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If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I love a happy ending.
Stop, Viggo. Stop romanticizing this moment with a woman who barely tolerates you.
That’s how you know you really love something, Tallulahloo, when it feels worth the hassle, when even the hardest parts of it feel like a gift.”
“It’s okay.” “It’s not okay,” he says fiercely, hugging me closer to him. “I wish pistols at dawn were still a thing.”
“I might have overstepped a little bit over the years in the area of my family’s love lives—well, their lives in general, honestly—and now my chickens are coming home to roost.”
“I think love is . . . wrapping your arms around every emotion, even the hard ones, even when being numb seems so much safer. Love is hoping, even after disappointment has taught you not to. Love is that bone-deep hum of peace through your body when you’re hugged hard, when you’re listened to well, when you’re not left alone in your sadness. Love is stubborn and persistent, an indomitable weed that springs up in those slivers of soft soil in our concrete-jungle existence.
Be brave for yourself, Viggo. You deserve it.”
“Five. Kittens.” I grin. “This is what happens when you leave. I get lonely.”
What if love is like anything else humans strive at—something you can fail at spectacularly, and, by contrast, by some mysterious, terrifying chance of sharing it with the right person, through hard work and hope, something you can also do spectacularly well?
This is how bad I have it. I can’t even focus on a romance novel. I’m a mess.
You deserve to be honest with your heart, Viggo.
“My heart has been, and always will be, only and forever yours.”
“God, this is euphoria, isn’t it? I feel like those cows just let out of the barn after winter.”
