Eliza MacArthur > Quotes

“Why do you think my life matters more than your life?” “Because it does!” he barked. But if his anger was smoke from a burnt pan, that truth—that simple truth that he cradled in his hands—had the same effect as throwing open a window next to the stove. All of the smoke, all of the fight left him in a rush. In a soft, choked voice, he said, “It matters more to me.” Esther settled back onto her heels. “Hank….” Hank took a deep breath. “I have felt more like myself in the last month since meeting you than I had for seventeen years. Seventeen years, Esther! Do you know what it feels like to be a ghost in your own house? In your own life?” She bit her bottom lip and Hank watched her top teeth make a dent in the soft pink peach slice of her mouth. He went on. “And then you came along. And you… you made me hope. You made me hope that things could change. That they could get better. That I could have a life again.” He stopped and rubbed a hand down his face. And then his hoarse voice cracked with emotion as he said, “You made me hope that I could be happy again.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Soft Flannel Hank

“He wondered what she saw in his eyes when the door flew open and a husky voice barked, “If you harm one hair on either of their heads, Callum MacLeod, I’ll gut you like a fish and then stake you to the floor.” Callum froze. It was impossible. She was dead. He’d seen her. He’d held her lifeless body in his arms as the waves lapped at his feet, sliding away from them and taking her blood with them. But as Callum whipped his head around, as he saw her slide out of Robbie’s reach as deftly as if she’d evaporated and reappeared, as he looked into her brilliant, jade-green eyes, he felt as if his heart could almost start beating again, pounding in his chest for the first time in nearly a thousand years. Because inexplicably, impossibly, she was here. “Marjory. Mo cridhe,” Callum whispered as he beheld a ghost. “Is it really you?” “No thanks to you, you son of a bitch.”
― Eliza MacArthur, ‘Til All the Seas Run Dry

“There had been a ship. There had been a captain who agreed to take her to the Americas if she would stay in his cabin and warm his bed on the journey. He’d been a bit lonely, and she’d been so desperately lonely that she’d agreed. He was kind enough and, she learned later that afternoon, a lynx shifter who loathed water but had needed a career with ever-changing personnel so that no one would discover the fact that he never seemed to age either.”
― Eliza MacArthur, ‘Til All the Seas Run Dry

“He’d hoarded it, not spending a penny. Because what need had he had for money when he’d had her? She’d been a miracle, a marvel, a gift to him from the gods. And he had worshipped her. They had lived in a small cottage by the sea, on an island in Scotland where the sheep had outnumbered the people several times over. They had eaten what could be gotten from the land and sea, worn what could be gotten from the sheep, and burned driftwood in their hearth. He’d buried that money and not dug it up until after she’d been gone. When the idea of living in a now-empty cottage by the sea had been unbearable because no matter how many times the tide had washed them away, he would still see her bloodstains on the sand.”
― Eliza MacArthur, ‘Til All the Seas Run Dry

“Alive. The improbability—hell, the impossibility—was staggering. Marjory had died in his arms. He had held her in the dark on that beach while the moon climbed the sky and her heart shuddered to a stop. And then he’d held her longer, clutching her to his chest until the dawn had threatened. Only then had he gone. But there she’d stood, her black hair like a wild tumble of seaweed around her shoulders and her green eyes flashing in the yellow glow of the kitchen’s overhead light. Joy and relief and shock and—godsdamnit, was that hope?—had all swirled in his brain like a cyclone. They were feelings he hadn’t felt in a very long time, almost long enough to forget them entirely.”
― Eliza MacArthur, ‘Til All the Seas Run Dry

“Jory picked her way through the circle of chairs and across the yard. She felt Callum at her back before she heard him. She didn’t want to talk tonight. She didn’t really want to talk to him at all. She was too raw, too in shock. And while her heart was broken and her anger fresh and bloody, she could also admit that the relief at him being alive was so tangible, so visceral, that she was just as likely to kiss him as she was to shout at him. Or something equally stupid. She shivered, though not from the cold as she took a sharp turn to the right and into the shadows behind Hank’s shed. She spun around, and he was right there, so close that the nylon of her coat brushed against his. His big chest rose and fell with breathing, but no clouds of air puffed from his mouth. He wasn’t actually breathing. He was imitating breathing. An affectation. The truth knocked her back. She almost lost her feet. “You’re dead,” she croaked. He stood, watching her, his hands at his sides. His voice was soft when he answered, like he was comforting a scared animal. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose. In another, I’m verra much alive.” “But you’re not,” she said, feeling strangled by her own tears, sudden and unwanted. “Not really.”
― Eliza MacArthur, ‘Til All the Seas Run Dry

“Callum could hardly believe that she was here. In his arms. In his bed. He buried his nose in her hair and smelled deeply. The salt. The earthiness. The heather. For nearly a thousand years, he’d sifted through rosewater baths and heavy perfumes and those goddamn azaleas that surrounded his club to find this, the smell of her. If he closed his eyes, he could take them back to that heather-stuffed mattress in the little cottage by the sea, with nothing but the sound of her sleeping breath and a crackling fire, the delicate seashells clinking together in the rafters as the wind shook the house. He squeezed her tighter against his chest and let himself live in that memory, his eyes closed, at home in his mind with her in his arms. Callum didn’t know how long they lay there. Hours, at least. It was hard for him to grasp time. When a person was immortal, the difference between minutes and hours felt rather insignificant. He wondered, briefly, if it was the same for her. She seemed perfectly content to lie there. Let the night pass into day. Let the sun rise. Let the world crumble to dust around them. He would lie here with her in his arms until the very sun burned out. And then he’d hold her in the dark.”
― Eliza MacArthur, ‘Til All the Seas Run Dry

“World’s End, Washington.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Soft Flannel Hank

“He walked quietly to his room and closed the door behind him. He dressed and sat on the corner of the bed to put on his socks. This made it much easier. I’m so ready to go. That was what his brain had needed to hear to take control of the battle with his heart. A reminder that she was as good as gone once the dust settled. Frankly, it was better this way, though Hank’s stomach was in knots about it. He couldn’t afford to love someone who would leave him behind again. He’d survived it once. He didn’t know that he’d survive it again. Not like that. Not with Esther.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Soft Flannel Hank

“Hank climbed into the left side of his queen-size bed. Since his wife had left seventeen years ago, he’d slept on his couch more often than not, afraid of that empty space beside him that he couldn’t ever fill, either with pillows or his own body. But as he lay on his back with his hands beside his head, staring at the water spot on the ceiling above him, the other side of the bed didn’t feel empty. It felt reserved, like it was waiting for something, someone. Maybe it was. Maybe he was too.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Soft Flannel Hank

“I had a vasectomy ten years ago,” he blurted out, wondering why he’d waited this long to tell her about it. She snorted, apparently having the same thought because she said, “Now you tell me that?” Hank felt his cheeks blush. “I just… I didn’t want to make you… Is that a problem?” He should have told her sooner. Sure, the vasectomy would make things more convenient, but he realized in that one hovering moment that there was so much they hadn’t talked about. “If you want me to get it reversed, I can,”
― Eliza MacArthur, Soft Flannel Hank

“He was too close. Too familiar, and yet too foreign. And with that hollow, affective breath, she felt her own chest begin to rise and fall with rapid, necessary, actual breath. “You owe me an explanation, Marjory,” he said quietly. “You owe me the same,” she snapped. “You first.” “You’re dead,” she said again, her voice thick with threatening tears. “But I’m here. I’m right here.” A small sob escaped her, and she found herself instantly surrounded. Her face was pressed into the broad strength of his chest as his arms wrapped tightly around her. And because she was a masochist, she allowed him.”
― Eliza MacArthur, ‘Til All the Seas Run Dry

“He brushed a thumb under her eye, sweeping the moisture away. Another familiar gesture. It felt as natural to let him do it as it had to let him hold her. And so she let him. Just for a minute, she told herself. She let him wipe away her tears and take a half step closer. She let him cradle the back of her head with his other hand. She let him draw her closer to his empty chest. While that formidable, fighting side of her brain screamed that she should run, she let him lower his head and press his mouth against hers, shivering when he groaned like he’d found an oasis after days in the desert. She wrapped her arms around his neck. And she let herself kiss him back. Just for a minute, she told herself. Just for a moment she would let herself feel like she had before. The emptiness, the anger, the despair would all be there in a minute.”
― Eliza MacArthur, ‘Til All the Seas Run Dry

“Some small part of Hank had braced himself for Esther to ask about Marnie the moment they pulled out of Magda’s driveway. But Esther could ask him any question she wanted and Hank would carve open his heart and his past for her to dissect and autopsy, if only she’d keep holding his hand like this.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Soft Flannel Hank

“Jory,” he said, his voice a hoarse rasp. “Jory, mo cridhe, I cannae forgive myself for that night. I never will. But I was blood-mad, a new vampire. I didnae have any control. I—” He pressed his forehead against her thigh. “I would never hurt you again. I would die before I hurt you again.” She allowed herself to look between her legs and behind her. Beneath the thick bands of his arms at her knees, she saw his muscled chest, his stomach, the dusting of blond hair that led down into his shorts, which were obscene. “I wouldnae bite you unless you asked me. And I wouldnae bite you unless you asked me sober, and not in the heat of the moment. I wouldnae bite you unless we talked about it,” he said in a rush. “I swear to you. I would never do anything you didnae want, or ask for.” He pushed his forehead against the back of her thighs, his head bowed. “I wouldnae bite you, mo cridhe. You have to believe me. You must believe me,” he begged.”
― Eliza MacArthur, ‘Til All the Seas Run Dry

“Come back,” her father had said. She would. For just a moment. Not home to her family, but home to the sea, to feel the cold surf against her skin, the thick, heavy water surrounding her. It would be cold in a way it never had been with her sealskin, but it was better than nothing. Sixty years at most, she’d said while her father had looked at her sadly. A blink, she had said. He had wept. Instead, it had been lifetimes. Lifetimes of struggling and fighting, of fleeing and never knowing how long she’d be able to stay in one place. Never putting down roots. A lifetime of never having a real home, never feeling safe. It had only been in the last fifty years that she’d been able to settle in any kind of comfort or safety.”
― Eliza MacArthur, ‘Til All the Seas Run Dry

“No. Now, he had the urge to lock himself away from her until she left, so he wouldn’t be tempted to let her in again. He was dispensable. This moment in time was dispensable. And she would move on and leave him behind when she did. He couldn’t let her become indispensable to him. Because she’d take all the best parts of him that remained when she left.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Soft Flannel Hank

“He didn’t know her well. That was true. But from the moment he’d met her, he’d also felt as if he’d known her all his life. As if his heart had been waiting for hers all along and that it recognized her immediately. Which made what he was about to do all the more heartbreaking.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Soft Flannel Hank

“You asked if I regretted kissing you because I didnae want to.” She swallowed against a thick lump and nodded. “Una,” he whispered. “I shouldnae have handled you the way I did. I shouldnae have taken what you didnae offer.” Oh. That was an answer. She was surprised by her disappointment. But then he shifted impossibly closer. “But you make me want things I shouldnae have. I shouldnae want to kiss you, but I do. I want it so badly I can feel it in my bones.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Hold Fast

“Hank liked to help people. He always had. Just as he’d always liked to protect people. Hank had been the kid on the playground that stepped up to the bullies, even if it got him a bloody nose or a black eye, even if he got detention. Hank had wanted to become a police officer when he grew up because he figured that it would just be the best job in the whole world to be a professional helper. A superhero. That’s not what the job had been, though. Not really. He had helped people, sure. But it took that terrible tragedy to make him realize that the ideals he held close, the ideals that governed his actions and behavior as an officer of the law, didn’t necessarily match up with the ideals of the institution at large, or with the institution’s history and legacy.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Soft Flannel Hank

“She felt him getting closer still, and her heart pounded ungovernable in her chest again. The moon shone brightly, and she could feel her own joy and hope slicking out of every single pore. All would be well. All would be perfect. She heard a rustle, the fast thudding of racing feet, too fast to be his, but before she could turn, she felt a shocking slice against her throat, a tearing of muscle and artery and sinew, a sharp, blinding pain that stole her breath. She felt her body slide into shock, her limbs leaden and impossible to move, as she bled onto the beach. She was immortal. She was stronger than ten men, faster than any of them, and yet the pain was so consuming, so sharp and bright, that she couldn’t muster any of her strength or speed. She couldn’t even cry out. She felt her lips, thick with tears and pain, shaping around her love’s name though no sound came from her ravaged throat, as if she could summon him and his help, his weapon of a body with only a word. And then, all of a sudden, he was there. She heard his hoarse shout from behind her before he dragged her body into his lap. “Marjory. Marjory, mo cridhe. Nay, nay, nay, nay. You cannae—I didnae—You cannae leave me alone,” he’d whispered against her hair, clutching her against his chest. She wanted to tell him what she was, that she would survive this. She only needed to sleep.”
― Eliza MacArthur, ‘Til All the Seas Run Dry

“The azaleas were so different, foreign creatures entirely, to the Scottish heather and bluebells of his life before. But he was haunted by visions of a black-haired beauty with skin the color of clay and strong, calloused hands bending her nose to the heather, gathering up heaping armfuls of bluebells and putting them in earthen pots around a tiny, seaside cottage. Of that same woman stuffing a mattress with heather so that whenever he’d rolled over, whenever she’d shifted closer, whenever he’d thrust deeply into her body, into her heat, he’d smelled heather. She would love the azaleas. She would love the magnolias and camellias and dogwoods. She would love the sticky heat and the way the air always smelled—Spanish moss and flowers and, underneath it all, decay. She would smell everything—things that no one else could smell. He used to tease her that he needn’t bother with dogs because she could scent dinner for them. And she’d laughed but would go out and come back with a fat rabbit dangling by the ears just the same.”
― Eliza MacArthur, ‘Til All the Seas Run Dry

“Hank remembered his first therapy session. I just want you to fix me. He’d begged Nadja. Fix me. He still had nightmares from watching the footage of that police raid gone wrong. He probably always would. There was no fixing that. But Hank had realized over the past few weeks that he didn’t need to be fixed. He was a work in progress and that was okay. He liked a project.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Soft Flannel Hank

“He had fallen in love at eighteen. But it felt nothing like his love felt now. Hank’s grown love was liquid, thick and viscous. His feelings, deep and raw and frighteningly big, moved around within his brain and couldn’t have been separated from his body for as long as he drew breath into his lungs. And like a liquid, his love was shaped entirely by its container which, at the moment, was the rapidly beating confines of his heart. If Esther would let him, he would pour all of that love into her and let it fill in all the cracks and scars left by a life that had been less than kind to her.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Soft Flannel Hank

“Hank, you’re many things. But I don’t need to know you very well to know that pathetic isn’t one of them.” He shook his head. Just because she said it didn’t make it true. “I mean it,” Esther continued. “Besides, I just met this great guy and he’s been really sweet and I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t call him a loser.” He looked at her. Just looked at her. She was talking about him. “I’m sorry if you weren’t really ready for this or if this was a lot for you, Hank. If I was a lot for you,” he heard her say through the ringing in his ears. “I’ve been told before that I’m too much. And not in a good way. I—”  “Stop,” he bit out with more force than he intended. He took a deep breath and said, softer, “Just stop.” He placed his palms against her bare thighs, squeezing gently. “That was the best I’ve ever had. You—” He swallowed. “You were the best I’ve ever had. And if anyone ever told you that you were too much, about anything, well, they were just too small to handle you.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Soft Flannel Hank

“Esther sat on a barstool at the little square kitchen island and watched Hank cook eggs and bacon. She wondered who she could call to report the absolute crime that was Hank in a pair of gray sweatpants. They sat low on his hips, beneath the swell of his belly and hugged his muscular ass in a way that was frankly obscene.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Soft Flannel Hank

“Esther, I have things I need to tell you. But I’m too wound up right now to do it.” “Where will you go?” she asked, feeling the tears rising once more. “Not far, sweetheart. I’ll never be far.” And with that, he squeezed past her and out the door, leaving Esther alone in the cabin. She took a deep breath and looked around her. In a moment, she heard the unmistakable sound of wood chopping. Glancing out the window confirmed it as Hank stood with an axe next to a pile of downed tree limbs. Doesn’t this man have any other ways to emotionally regulate? But she knew he didn’t. Maybe because nobody had ever shown him how. Maybe because he’d never allowed himself to feel deeply enough to require them.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Soft Flannel Hank

“He is nae Malcolm Cameron.” He wasn’t. He was Ewan MacDonald, a gentle man who didn’t behave as if he was owed anything or entitled to anyone, who treated his people with kindness, who wept. She remembered the way it had felt when he kissed her, the heat from his mouth, for that split second before he leapt away from her as if she’d been on fire. And she thought… maybe… perhaps, it wouldn’t be so bad to be kissed by him again.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Hold Fast

“He pulled away an inch, his eyes closed and his nose barely touching hers. “I love you,” he said. “I love you so goddamn much.” Esther gasped and he smiled that half smile of his. It was more of a lift of one corner of his mouth that anything, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Say it again,” she whispered. “I love you, Esther MacLaren. And if you ever leave me again, I will find you. There’s not a place you could run where I wouldn’t catch you. Because you’ve been tied to me since that first day. I don’t know how you did it, but I feel you. Right here.” He pressed a hand to her ribs, just below her beating heart.”
― Eliza MacArthur, Soft Flannel Hank