It was strange, because she always felt that she hid herself from Erika, that she was more 'herself' with her 'true' friends, where the friendship flowed in an ordinary, uncomplicated, grown-up fashion (emails, phone calls, drinks, dinners, banter and jokes that everyone got), but right now it felt like none of those friends knew her the raw, ugly, childish, basic way that Erika did.

Ten minutes with a genuine friend is better than years spent with anyone less.

I wonder how much- or how little- they remember. I am somehow convinced that they don't remember any of it, because they don't need to remember. I'm the only one that hears the voice of the Turtle, the only one who remembers, because I'm the only one who stayed here in Derry. And because they're scattered to the four winds, they have no way of knowing the identical patterns their lives have taken. To bring them back, to show them that pattern....yes, it might kill some of them. It might kill all of them.

You’re my best friend’s kid sister, Ang. I’ve known you since you were eight.” He ducked his head, dragged his hands through his hair with all the frustration winding through him. “Christ, if your brother finds out, he’ll have my hide.

I promise I don’t bite.” He winked at her.That earned him another throaty laugh. Then she bent over him, hands braced on his thighs, her luscious mouth inches from his. The heat of her palms singed his skin even through his jeans. Her warm breaths puffed against his lips as she stared him dead in the eye. “What if I do?

Unable to help himself, he offered her a smile and stared into those eyes as he tapped his mouth. “I think you missed.

Doubt filled her eyes. “What are we betting for, anyway?”He hadn’t thought about that, but it took his brain all of three seconds to come up with an answer. He knew damn well what he wanted from her. Had for years.“A kiss.” The words slipped from his lips before he could stop them, but once out, he didn’t want to take them back. “One kiss after you come back and see she’s all right.

. . . because we cannot conceive that as we grow up our own minds will become so enlarged and elevated that we ourselves shall then regard as trifling those objects and pursuits we now so fondly cherish, and that, though our companions will no longer join us in those childish pastimes, they will drink with us at other fountains of delight, and mingle their souls with ours in higher aims and nobler occupations beyond our present comprehension, but not less deeply relished or less truly good for that, while yet both we and they remain essentially the same individuals as before.

Wait for me.” The words come out choked and pained. “I need you to wait for me.

No one told me you can love someone and still be miserable. How is that possible?

Promises from Lo are like bars at 2 a.m.--empty.

What’s going to happen,” he breathes, “is that I’m going to carry you through this door. I’m going to draw out every single moment until you’re exhausted. And I’m going to move so slow that three months ago will feel like yesterday. And tomorrow will feel like today, and no one in this fucking universe will be able to say your name without saying mine.

I love you,” he says again, “and no other man will ever say those words and mean them the way I do.

I’m remarrying you, Lil. Fuck, I’d remarry you a hundred times until it stuck.

Fine. Such a stupid word really. It feels empty and weightless. It’s the kind of word you use to hide the truth.

I’ll be your friend until you find a better one.

I guess I'd rather have a truthful neighbor who says he hates me than a lyin' one who claims he loves me.

Yessir, some things is sin 'cause God says so. Some things is sin 'cause they hurt other people. And some things is just pure-dee stupid.

She [Mme Sazerat] did not offer her hand, but smiled at my mother with vague melancholy as one smiles at a playmate from one's childhood, but with whom all connection has been severed because she has lived a debauched life, married a jailbird or, worse still, a divorced man.