Love always hurts. That’s one thing I know you know. But it’s worth it. That’s what you don’t know. Yet.
I'll give you one day at a time, Claire. But remember, I'm thousands of days ahead already.
I should let people in. If they leave, they leave. If I break, I break. It happens to everyone. Right?
He'd always been fascinated by her, drawn to her the way curious people are always drawn to things they don't understand.
I spent so much time telling myself that this wasn't home that I started to believe it," she said carefully. "Belonging has always been tough for me." I can be your home," he said quietly. "Belong to me.
To Fred, those years seemed to pass like quickly skimming a book and then finding the ending wasn't what he expected. He wished he'd paid more attention to the story.
Men. You can't live with them, you can't shoot them.
Some men you know are Southern before they ever say a word," Julia said as she and Emily watched Sawyer's progress, helpless, almost as if they couldn't look away. "They remind you of something good--picnics or carrying sparklers around at night. Southern men will hold doors open for you, they'll hold you after you yell at them, and they'll hold on to their pride no matter what. Be careful what they tell you, though. They have a way of making you believe anything, because they say it that way.
There was an art to the male posterior. That's all there was to it.
When people believe you have something to give, something no one else has, they'll go to great lengths and pay a lot of money for it.
I lost myself trying to find happiness in things that didn't love me back.
He reached for her and kissed her. It was all at once passionate, as if there was too much in him to contain. He was immediately swept up in it. It took no effort, the difference between swimming on your own and being washed away in a flood.
She'd fallen into the best part of her past.
She'd assumed she'd be married and have kids by this age, that she would be grooming her own daughter for this, as her friends were doing. She wanted it so much she would dream about it sometimes, and then she would wake up with the skin at her wrists and neck red from the scratchy lace of the wedding gown she'd dreamed of wearing. But she'd never felt anything for the men she'd dated, nothing beyond her own desperation. And her desire to marry wasn't strong enough, would never be strong enough, to allow her to marry a man she didn't love.
She'd always known he didn't love her. But it was easier to bear when he didn't know she loved him. That way they were even. Now he knew he had all the power.
You'd be surprised how easy some things can be, things you never thought you'd do, when you take self-respect out of the equation.
My writing process is very organic. I start with an idea. I have the general story arc and the cast. But then I sit down to write, and things change.
The word lethologica describes the state of not being able to remember the word you want.
When Josey woke up and saw the feathery frost on her windowpane, she smiled. Finally, it was cold enough to wear long coats and tights. It was cold enough for scarves and shirts worn in layers, like camouflage. It was cold enough for her lucky red cardigan, which she swore had a power of its own. She loved this time of year. Summer was tedious with the light dresses she pretended to be comfortable in while secretly sure she looked like a loaf of white bread wearing a belt. The cold was such a relief.
Like magic, she felt him getting nearer, felt it like a pull in the pit of her stomach. It felt like hunger but deeper, heavier. Like the best kind of expectation. Ice cream expectation. Chocolate expectation.
Children always know when their mothers are crazy - they just never admit it, not out loud, to anyone.
She sometimes thought she was going crazy. Her first thought when she woke up was always how to get him out of her thoughts. And she would keep watch, hoping to see him next door, while plotting ways to never have to see him again.
First frost meant letting go, so it was always reason to celebrate.
Living down your own past was hard enough. You shouldn't have to live down someone else's.
For stubborn souls like Lisette, death was easier than the courage it took to actually change your life.
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