She'd always believed that people come in two varieties: those who look out the windshield and those who stare in the rearview mirror. She'd always been the windshield type: gotta focus on the future, not the past, because that's the only part that's still up for grabs. Mom throws me out? Gotta get some food and find a place to live. Husband dies? Gotta keep working, or I'll end up going crazy. Got some guy stalking me? Gotta figure out a way to stop it.

That he'll never let you down. That boy's got a heart the size of Kentucky, and he loves you. That's important. Take it from someone who knows. My mom used to tell me that whatever you do, marry someone who loves you more than you love him. And I listened to her. Why do you think Henry and I get along so well? I'm not saying that I don't love him, because I do. But if I ever left Henry or something, God forbid, ever happened to me, I don't think he'll be able to go on. And that guy would risk his life for mine in a heartbeat.

Our story has three parts: a beginning, a middle, and an end. And although this is the way all stories unfold, I still can't believe that ours didn't go on forever.

She had been proud of his decision to serve his country, her heart bursting with love and admiration the first time she saw him outfitted in his dress blues.

You're still alive. And that means you'll love and be loved...and in the end, nothing else really matters.

I hadn't done any of the things that I normally did with girls, yet somehow I'd fallen in love.

I'm sorry, I guess my company leaves a lot to be desired.