I hated this. I hated knowing what I wanted and knowing what was right and knowing they weren't the same thing.

I thought, possibly, that what I really needed was to go where nobody knew me and start over again, with none of my previous decisions, conversations, or expectations coming with me.

His heart hurt with the wanting of it, the hurt no less painful for being difficult to explain.

Isabel had gone silent in a way that shouted the silence to me.

Are you alone?" So that's what this call was about. For some reason, the question made my throat tighten. "No," I said, "Elvis is here. Would you like to talk to him?

It was mint and memories and the past and the future and she felt as if she’d done this before and already she longed to do it again.

The one reality was this: He was home. How badly he wanted to stay.