Emma St. Clair

I want to know what her eyes look like under different kinds of light. I have a sudden urge to order every kind of light bulb on Amazon just to see the blue of her eyes in them. Then I could make a spreadsheet to name each shade of blue, correlating them with the various wattage and brand. Not that I’m obsessive or anything. I happen to like spreadsheets. And Delilah’s eyes.
[…]
In the sunlight, while wearing a wedding dress and holding my hand, her eyes are the most brilliant blue of all.

The night is darkest just before the dawn. Serafina’s words. Well, Harvey Dent’s words from the The Dark Knight. Which were paraphrased from a book written in 1650 by historian Thomas Fuller. Still, whatever their origin, to me, they are Serafina’s words, said at the perfect time when I needed them most. I’ve held on to them ever since.
They remind me of hope. They make me remember Serafina as she was the night I met her. I say them to myself, picturing her as I’ve seen her more recently in photos and videos, smiling that joyful smile. Saying these words to me.
Hope.

'But in order to serve your country best, tonight, do what serves you.'
'That sounds so selfish.'
'It’s not selfish. It’s like what they say about parents putting on their oxygen masks before putting on their child’s.'
[…]
'The point of the analogy,' she says, 'is that sometimes you have to put yourself first before you can serve others well. With a kingdom to serve, this matters even more.'

'Women are a treasure. A gift. What do you do with treasure?'
'Hoard it?' I’d asked, being a snarky fifteen-year-old.
Mom had smacked me on the arm, but she was smiling. 'No, Smaug. You protect it. You guard it. You always remember its value.'
I don’t know if Zoey got similar talks but for girls. Maybe Mom taught her to value herself or to watch out for greedy dragons trying to hoard women.

'But I was going to say you can’t control everything. You have to take the risk. You have to try. Even if sometimes you lose.'

Harper is like a novel I’ve read over and over until the pages are worn and dog-eared, the spine completely broken and splitting apart. I know her sounds. I know the tones of her voice. I know when she’s hiding how she feels and when she’s lost control and is letting loose a show of unbridled emotion.

'[…] Real happily ever afters are messier and involve fights and making up and heartache and happiness all tangled up. They are real. Just not like the books. And you’ll never experience the beautiful parts and the messy parts unless you take a chance.'

Zane is like a couch in a furniture showroom, perfectly pristine with throw pillows placed at exact right angles. I just want to jump up and down on it, or maybe kick off my shoes and take a nap.

Why is it that scowly guys are so hot? But I know why: Mr. Darcy. That Jane Austen created generations of women who want growly, grumpy men who are hiding a gooey, romantic center.

I’ve learned—am still learning—that forming your life decisions based around the opinion of someone else, even someone as important as a father, is crippling.