Jennifer E. Smith · 236 pages
Rating: (100.2K votes)
“It's not the changes that will break your heart; it's that tug of familiarity.”
“Love is the strangest, most illogical thing in the world.”
“Is it better to have had a good thing and lost it, or never to have had it?”
“He’s like a song she can’t get out of her head. Hard as she tries, the melody of their meeting runs through her mind on an endless loop, each time as surprisingly sweet as the last, like a lullaby, like a hymn, and she doesn’t think she could ever get tired of hearing it.”
“What are you really studying?"
He leans back to look at her. "The statistical probability of love at first sight."
"Very funny," she says. "What is it really?"
"I'm serious."
"I don't believe you."
He laughs, then lowers his mouth so that it's close to her ear. "People who meet in airports are seventy-two percent more likely too fall for each other than people who meet anywhere else.”
“Did you know that people who meet at least three different times within twenty-four hour period are ninety-eight percent more likely to meet again?”
“It's one thing to run away when someone's chasing you. It's entirely another to be running all alone.”
“I can't believe you're here," she says, her voice soft. "I can't believe you found me."
"You found me first," he says, and when he leans to kiss her, it's slow and sweet and she knows that this will be the one she always remembers. Because while the other two kisses felt like endings, this one is unquestionably a beginning.”
“I like how you're neither here nor there. And how there's nowhere else you're meant to be while waiting. You're just sort of suspended.”
“Who would have guessed that four minutes could change everything?”
“He looks at her and smiles. "You're sort of dangerous, you know?"
She stares at him. "Me?"
"Yeah," he says sitting back. "I'm way too honest with you.”
“You know what they say," Dad said. "If you love something, set it free."
"What if he doesn't come back?"
"Some things do, some things don't," he said, reaching over to tweak her nose. "I'll always come back to you anyway."
"You don't light up," Hadley pointed out, but Dad only smiled.
"I do when I'm with you.”
“Because I was with you," he tells her. "I feel better when I'm with you.”
“There's a formula for how long it takes to get over someone, that it's half as long as the time you've been together.”
“Is it possible not to ever know your type-not to even know you have a type-until quite suddenly you do?”
“And in August it will be fifty-two years together.”
“Wow,” Oliver says. “That’s amazing.”
“I wouldn’t call it amazing,” the woman says, blinking. “It’s easy when you find the right person.”
“People who meet in airports are seventy-two percent more likely to fall for each other than people who meet anywhere else.”
“Love isn't supposed to make sense. It's completely illogical.”
“Hadley didn't know it was possible to miss someone who's only a few feet away, but there it is.”
“And see those clouds?'
'Hard to miss'
'Those are cumulus clouds. Did you know that?'
'I'm sure I should.'
They're the best ones.'
'How come?'
Because they look the way clouds are supposed to look, the way you draw them when you're a kid. Which is nice, you know? ...”
“There’s always a gap between the burn and the sting of it, the pain and the realization.”
“That's the thing about flying: You could talk to someone for hours and never even know his name, share your deepest secrets and then never see them again.”
“But Hadley understood. It wasn't that she was meant to read them all. Maybe someday she would, but for now, it was more the gesture itself. He was giving her the most important thing he could, the only way he knew how. He was a professor, a lover of stories, and he was building her a library in the same way other men might build their daughters houses.”
“You know what they say, if you love something, set it free.”
“Hadley grabs the laminated safety instructions from the seat pocket in front of her and frowns at the cartoon men and women who seem weirdly delighted to be bailing out of a series of cartoon planes. Beside her, Oliver stifles a laugh, and she glances up again.
“What?”
“I’ve just never seen anyone actually read one of those things before,”
“Well,” she says, “then you’re very lucky to be sitting next to me.”
“Just in general?”
She grins. “Well, particularly in case of an emergency.”
“Right,” he says. “I feel incredibly safe. When I’m knocked unconscious by my tray table during some sort of emergency landing, I can’t wait to see all five-foot-nothing of you carry me out of here.”
“People talk about books being an escape, but here on the tube, this one feels more like a lifeline...The motion of the train makes her head rattle, but her eyes lock on the words the way a figure skater might choose a focal point as she spins, and just like that, she's grounded again.”
“Look what a hard time I've given him. But no matter how many times I've pushed him away, he always comes back around again. And I wouldn't want it any other way.”
“He was a professor, a lover of stories, and he was building her a library in the same way other men might build their daughters houses.”
“What are you really studying?"
He leans back to look at her. "The statistical probability of love at first sight.”
“Well, I guess we all can't have epic loves at such a young age.”
“Chris pointed to himself. “This is my Not-Convinced face.” “
This is my Shut-Up face.”
“This is my Oh-My-God-Sky-Is-Getting-It-On-With-Josh-Mitchell face,” Dylan said, looking comically scandalized.”
“Fennel, which is the spice for Wednesdays, the day of averages, of middle-aged people. . . . Fennel . . . smelling of changes to come.”
“It's a wisdom that comes from seeing how things work. Things you want to happen always take a long time.' She pointed one little finger at the meech dragon and shook it in his face. 'You may read books and know bunches, but I have lived life longer than you.”
“For reasons he had never understood, she read a different newspaper each morning, spanning the political spectrum from right to left, and languages from French to English. Years ago, when he had first met her and understood her even less, he had asked about this. Her response, he came to realize only years later, made perfect sense: ‘I want to see how many different ways the same lies can be told.’ Nothing he had read in the ensuing years had come close to suggesting that her approach was wrong.”
“In every operation there is an above the line and a below the line. Above the line is what you do by the book. Below the line is how you do the job.”
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