When she and Wren divided up their clothes, Wren had taken anything that said “party at a boy’s place” or “leaving the house.” Cath had taken everything that said “up all night writing” or “it’s okay to spill tea on this.”” (pg. 189)
Miniature Emilie came along. Lincoln could tell she was watching him, but he tried not to encourage her. He didn’t want to betray Beth. They wouldn’t let you ride Splash Mountain, he thought.
Snow’s table manners are atrocious – it’s like watching a wild dog eat. A wild dog you’d like to slip the tongue.
My life is like an O Henry story….the funniest girl in the world and the boy who never laughs.
I don’t know,
How’d you know he was the one?”
“I didn’t know. I don’t think either of us knew.”
Heather rolled her eyes. “Neal knew – he proposed to you.”
“It’s not like that,” Georgie said. “You’ll see. It’s more like you meet someone, and you fall in love, and you hope that that person is the one – and then at some point, you have to put down your chips. You just have to make a commitment and hope that you’re right.
I want to be near the ocean, Lincoln, the ocean! I want to feel the tides. And i want mountains, too, at least one mountain. Is that too much to ask? And trees. Not a whole forest, necessarily. I’d settle for a thicket. Scenery. I want scenery!
Cath wanted to go back and rewrite every scene she’d ever written about Baz or Simon’s chests. She’d written them flat and sharp and hard. Levi was all soft motion and breath, curves and warm hollows. Levi’s chest was a living thing.
She started dialing his cell, then hung up and tried the landline — maybe Margaret was a better bet to pick up; their parents’ generation still felt morally obligated to answer phones.
But I don’t want to write my own fiction,’ Cath said, as emphatically as she could. ‘I don’t want to write my own characters or my own worlds — I don’t care about them. . . . I’d rather pour myself into a world I love and understand than try to make something up out of nothing.