Looking back, it seems inevitable, as though I knew from the first time he entered my room and trailed his eyes over my books with a sort of reverence that belied his caustic comment that we were meant to be together. I’m not the type to say things like that; I’m much too practical to believe in love at first sight. And I’ve never liked the idea of some soul mate created for you before time began, that there’s just one person you could ever be with and you’ll never be happy with anyone else and you don’t have any choice in the matter. I believe in making my own choices.
But still, if I believe in destiny at all (and I’m not sure that I do), I would believe that the notes in the margins of a book, a kiss in the rain, an afternoon on Main Street, a quarter behind my ear, a record store in Boston, and a sail on the harbor were all conspiring against me and adding up to something like fate.