Something about telling that story made my gut grow back together." What?" Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud." That's who you really like. The people you can think out loud in front of." The people who've been in your secret hiding places." The people you bite your thumb in front of." Hi." Hi." ..." ..." Wow. My first Lindsey." My second Colin." That was fun. Let's try it again." Sold." ..." ..." ...".

If I had cared about her as I should have, as I thought I did, how could I have let her go?

She taught me everything I knew about crawfish and kissing and pink wine and poetry. She made me different.

If only we could see the endless string of consequences that result from our smallest actions. But we can't know better until knowing better is useless.

People are supposed to care. It's good that people mean something to you, that you miss people when they're gone.

That’s part of what I like about the book in some ways. It portrays death truthfully. You die in the middle of your life, in the middle of a sentence

He knew he couldn't tell stories, that he always included extraneous details & tangents that interested only him.