“Jamie: Maybe you could stop being a neat freak and ease off with barking orders at me.Dante: I resent the neat-freak statement. And I do not bark.Jamie: Sure you don't, Popeye.Dante: And it wouldn't kill you to use the shoe rack. I mean, it's right by the door.Jamie: Stop putting my CD's in chronological order, and I'll work on the shoe rock thing.Dante: How about alphabetical order?Jamie: How about you go to therapy?”

“Dante: Want me to get your name inked on me? How about on my arm?Jamie: No. That's boring.Dante: How about over my heart then?Jamie: No. That's corny.Dante: Is not.Jamie: Is too.Dante: We'll discuss it later.”

“Hi, mom,” he said. “I’m fine.”“How are you? Are you still seeing . . .?”“Yep,” A.J. said. “Jamie’s sitting right here, next to me.”“Let’s freak her out, okay?” Jamie said, mischief glinting in his eyes as he popped away—which worked more to freak A.J. out.”

“Wanna go to bed and play doctors?” Chuckling, she punched his arm. “No, I don’t.”“Sorry, that was immature. How about playing gynecologists?” Again, she chuckled. “I would, but lunch is calling my name loud and clear.”“Baby, I’ll call your name as loud and clear as you want.”

“You just don’t get it, do you? You have no idea how important you are to me. I need you to be okay, Taryn. I can’t be without you, you have to be here and okay or I would be able to fucking function.”

“I've got a better idea. I'll stay here and you can sit on my face while I eat my way to your heart.”

“Look guys, you might want to think twice before doing this. I’m not an easy target. And I’ve seen CSI. I know how to get rid of the bodies and everything.”