“Fo' shiz.”

“Most people in Atlanta don't have an accent. It's pretty urban. A lot of people speak gangsta, though," I add jokingly. "Fo' shiz," he replies in his polite English accent. I spurt orangey-red soup across the table. St. Clair gives a surprised ha-HA kind of laugh, and I'm laughing too, the painful kind like abdominal crunches. He hands me a napkin to wipe my chin. "Fo'. Shiz." He repeats it solemnly.Cough cough. "Please don't ever stop saying that. It's too-" I gasp. "Much.""You oughtn't to have said that. Now I shall have to save it for special occasions.""My birthday is in February." Cough choke wheeze. "Please don't forget.”

“Suddenly I register that St. Clair is shorter than Josh. Much shorter. It’s odd I didn’t notice earlier, but he doesn’t carry himself like a short guy. Most are shy or defensive, or some messed-up combination of the two, but St. Clair is confident and friendly and—”

“I grip the edge of a sidewalk cafe table to keep from falling. The diners stare in alarm, but I don't care. I'm reeling, and I gasp for air. How can I have been so stupid? How could I have ever for a moment believed I wasn't in love with him?”

“It's a physical sickness. Étienne. How much I love him. I love Étienne. I love that the accent over his first name is called an acute accent, and that he has a cute accent.”

“Just because something isn't practical doesn't mean it's not worth creating. Sometimes beauty and real-life magic are enough.”

“And for the first time since coming home, i'm completely happy. It's strange. Home... to be here, in my technical house, and discover now someplace different... Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?... For the two of us, home isn't a place. It's a person. And we're finally home.”