On the drive we talked easily, but we did make a small detour. After pulling into a rest stop, we made out like teenagers.

It’s the same thing. Passion is passion. It’s the excitement between the tedious spaces, and it doesn’t matter where it’s directed.

Grown-ups always say that things are complicated.

In all love stories the theme is love and tragedy, so by writing these types of stories, I have to include tragedy.

She couldn’t read his expression. As he started toward her, she recalled the way he’d seemed to glide through the sand the first time she’d ever seen him; she remembered their kiss on the boat dock the night of his sister’s wedding. And she heard again the words she’d said to him on the day they’d said good-bye. She was besieged by a storm of conflicting emotions—desire, regret, longing, fear, grief, love. There was so much to say, yet what could they really begin to say in this awkward setting and with so much time already passed?

Making love, she'd always believed, was more than simply a pleasurable act between two people. It encompassed all that a couple was supposed to share: trust & commitement, hopes & dreams, a promise to make it through whatever the future might bring. The greater the love; the greater the tragedy when it is over

I finally understood what true love meant...love meant that you care for another person's happiness more than your own, no matter how painful the choices you face might be.