“He's never going to sit at my feet and write me poems, which is good because I hate poetry, except dirty ones that rhyme.”

“I’m not a woman you bring home to Mother, pick out china patterns with, or Mary forefend, breed. I’ve seen a chunk of the universe, true, but there’s still so much more to see. I doubt I’ll ever cure this wanderlust, and I’m content with dedicating my life to failing to sate it... He’s never going to sit at my feet and write me poems, which is good because I hate poetry, except dirty ones that rhyme.”

“There’s nothing he can do here for me, but I hate that he left.”

“Mother Mary," he breathes. "How you shine." I shake my head. "The light is yours. Right now you can't see it because you sit in shadow, but all I do is reflect you.”

“I’ve lost so many people. Some I left on purpose and never looked back. Some were taken from me, and I never said good-bye.”

“He would bear scars because of me, as I carried them for him.”

“If I ever win you," he said, anger bright in his pale eyes, "it will be because you want me more. Not because he's gone. I'm nobody's second best.”