We have somehow reached the point where we can read each other without words, and I’m not sure when it happened. One more thing about Bishop Lattimer that has snuck up on me.

He’s an eighteen-year-old boy and this is his wedding night. I don’t think he’s taking me home to play checkers.

The vow came too fast, too easily. The kind of promise it’s easy to make because you’ve already broken it before the words are even spoken. It was the first time he’d ever lied to me.

No one had to explain to me the power our childhoods had over us, even when we fought like hell against them.

You don’t stop loving someone just because they disappoint you.

I knew well the painful futility of reaching for more than you were ever likely to get, how much easier it was to simply accept the limits of your world.

One summer is enough. Hell, sometimes one day is all it takes to change your life.

I don’t understand how the pain of losing him can be a pale shadow in comparison to the pain of finding him again.

Because that’s the one thing women are never, ever allowed to be. We can be sad, distraught, confused, pleading, forgiving. But not furious. Fury is reserved for other people. The worst thing you can be is an angry woman, an angry mother.

You think I had a choice?” Bishop demands. “What choice? I’m not like your father or Callie, Ivy. I was never going to just let you go. I love you. There was never any choice.