“I’ve had that look before. In fact, this is a perpetual look of mine: the telltale 'I don’t know if I really want to be here anymore' look.”

“It’s lovely,” I said, taking an involuntary half step back. “Really, though. I don’t like to handle other people’s cookware.” “That’s the best you can manage? That’s your bright, bold lie?” “Look, lady, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never had somebody corner me on a dark street and try to hand me a frying pan before,” I snapped.”

“Before Jem looks at anyone else he looks at me, and I’ve tried to live so I can look squarely back at him.”

“There is no narrative now, no “And then,” only a disjointed series of images. A pile of photographs I’ve flipped through so many times that I don’t even need to look at them anymore to know what’s there, to see it, to cover my face with my hands and cry.”

“Look guys, you might want to think twice before doing this. I’m not an easy target. And I’ve seen CSI. I know how to get rid of the bodies and everything.”

“I was afraid I was wrong, that you would change your mind any second. I’ve been looking for a suitable alternative, but the truth is …”—Maxon looked me in the eyes again, unwavering—“there’s only you. Maybe I’m not really looking, maybe they aren’t right for me. It doesn’t matter. I just know I want you. And that terrifies me. I’ve been waiting for you to take back the words, to beg to leave.”