"What about him?" she’d say, finding an attractive guy to point out while they were standing in the lunch line. "Do you want to kiss him?" "I don’t want to kiss a stranger," Cath would answer. "I’m not interested in lips out of context."

The next night, Lincoln parked his Corolla right next to The Courier's front door. I'm here, he thought. Find me. Follow me. Make this inevitable.

I love you more than I hate everything else.

Cath felt like she was swimming in words. Drowning in them, sometimes.

I'd rather pour myself into a world I love and understand than try to make something up out of nothing.

Cath wished she didn't use the word "just" so much. It was her passive-aggressive tell, like someone who twitched when they were lying.

He'd stopped trying to bring her back. She only came back when she felt like it anyway, in dreams and lies and broken-down deja-vu.