“Seriously, what the hell does playing the field mean anyway? Am I like some sports metaphor for you? You made it to home base, so now it's time to go to the Superbowl or whatever?”

“I'd like to meet the man who decided that people do or don't look Jewish. What the hell does that mean anyway? Is it the American penchant for pinning things down, catergorizing, for pigeonholing people? Whatever it is, it's wrong.”

“Sugar, I am not playing a game. This is serious. I mean to woo you, so shut up and let me do it.”

“Want to play baseball?’” she asked. Shane’s eyes opened, and he stopped stroking her hair. “What?’” “First base,’” she said. “You’re already there.’” “I’m not running the bases.’” “Well, you could at least steal second.’” “Jeez, Claire. I used to distract myself with sports stats at times like these, but now you’ve gone and ruined it.”

“How did you do that?” I shrug. “I click my heels three times and say, ‘There’s no place like home.’” “Uh-huh. So … you think this is your home? My barn? His tone is playful, but the look he’s giving me is dead serious. A question. “Haven’t you guessed by now?” I say, my heart hammering. “My home is you.”

“I used to play sports. Then I realized you can buy trophies. Now I am good at everything.”