I'm his locomotive and he's my shield.

You might be able to thrash your way out of a spiderweb, but thrashing in quicksand doesn’t work. The harder you fight, the more ground you lose. Struggling merely expedites your inevitable defeat.

The two of you are getting downright chatty, aren't you, Ms. Lane? When did you last see him? what else did he tell you? I'm asking the questions tonight. If an illusion of control comforts you, Ms. Lane, by all means, cling to it.

People treat you as badly as you let them treat you. Key word there: let.

For the past few years, I've been on a quest for a good old-fashioned date, the kind where the guy calls, makes the plans, picks you up in a car that's not his dad's or his other girlfriend's, and takes you somewhere that shows he put thought into what you might like, not what he might get off on like the latest how-many-naked-boobs-can-we-cram-into-this-movie-to-disguise-the-complete-lack-of-plot movie. I'm looking for the kind of date that starts with good conversation , has a sweet and satisfying middle, and ends with long, slow kisses and the dreamy feeling that you're walking on clouds.

When do these three days expire?" "That's what pisses me off. I don't know. He was annoyingly vague." "The nerve. Threatening you and not being precise about it.

I looked from one to the other, and realized that Barrons and my dad were having one of those wordless conversations he and I have from time to time. Though the language was, by nature, foreign to me, I grew up in the Deep South where a man’s ego is roughly the size of his pickup truck, and women get an early and interesting education in the not-so-subtle roar of testosterone.