If you want a man who's commited, go look in a mental hospital.

I am a hopeless romantic. A silly, ridiculous, foolish romantic. I live in a fantasy land. I need to get real. And now, for the first time, I want to get real. I want a real relationship with a real man in the real world–-with all the real problems, faults, and whatever comes with it.

Missing someone has to be one of the worst human emotions. All the other feelings like anger and fear and horror get some much more airplay, as if their intensity gives them more value, but whereas those emotions come in violent bursts and are gone again, the gnawing ache of loss has to be simply endured. It's like background noise, it's always there, it never goes away. You just have to try to block it out, distract yourself, hope that tomorrow the hole they left behind has grown a little smaller.

"Maybe I just don't want another rejection," he shrugs. "I've had enough of that in my so-called acting career." Oh, so this is what it's all about. "But you're not auditioning for a role," I try to persuade him. "Aren't I?" he raises his eyebrows.

Men, Grace learned, seemed to think women were all frustrated nurses.

Forget men, I want to marry my MacBook. It’s dependable, reliable and you can even go shopping with it.

He hadn't lost Grace. Because she'd never been his to lose in the first place.