“I’m starting to think you have an amputee fetish,” he answered, still kissing me.
I laughed. “I have an Augustus Waters fetish,” I explained.
The whole affair was the precise opposite of what I figured it would be: slow and patient and quiet
and neither particularly painful nor particularly ecstatic.
No headboards were broken. No screaming. Honestly, it was probably the longest time we’d ever spent together without talking.
Only one thing followed type: Afterward, when I had my face resting against Augustus’s chest, listening to his heart pound,
Augustus said, “Hazel Grace, I literally cannot keep my eyes open.” “Misuse of literality,” I said.
“No,” he said. “So. Tired.” His face turned away from me, my ear pressed to his chest, listening to his lungs settle into the rhythm of sleep.
After a while, I got up, dressed, found the Hotel Filosoof stationery, and wrote him a love letter: Dearest Augustus, yrs, Hazel Grace
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning, our last full day in Amsterdam, Mom and Augustus and I walked the half block from the hotel to the Vondelpark,
where we found a café in the shadow of the Dutch national film museum.
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