He was right – she was beating herself up about hurting his feelings. The girl was a classic martyr. She’d totally been born in the wrong century. She should have lived back when she could have gotten herself fed to some lions for a good cause.

Love is irrational, I reminded myself. The more you loved someone, the less sense anything made.

And it was different because I'd already lost her so many times, so many ways, in my head. And different because she was never really mine to lose. And different because this wasn't my fault.

no two writers go about things in exactly the same way (intro)

If you don’t send Edward out,” Emmett—still invisible in the night—hissed menacingly, “we’re coming in after him!” “Go,” I laughed. “Before they break my house.

But if you ever bring her back damaged again - and I don't care whose fault it is; I don't care if she merely trips, or if a meteor falls out of the sky and hits her in the head - if you return her to me in less than the perfect condition that I left her in, you will be running with three legs. Do you understand that, mongrel?

If this is how you’re going to react, I’ll freak out more often.