He is slow, and the sea sings to us both, but he returns to me.

Hers was a memory made up of snapshorts: being dragged through the snow by a pack of wolves, first kiss tasting of oranges, saying goodbye behind a cracked windshield. A life made up of promises of what could be: the possibilities contained in a stack of college applications, the thrill of sleeping under a strange roof, the future that lay in Sam's smile. It was a life I didn't want to leave behind. It was a life I didn't want to forget I wasn't done with it yet. There was so much more to say.

Being Adam Parrish was a complicated thing, a wonder of muscles and organs, synapses and nerves. He was a miracle of moving parts, a study in survival. The most important thing to Adam Parrish, though, had always been free will, the ability to be his own master. This was the important thing. It had always been the important thing. This was what it was to be Adam.

That was pretty much all you needed to know about Cole, right there. He saw something he didn't quite understand, liked it, and took it to be his.

Sam: “You—you greatly overestimate my self-control.” Grace: “I’m not looking for self-control.

A novel is a conversation starter, and if the author isn't there for the after-party, both the writer and the reader are missing a lot.

Counter Girl (in candy shop): You two are cute. Seriously. How long have you been going out? Sam: Six years.