Are you on drugs?" "No." "Maybe you should be.

That’s because you ooze preemptive leave-me-alone death rays.

But the explanations fell apart in her hands. Everything true was too hard to write--he was too much to lose. Everything she felt for him was too hot to touch.

You don't know when you're twenty-three. You don't know what it really means to crawl into someone else's life and stay there. You can't see all the ways you're going to get tangled, how you're going to bond skin to skin. How the idea of separating will feel in five years, in ten - in fifteen. When Georgie thought about divorce now, she imagined lying side by side with Neal on two operating tables while a team of doctors tried to unthread their vascular systems. She didn't know at twenty-three.

She bent her neck back and kissed him like she never had before. Like she wasn't scared of doing it wrong.

Have you ever heard sculptors say that they don’t actually sculpt an object; they sculpt away everything that isn’t the object?

You know?" he repeated. She smiled, so he kissed her. "You're not the Han Solo in this relationship, you know." "I'm totally the Han Solo," she whispered. It was good to hear her. It was good to remember it was Eleanor under all this new flesh. "Well, I'm not the Princess Leia," he said. "Don't get so hung up on gender roles," Eleanor said.” ... “You can be Han Solo," he said, kissing her throat. "And I'll be Boba Fett. I'll cross the sky for you.