers are able to simply become immersed in these characters’ lives and take what we can from their experiences.  In literary society there is such an emphasis on novels that provide social commentary for the time, but I think novels that are of a more personal nature are just as important.  Jonathan Franzen addresses this conundrum in his essay “Why Bother”, stating, “at the heart of my despair about the novel had been a conflict between a feeling that I should Address the Culture and Bring News to the Mainstream, and my desire to write about the things closest to me, to lose myself in the characters and locales that I loved.” (95).  Egan, who won the Pulitzer Prize over Franzen in 2011, doesn’t succumb to this pressure.

I am partial to character-centered narratives, so I may be a bit biased in my appreciation of Egan’s style and the world of Goon Squad.  But it is undeniable that her skillful ability to weave together different narratives and create impactful stories is impressive, and her willingness to bend and break the rules of traditional novels has allowed Egan to create something totally unique.  Goon Squad showcases humanity in all its glory and destruction, and reminds us that no matter how different we are, some feelings, emotions, and experiences truly are universal.

Citations

Egan, Jennifer. A Visit From the Goon Squad. Alfred Knopf, 2010.

Franzen, Jonathan. “Why Bother?” How to Be Alone: Essays, HarperCollins, New York, 2002, pp. 55–97. 

Roth, Philip. “Writing American Fiction.” Reading Myself and Others, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, 1975. 

Schwartz, Alexandra, and Jennifer Egan. “Jennifer Egan’s Travels through Time.” The New Yorker, 9 Oct. 2017, https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/10/16/jennifer-egans-travels-through-time.

At Midnight

There are things that can only be said in the darkness.  There’s something about the suffocating pitch of deep navy blue that makes words unsaid spill from your lips, unstoppable and irrepressible.  And in this precise moment, I hated the fact that I was quite predisposed to this trait.  I pressed my face against the window, willing myself to somehow melt into the flickering pane of glass and disappear forever.  But instead, my eyes followed the never ending line of white that cut sharply like a knife through the glistening black highway.  I closed my eyes as nausea rose up from deep in my stomach, cursing my uncanny ability to remember the exact details of every moment.
“I love you.”
“You…what?”
“Um, nothing.  I didn’t say anything.  Yep, definitely didn’t.”
“Hey.”
“What?”
“Say it again.”
I sighed heavily, squeezing my eyelids tightly against my burning eyes.  How badly I wished that I could go back in time, so that I could trap my deep, dark secret in my lips and force it back down my throat.  His eyes flicked to my face.  My eyes were still closed, but I could feel his gaze, a shard of glass digging into my cheekbone.
“Iris,” my name slipped off of his tongue like a sigh, so quiet it almost blended in with the dull humming of the car’s wheels running along the pavement.  I shook my head quickly, my nose grazing the frosty glass of the window, turning pink under the ochre streetlights.  “Let’s talk about this.”  My eyes snapped open at that, my chest tightening, twisting against my spine.  His eyes were bright against my face.  Too bright for this night, too bright for the stars, too bright for the moon.  Eyes that made me pray to any god that was out there that no one would ever hurt eyes like those.  But here I was, dangling at the precipice, so close to delivering those fatal cuts.
“What’s there to talk about?  I said something that I regret, I wish I hadn’t, so let’s just leave it.”
“I don’t want to leave it, you said it for a reason, so tell me the truth.”
“Just leave it alone!”  My voice, cracking against the foggy windows and the expanse of highway ahead.  Uncomfortably loud in the silent, heavy night.  But the silence that comes afterwards is almost louder.  He glances down at his hands, long, spindly fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel of the car, knuckles whitening and two angry roses of red blooming across his cheeks.
“If you didn’t mean it, why did you say it?  I get that you can’t say it anymore.  So why now?”  The words aren’t judgmental, not angry anymore.  Simply curious.  And slightly melancholy.  A tone that made me panicky, sticky palms and short breaths.  Like something was ending.  This couldn’t happen, I wouldn’t let it.  I was slipping off of the precipice, fingertips grazing the edge and legs swinging, ready to fall–.  Climb back up.  Hurry.
“I didn’t…uh, I didn’t say I didn’t mean it.” Off the precipice, on shaky, unfamiliar ground.  The panicky feeling was gone, but replacing the herd of buffalos was a swarm of angry, anxious butterflies, wings grazing my stomach, my heart, my throat.  A semi roared its way past our car, kicking up the dusty desert and causing the car to shiver in the cold of the night.  The dawn seemed hesitant to come, waiting patiently for my midnight confession to be fully realized.  I stared straight ahead, my eyes flicking alongside the pattern of the yellow highway lines.  I watched the road disappear beneath us until I couldn’t bear it anymore.  A gust of wind burst angrily from my throat.  Anger not directed towards him, but towards myself.  I was such a hypocrite.  Here I was, making the kind of convoluted grand romantic gesture you see on movie screens and scoff at, all the while living my life as undramatically as possible.  No wonder Will didn’t understand.  There was nothing to understand.  I had gotten myself into the type of mess I promised I never would.
We had a good relationship.  Comfortable.  I insisted on it as soon as we met, quashing the butterflies in my stomach with promises of “just casual” and “no drama” and “easy”.  He had loved me then. Fire clashed with the chocolate in his eyes, flowers in his hands and kisses on his lips.  Met time and time again with my pushing hands, my “thank you, but it’s not like that”.  A man can only take so much rejection before he falls, easily almost, into the mold he was meant for.  I thought we had an understanding.  But how ironic that, in the end, much too late, I was the one to confess.  I had worked so hard to force his love for me into a tiny box that fit into my life that I had neglected to realize that the other boxes and I had created for myself were decomposing, ripping apart at the seams.
It had been too long, I realized suddenly, the thought breaking through the haze of the other confused and disjointed thoughts practically sprinting through my mind.  He had been silent for almost five minutes while my mind went into overdrive against my wishes.
“…Will?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to say anything?”
“Yes.”
That shut me up.  I rested my hand on my thigh, fingers drumming against its clenched muscles.  I didn’t want to rush him, but I was getting impatient.  What was I waiting for?  He didn’t love me back, that much was obvious.  But maybe I was waiting for a confession less dramatic.  Maybe I was waiting for him to tell me that he cared deeply about me.  No.  I would’t be satisfied with something so clinical and offhand.
“Iris?”  My stomach seemed to drop through my body, slicing through the car motor and sinking deep into the desert.
“Yes?”
“I love you too.”
And suddenly every stolen moment and gentle kiss and longing glance that had been kept curled tightly around my heart came undone, and unfurled, spreading warmth from my fingertips to my toes.
– J.S.

Zenith

bed bedroom morning home

THE PRESENT

The first thing that registers in my mind is yellow.  I don’t know why, but my mind fills with the color.  Almost as if someone poured pure sunshine straight into the center of my heart.  My body feels warm.  I open my eyes to see a ray of sun illuminating the swirls of dust floating across the bedroom.  I love nothing more than these mornings, when the slats of the blinds create tilting stripes on the bedsheets and the shrieking of my alarm is absent.  

His warm breath shifts the hair on my neck, tickling the sensitive area below my ear.  I grin, turning towards him and planting my soft lips against his warm ones.  His lips, his cheeks, his forehead, his neck.  He groans, shifting slightly towards me, his arms snaking around my waist.  I study his groggy face for several seconds.  Like a map of his life, my eyes seek out the scar on his eyebrow from when he fell off of a chair when he was five.  I look at the ruddy red mark on his jaw, where my lips tattooed a rose on his face the night before.  I look at his eyelashes, long and feathery against his tanned cheeks.

“Morning,” his voice is scratchy, clashing with the early morning softness in his grey cloud eyes.  He still looks asleep, his mouth pouting, then stretching into the smile I know oh so well.  And I lose track of time, like I always do, as Nina Simone plays softly on the radio.

Maybe it was seconds later, maybe hours, maybe only minutes that I lay beside him, legs tangled in the bright white hotel sheets.  The blinking clock on my right reads 11:38 am.  I blow my bangs out of my eyes.  

“We should get going, it’s getting late.”

“At this rate, we won’t even reach Sedona until next week.”  He chuckles softly, not sounding sorry at all.

“It’s your own fault, you know.”

“As it always is.”

“Shut it.”

“Rude, now make it up to me.”  He leans in, all minty breath and sparkling eyes and freckled cheeks and how could I say no, and before I knew it it was 2 in the afternoon.

“Will, we have to leave now!”

“See,” he says lazily, looking up at me from the bed, “the thing about not having a schedule is that you’re supposed to be relaxed.  Relaxed, you’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

“Let’s go!”

“Alright, be patient woman.”

We drove through the night, the stars rushing by overhead, the universe singing its song of silence as the city fell blissfully asleep behind us.  The headlights lit up the desert, casting shadows of cacti and tumbleweeds against the harsh clay cliffs.   

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere.  Everywhere.”

“Well, let’s go then.”

“Yes, let’s.”

And we did.  And when the sun escaped from the horizon that held it captive all night, it fell onto our smiling eyes and lips and it was satisfied.

THE NEXT MORNING

Have you ever had that feeling like those twinkly Christmas lights were packed tight inside of your chest cavity?  And you feel like you could burst from the electricity of it all.  Like you were listening to the deafening climax of your favorite song, only it was happening on repeat, and every time your heart beats a little faster.  Yeah, that’s how the inside of my old Subaru felt.  

“What’re you thinking about, prettygirl?”  His hand slid from the wheel to my folded hands, his fingers brushing like sun rays across my palms.  The Christmas lights in my heart seemed to twinkle a little brighter.

“I’m just…I feel obnoxiously happy.”  A laugh burst from his chest.  It was bright pink, like the rain boots currently strewn across the backseat.  “Seriously, I might start to annoy myself if I keep this up.  I feel like I’m living my favorite word.”

“You’re living zenith?”

“How did you know my favorite word was zenith?”

“You told me.  On our very first date, remember?”

And I did.

THREE YEARS EARLIER

“Are you,” I paused.  I couldn’t remember his name.  

“Will Jewell.  And you’re Hadley Jameson, right?”  Of course, ultrahandsome guy remembers my name.

“Yeah, sorry.  My memory and I aren’t the best of friends.  She gives just as much as she takes away.”

“I’m sure I can get her to remember me.  I’m very memorable.”  He smirked, and suddenly my brain was all pearls and chocolate and gold.  

11:39 pm, and instead of curled beneath a heavy blanket of crappy TV and coffee gelato I’m at a 24 hour coffee shop with the boy with the chocolate eyes that I’d only met today.  And instead of discussing the latest Olivia Pope drama with my cat, I’m trading favorites like baseball cards, tossing my secrets recklessly across the smooth tabletop.

“Favorite movie?”

“That’s easy,” I say.  “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.”  A long pause ensues.  

“You’re…very unpredictable, I must say.”

“I’ve gotta keep you on your toes somehow, right?”

“Right.”

“Alright…favorite dessert?”

“Oh pumpkin pie, no question.  Favorite word?”

“Favorite word?”

“C’mon, everyone has one.”

“That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”  That’s what I said.  What I wanted to say was you just read my heart.

He stands up and I grab my purse and our glances clash like silver swords as we step into the inky dark air.  I watch his feet leave invisible footsteps on the concrete as he walks to his car.

“Hey, Will.”

“Yeah?”

“My favorite word?  Zenith.  It means-“  

“I know exactly what it means.  I’ll see you later, prettygirl.”

I was in for it.

THE PRESENT

“You still remember that?  After-“

“All this time?  Of course I do.  I ask that question on every date I go on.  You’re the only girl I’ve met who actually told me a word I didn’t know.”

“Wait!  You told me-“

“I wasn’t about the embarrass myself in front of such a pretty girl, was I?  Besides, I have a track record with words, remember.  I know them all.”

“You DID have a track record with words.  But that was before-“

“I met you.”

His words ricochet against the windows, lit white by my warm breath.  They clang against the solid glass until finally settling in my lap.  The silence of the endless road could have gone on for hours-

I was jarred by the rumbling of gravel beneath the car tires, stark in comparison to the smooth worn highway.  Will slams his foot against the brakes, my hands crack against the dashboard, and the roar of the engine quiets.  Someone screams during all of this and it slices through the night sky.  I realize that someone was me.

“Hadley!  Are you okay?”

“What the hell just happened?”

“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to be so…abrupt.  I just need to tell you something.  Well, ask, more like but…”

“Spit it out, Will.”

“Look, Hadley.  I thought of all of the big words I would use when I said this, words like elysian or epiphany or metanoia.  But right now, only one word comes to mind.  Redamancy.”

TWO AND A HALF YEARS EARLIER

“Pancakes with chocolate chips, just the way you like them.”

“You’re perfect.  You only forgot one-“

“Coffee?  I could never forget to give you your lifeblood.  That would just be cruel.”

“Like I said, perfect.”

“And I love you.”

I had always thought the phrase “deafening silence” was an obvious oxymoron until this exact moment, when the lack of voices in the room was louder than the washing machine on laundry day.

“…what…uh, what did you just say?”

“I love you, Hadley.  So much.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

His breath caught on the fishhook in his throat and it turned his eyes red.

“Reciprocation would be a great choice.”

“I just…you surprised me.”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does!”

Wrong answer.

“No, it doesn’t.”

His sigh blew the walls of the house in, leaving me standing in the middle of it all with nothing but the dust.

His back rose and fell, causing the patterns on his comforter to morph into triangles and circles and guilt.  I stuck the sticky note against his wall, covering the gash I made on a day involving chocolate cake and frisbees.   Redamancy.  The act of loving in return.

THE PRESENT

“Will, what are you doing?”  My voice quavered, my tongue a tangle of leaves in the wind.

“Just- just wait.  Redamancy.  It means the act of loving in return.  You gave me that word once, when I needed it most.  And now I’m giving it back to you, a thousand and two times over.  I promise you redamancy forever.  I promise you redamancy when we’re old and we wear adult diapers and our eyes are too bad to see the lines on the road.  I promise you redamancy when you’re grumpy and I’m frustrated and our favorite songs aren’t enough anymore.”

“Will!”

“Just wait.”

*to be continued*