“I took a drink. "I guess it's different for you.""Hmm?" "I bet you have girls hanging all over you. Dozens would probably kill to be in my spot and here I am, allergic to your bread.”

“Well now, I'd rather have you than a dozen boys, Anne,' said Matthew patting her hand. 'Just mind you that — rather than a dozen boys. Well now, I guess it wasn't a boy that took the Avery scholarship, was it? It was a girl — my girl — my girl that I'm proud of.”

“I guess you could say I'm allergic to sunlight. If I'm exposed to it, it could kill me.”

“I didn't get fired.""You didn't punch your boss and get fired from the Tribune? That's what I heard.""I punched what could loosely be called a colleague for cribbing my notes on a story and since the editor–who happened to be the asshole's uncle–took his word over mine, I quit.""To write books. Is it fun?""I guess it is.""I bet you killed the asshole in the first one you wrote.""You'd be right. Beat him to death with a shovel. Very satisfying.”

“Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you're allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It's like killing yourself, and then you're reborn. I guess I've lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.”

“You probably even dream about me.” His gaze lowered to my mouth. I felt my lips part. “I bet you even write my name in your notebooks, over and over again, with a little heart drawn around it.”