“I love her.” “She’s dead.” “That doesn’t mean to me what it does to other people.”

“She’s right in some ways. She doesn’t need a shrink. But she does need to remember. I need her to remember; remember and still choose me. Choose us.”

“She’s the woman I love. The woman my sick fucker of a father doesn’t want me to love”

“I hate you,” I declared.“You don’t.”“I do.”“Okay, maybe whoever this new Ava is does but she’s a bitch and I don’t give a fuck if she hates me. The old Ava doesn’t hate me and she’s in there somewhere, I saw her five minutes ago and that’s who I'm keeping safe.”

“In the sentence “She’s no longer suffering,” to what, to whom does “she” refer? What does that present tense mean?”

“You got a lot of ladies to get through. You’re still young. First love’s the sweetest, but it doesn’t last.” “Not ever?” I ask. Grandad looks at me with a seriousness he reserves for moments when he wants me to really pay attention. “When we fall that first time, we’re not really in love with the girl. We’re in love with being in love. We’ve got no idea what she’s really about—or what she’s capable of. We’re in love with our idea of her and of who we become around her. We’re idiots.”