Many of the male faeries had their shirts unbuttoned and chests bare. (How’s this for freaky: no nipples or belly buttons.)

I didn't fall in love with you. I walked into love with you, with my eyes wide open, choosing to take every step along the way. I do believe in fate and destiny, but I also believe we are only fated to do the things that we'd choose anyway. And I'd choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you.

I'm fine." It's a lie. I am not fine. My head is a symphony of pain, a sadistic master maestro conducting an opus of excruciating, devastating perfecting.

You stink like a faerie, all flowers and sunshine and evil manipulation.

I start at the beginning, mentally screaming every obscenity I can in alphabetical order. Then I start setting them to the tune of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat

We linked hands—my ex-boyfriend, my boyfriend, and my former friend-then-enemy-then friend and I—and walked through a door to see if maybe empty carbs were good for something after all.

He's just a little unbalanced and lonely." He put his arms around my waist, frowning. "Can't he be lonely and unbalanced around someone else's girlfriend?" "I'll suggest it.