I'm not sick, Deuce. You don't know your own charm." My charm? I hadn't been aware I had any. It must be the dress, I thought.

Men always want to be remembered whereas women realize that requires being dead.

What was the good of having such a fine home if you weren't willing to fight for it?

Show, not tell, right? Action, not words. You don’t want to hear how sorry I am or how things will be different this time. You want to see it with your own eyes. And until I can show you that, you won’t tell me what I want to hear.

He’s worth fighting for, but I won’t change who I am for any man. No more than he should alter himself to suit me.

I always have someplace else I’d rather be, even if I don’t know where that is, yet.

I think my head's a minefield strewn with triggers, and maybe if I survive each explosion, what emerges from the wreckage will be me, really, truly me.