“I hate to make the comparison here, but think of me as one of those expensive boutiques. If you have to ask about the cost, you probably can’t afford me.”

“You have made no secret of the fact that you hate me.”His eyes soften again. “Hate you?” he asks. “Not as much as you might think. And then there is the…what was it…butterflies? That can’t be a bad thing, can it?”

“I'm the one who got hit by that car, not you,' I tell him. 'Don't act like you're the victim here. You made choices I didn't ask you to make. I'm not sure anyone asked you to make them.' I'm screaming the words, not caring that the entire world can probably hear me. 'You think I like limping everywhere I go? I don't. I'm the victim! Be honest with me! You didn't care about me enough to trust me. I gave you my heart, but it wasn't enough.”

“You don’t really hate me…do you?” he asked.“Sometimes I wish that I did. It would make everything a whole hell of a lot easier.”“So what pisses you off more? What I did to make you wanna hate me? Or knowing that you can’t?”

“I don’t want people to matter to me too much. Sometimes it hurts too much to think about them. Ones you love who don’t love you, ones who are dead or hate you, ones who you think about but never get to be with. I like people but when I get too close, it fucks me up and I can’t get things done.”

“I can’t afford to hate anyone. I don’t have that kind of time.”