Lovers are a conspiracy against the world. I don't think they wanted to tell me. They thought I might walk out.

Marry me, Rachel.'

'Not yet.'

'Tomorrow, Rachel. Marry me.'

'Maybe tomorrow.'

'There is no common blood between us. Say it,' pleads Zachariah.

'There is no common blood between us,' murmurs Rachel.

'I am not your brother.'

'I know.'

He traces her face with his swollen fingers, across the brow bones and down the zygomatics, and along the jaw from earlobe to chin, sweeping away the brine as he goes.

'I am your Wolff,' he says.

'And I am your Wolff,' she replies.

Let the day begin.

There are two kinds of people in the world, Nôtre Dame lovers and Nôtre Dame haters. And, quite frankly, they're both a pain in the ass.

I don't miss you, I miss who I thought you were.

I thought about it before the play even happened. When the ball comes to me with the bases loaded, you know they're going to try to scratch a run across. I just put everything I had behind it. Everyone on the field and in the stands were so excited. I got caught up in the moment.

They don't know how the world is shaped. And so they give it a shape, and try to make everything fit it. They separate the right from the left, the man from the woman, the plant from the animal, the sun from the moon. They only want to count to two.