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“I think,” he whispers, “I have a new appreciation for charades.”
You better brace yourself. I’m going to tackle-hug you. I’m going to squeeze you so hard, you squeak like a puppy chew toy.”
Pain is always a warning, and it’s vulnerable, not knowing when pain will become urgency.
She was hurting. And I didn’t want her to hurt anymore. I don’t want her to hurt ever.
I think he’s trying to intimidate me, but all it does is make him look annoyingly attractive. Grumpiness should not be this hot.
She’s so beautiful, it hurts.
A faint smile warms her face, and God, am I a fool for it.
“He could use a kiss is all I’m saying.”
“Why do you say that?” “’Cause he’s grumpy. And kisses make the grumps go away.”
“So much for you being a gentleman.” “I never said I was a gentleman.” She rolls her eyes. “What do you call a man who always opens my car door and insists on sleeping in a tent while I take over his house?” “A man who’s been raised by Elin and Alexander Bergman.”
“I’ve never painted a sunrise or a sunset because…I’m not sure I can do them justice. Both times of day, the light changes so quickly, it’s absurdly difficult. I have this fear that I won’t be able to get it right, and it’ll ruin it for me, this thing I love, that’s so beautiful it makes something in me—” He sets a hand over his heart and rubs. “Ache.”
“The deeper you love, the deeper the risk of disappointment, and hurt, and loss. The more you care, the more pain you might face. And yet, I hope you won’t always let that stop you,” I tell him. “Fear of failure, fear of not living up to these standards you hold yourself to, which sound pretty damn high. Because…well, have you ever considered that the depth of feeling for the subject is the reason you’re the very best person to paint it?”
“You’ll never learn your lesson.” “And what’s that?” “That I’m not the kind of person you count on to catch you.”
he’s not a martyr, he’s just damn stubborn.
“But just because it’s not funny doesn’t mean you can’t laugh. Sometimes laughter is all you have.”
“I know they did their best, and I know, in their way, they love me. But sometimes people love you their best, and it’s still not enough.”
He laughs and pats my leg. I kick him in the back, making him slump sideways. “I’d say I missed you,” he groans, “but I can’t breathe. I think you broke my kidney.” “You only need one of them,”
Creepy mind-reader with his goddamn feeling words and romance novels.
Reading about people who look and live and speak so differently from us, yet struggle like we do with their inner demons and outside forces, fight for love in their friendships and families and the people they’ve fallen for, reminds us that not only romantic love, but familial and platonic and sacrificial love is universal, and romance is timeless, that there’s a love story for anyone out there who wants one.”
I don’t doubt that I’m capable of love—I’ve just learned that I don’t communicate it in a language that most recognize.
“Just because you experience your emotions differently from other people, Axel, doesn’t mean that experience isn’t valid, or that someone can’t love you for it. With the right person, love is possible for any of us who want it.”
“Reading a book is just like opening your heart to someone. You won’t know if you’ll connect until you try.”
And that’s the best kind of friendship, isn’t it? Friendship that lets laughter and tears hold hands, where grief and gratitude can be friends, not enemies.
This is friendship. We love each other. We take turns holding each other up.”
“I want to kiss you so badly, it’s obliterated every other thought in my brain. There’s nothing but wanting it. Wanting you.”
I told myself I’d accept only the most direct, unconvoluted language to satisfy my curiosity, my love of systematic order and clearly defined terms. But he gave me poetry.
Dammit. I think I’ve caught feelings for my husband.
I want to be brave. I want to ask and profess and bare my heart. But it’s dark, and it’s storming, and I’m so terrified to be alone.
“One of the first things we learned from my dad when we started hiking and camping was that it’s important to have a healthy fear of nature, to know our place in the grand scheme of things. Because then we can make wise choices. Fear can teach us. But it can also lie to us.”
She glances my way and catches me staring at her. “You’re not watching the sunrise,” she says. “No.” A blush stains her cheeks as she smiles faintly, her expression perplexed. “You love sunrises.” “I love you more.”
If you can forgive me, I want to be brave with you, Rooney.
“The hard parts and the easy parts,” he says. “We’ll figure them out together.”
