Jennifer E. Smith

Here. There. Everywhere. Somewhere. Home.

And the geography of the thing--the geography of them--was completely and hopelessly wrong.

Cheerfulness and contentment are great beautifiers.

They were just so different, and she kept wondering if he'd realize this was a mistake at some point; if, once she stopped being the novelty, the random American, he would recognize who she really was -- a nerdy bookworm, a happy loner -- and move on.

Because even this --being so close to her --was no longer the same. That light he'd felt when he first saw her --he understood now that it was only a lightbulb. It was quick and easy, full of electricity, but there was something artificial about it. What he wanted was fire: heat and spark and flame.

...and it struck her as the truest form of kindness, the most basic sort of love: to be worried about the one who was worrying about you.

Just because you painted a house didn't mean the furniture inside was any different. It had to be the same with people.

Exactly. How can you know it makes you happy if you__e never experienced it?___here are different kinds of happy,_ she said. __ome kinds don__ need any proof.

and the boy's eyes are searching hers with something like loneliness, like the very last thing he wants is to be left behind right now.

Maybe this was why Owen had been so desperate to travel, why she'd longed for it herself without ever really knowing why. It wasn't just that you got to be somewhere else entirely. It was that you got to be someone else entirely, too.

Just like when you're young and in love, a seven-hour plane ride can seem like a lifetime.

People who meet in airports are seventy-two percent more likely to fall for each other than people who meet anywhere else.

It's just one more thing she hadn't considered, and as the idea of it settles over her, she realizes again how entwined their lives are. They're like two trees whose branches have grown together. Even if you pull them out by the trunks, they're still going to be twisted and tangled and nearly impossible to separate at the roots.

Is it possible not to ever know your type-not to even know you have a type-until quite suddenly you do?

There are certain things in life that you'll be forgiven for, no matter how thoughtless or stupid or reckless, but if you do that same thing twice, you're on your own.

The important part is that you had someone to stick by you all that time. Even when everything sucked.

No matter how long it__ been or how far you__e drifted, no matter how unknowable you might be, there were at least two people in the world whose job it was to see you, to find you, to recognize you and reel you back in. No matter what.

It was his fault, all of it, and yet her hatred for him was the worst kind of love, a tortured longing, a misguided wish that made her heart hammer in her chest. She couldn't ignore the disjointed sensation that they were now two different pieces of two different puzzles, and nothing in the world could make them fit together again.