Thanks For The Likes And Comments Quotes

You are the last Five left in the competition, yes? Do you think that hurts your chances of becoming the princess?" The word sprang from my lips without thought. "No!" "Oh, my! You do have a spirit there!" Gavril seemed pleased to have gotten such an enthusiastic response. "So you think you'll beat out all the others, then? Make it to the end?" I thought better of myself. "No, no. It's not like that. I don't think I'm better than any of the other girls; they're all amazing. It's just...I don't think Maxon would do that, just discount someone because of their caste." I heard a collective gasp. I ran over the sentence in my head. It took me a minute to catch my mistake: I'd called him Maxon. Saying that to another girl behind closed doors was one thing, but to say his name without the word "Prince" in front of it was incredibly informal in public. And I'd said it on live television. I looked to see if Maxon was angry. He had a calm smile on his face. So he wasn't mad...but I was embarrassed. I blushed fiercely. "Ah, so it seems you really have gotten to know our prince. Tell me, what do you think of Maxon?" I ahd thought of several answers while I was waiting for my turn. I was going to make fun of his laugh or talk about the pet name he wanted his wife to call him. It seemed like the only way to save the situation was to get back the comedy. But as I lifted my eyes to make one of my comments, I saw Maxon's face. He really wanted to know. And I couldn't poke fun at him, not when I had a chance to say what I'd really started to think now that he was my friend. I couldn't joke about the person who'd saved me from facing absolute heartbreak at home, who fed my family boxes of sweets, who ran to me worried that I was hurt if I asked for him. A month ago, I had looked at the TV and seen a stiff, distant, boring person-someone I couldn't imagine anyone loving. And while he wasn't anything close to the person I did love, he was worthy of having someone to love in his life. "Maxon Schreave is the epitome of all things good. He is going to be a phenomenal king. He lets girls who are supposed to be wearing dresses wear jeans and doesn't get mad when someone who doesn't know him clearly mislabels him." I gave Gavril a keen look, and he smiled. And behind him, Maxon looked intrigued. "Whoever he marries will be a lucky girl. And whatever happens to me, I will be honored to be his subject." I saw Maxon swallow, and I lowered my eyes. "America Singer, thank you so much." Gavril went to shake my hand. "Up next is Miss Tallulah Bell." I didn't hear what any of the girls said after me, though I stared at the two seats. That interview had become way more personal than I'd intended it to be. I couldn't bring myself to look at Maxon. Instead I sat there replaying my words again and again in my head.

Brad (Lauren's ex) ignored Hayley (she's Brad's ex girlfriend) and looked at me, he did a top to toe and back again then his gaze moved to Tate. "I'm here to tell you I'm suing you," he announced. Jim-Billy, Nadine, Steg, Wing and my eyes moved to Tate. Tate stared at Brad then he said, "Come again?" "I'm suing you," Brad repeated. "For what?" Tate asked. "Alienation of affection," Brad answered. Without hesitation, Tate threw his head back and burst out laughing. Then he looked at me and remarked, "You're right, babe, this is fun." Ignoring Tate's comment, Brad declared, "You stole my wife." Tate looked back at Brad. "Yeah, bud, I did." Brad pointed at Tate and his voice was raised when he proclaimed, "See? You admit it." He threw his arm out. "I have witnesses." "Not that any judge'll hear your case, seein' as Lauren divorced your ass before I alienated her affection, but you manage it, I'll pay the fine. In the meantime, I'll keep alienating her affection. You should know, and feel free to share it with your lawyers," Tate continued magnanimously, "schedule's comin' out mornin' and night. Usually, in the mornin', she sucks me off or I make her come in the shower. Night, man…shit, that's even better. Definitely worth the fine." Sorry, it's just too long; I have to cut it off. But it continues…like that: "This is the good life?" (Brad) "Part of it," Tate replied instantly, taking his fists from the bar, leaning into his forearms and asking softly, in a tone meant both to challenge and provoke, "She ever ignite, lose so much control she'd attack you? Climb on top and fuck you so hard she can't breathe?" I watched Brad suffer that blow because I hadn't, not even close. We'd had good sex but not that good and Brad was extremely proud of his sexual prowess. He was convinced he was the best. And he knew, with Tate's words, he was wrong. "Jesus, you're disgusting," Brad muttered, calling up revulsion to save face. "She does that to me," Tate continued. "Fuck off," Brad snapped. "All the fuckin' time," Tate pushed. "Fuck off," Brad repeated. "It's fuckin' magnificent," Tate declared. "Thanks, honey," I whispered and grinned at him when his eyes came to me. I was actually expressing gratitude, although embarrassed by his conversation, but I was also kind of joking to get in Brad's face. Tate wasn't. His expression was serious when he said, "You are, Ace. Fuckin' magnificent.

I was already at one remove before the Internet came along. I need another remove? Now I have to spend the time that I'm not doing the thing they're doing reading about them doing it? Streaming the clips of them doing it, commenting on how lucky they are to be doing all those things, liking and digging and bookmarking and posting and tweeting all those things, and feeling more disconnected than ever? Where does this idea of greater connection come from? I've never in my life felt more disconnected. It's like how the rich get richer. The connected get more connected while the disconnected get more disconnected. No thanks man, I can't do it. The world was a sufficient trial, Betsy, before Facebook.

You," I surmised, and gestured round. "Thank you." "No," he denied. His pale hair floated out from beneath his cap in a halo as he shook his head. "But I assisted. Thank you for bathing. It makes my task of checking on you less onerous. I'm glad you're awake. You snore abominably." I let this comment pass. "You've grown." I observed. "Yes. So have you. And you've been sick. And you slept quite a long time. And now you're awake and bathed and fed. You still look terrible. But you no longer smell. It's late afternoon now. Are there any other obvious facts you'd like to review?

Prepare a gentle but firm response to use the next time someone feels they have a right to comment on your life decisions. You might say something like, "I'm sure you have my best interest at heart, and I thank you for your concern. However, you didn't experience what I did, so you can't understand what I went through. I made the best decisions I could based on what happened in my life. I know you will honor my right to decide what is best for me, just as I allow you to decide what is best for you.

You give too much attention to things that make you unhappy,' Allison says. No doubt she is right. And yet attending to things that make Hannah unhappy--it's such a natural reflex. It feels so intrinsic, it feels in some ways like who she is. The unflattering observations she makes about other people, the comments that get her in trouble, aren't these truer than small talk and thank-you notes? Worse, but truer. And underneath all the decorum, isn't most everyone judgmental and disappointed? Or is it only certain people, and can she choose not to be one of them--can she choose this without also, like her mother, just giving in?

I’m Tekchin,” he said, exchanging an empty gourd for a full one. “The handsomest and most skilled of the Galantians.” This brought an immediate and loud moan from the other Fhrey. “That scar suggests otherwise,” Moya replied. “On both counts.” More laughter, louder this time. “Pretty and smart,” Tekchin said to the others in Fhrey. Persephone was thankful Moya couldn’t understand their language. A comment like that would have been tantamount to putting torch to tinder. “This?” Tekchin returned to Rhunic and touched his cheek. “Naw, this is a beauty mark given to me by a special friend. He’s dead now, of course, but he was a gifted opponent and aiming for my throat. I can assure you it proves my skill. So what’s your name, or shall I call you Doe-Eyes?” “Doe-Eyes? Seriously?” Moya rolled her same-said eyes in disbelief. “I would have expected something less sappy from a god. My name is Moya. Call me anything else and you’ll receive a second beauty mark.” Tekchin struggled but failed to resist smiling. Behind him, the rest of the Fhrey laughed once more. “God, eh?” Tekchin said. “Don’t get too excited. Apparently it’s only a rumor.” “I like you, Moya.” “Most people do,” she replied.

WILL PUSHED HIS EMPTY PLATE AWAY AND LEANED BACK IN HIS chair, feeling that delightfully uncomfortable sensation that comes when you eat just a little too much of something really delicious. Lady Pauline smiled fondly at the young man. “Would you like extras, Will? There’s plenty left.” He patted his stomach, surprised to find that it seemed to actually feel tighter than normal, as if it were straining at his clothes from the inside. “Thank you, no, Pauline,” he said. “I’ve already had seconds.” “You’ve already had fourths,” Halt commented. Will frowned at him, then turned back to Pauline, smiling at her. At least she didn’t make disparaging comments the way her husband did.

Want to go wait outside? The cab should be here soon.” What the hell? “I told you I’d drive you there.” “And I said, no thank you.” “Why the hell not?” Kayla pipes up, “Because if you take us they won’t let us in after the scene you cause.” She follows up her comment with a shitty impersonation: “Hulk like Julia. Hulk smash anyone who look at Julia.

2-Make eye contact. When someone is speaking, keep your eyes on him or her at all times. If someone makes a comment, turn and face that person. 3-During discussions, respect other students’ comments, opinions, and ideas. When possible, make statements like, “I agree with John, and I also feel that…” or “I disagree with Sarah. She made a good point I feel that…” or “I think Victor made an excellent observation, and it made me realize…” 4-If you win or do well at something, do not brag. If you lose, do not show anger. Instead, say something like, “I really enjoyed the competition, and I look forward to playing you again,” or “good game,” or don’t say anything at all. To show anger or sarcasm, such as “I wasn’t playing hard anyway” or “You really aren’t that good,” shows weakness. 5-“When you cough or sneeze or burp, it is appropriate to turn your head away from others and cover your mouth with the full part of your hand. Using a fist is not acceptable. Afterward, you should say, “Excuse me.” 6- “Do not smack your lips, tsk, roll your eyes, or show disrespect with gestures.” 7-“Always say thank you when I give you something. 8-“Surprise others by performing random acts of kindness. Go our of your way to do something surprisingly kind and generous for someone at least once a month.” 9-“You will make every effort to be as organized as possible.” 10-"Quickly learn the name of other teachers in the school and greet them by saying things like, "Good morning Mrs. Graham," or "Good afternoon Ms. Ortiz. 11-"When we go on field trips, we will meet different people. When I introduce you to people, make sure that you remember their names. Then, when we are leaving, make sure to shake their hands and thank them, mentioning their names as you do so." 12-“If you approach a door and someone is following you, hold the door. If the door opens by pulling, pull it open, stand to the side, and allow the other person 13-to pass through it first, then you can walk through. If the door opens by pushing, hold the door open after you push through." "Be positive and enjoy life. Some things just aren't worth getting upset over. Keep everything in perspective and focus on the good in your life.

I would like to thank everyone who is mentioned in this book for being part of the story of our relationship, particularly Mike’s parents, Sharron and Bill Herbert. I am grateful, as well, to Toby Johnson for his insightful comments

Commenting on print journalism at the Commenting on print journalism at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner: “Thanks to Obamacare, millions of Americans can visit a doctor’s office and see what a print magazine actually looks like.

Did he say anything to you?” “Just that I was supposed to watch you while he was gone. A hunt can take several days.” “Really? I had no idea it would take that long.” I hestitated, “So…he doesn’t mind you staying here while he’s gone.” “Oh, he minds,” he chuckled, “but he wants to make sure you’re safe. At least he trusts me that much.” “Well, I think he’s mad at both of us right now.” Kishan looked at me curiously with a raised eyebrow. “How so?” “Um…let’s just say we had a misunderstanding.” Kishan’s face turned hard. “Don’t worry, Kelsey. I’m sure that whatever he’s upset about is foolish. He’s very argumentative.” I sighed and shook my head sadly. “No, it’s really all my fault. I’m difficult, a hindrance, and I’m a pain to have around sometimes. He’s probably used to being around sophisticated, more experienced women who are much more…more…well, more than I am.” Kishan quirked an eyebrow. “Ren hasn’t been around any women as far as I know. I must confess that I’m now exceedingly curious as to what your argument was about. Whether you tell me or not, I won’t tolerate any more derogatory comments about yourself. He’s lucky to have you, and he’d better realize it.” He grinned. “Of course, if you did have a falling out, you’re always welcome to stay with me.” “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t really want to live in the jungle.” He laughed. “For you, I would even consider a change of residence. You, my lovely, are a prize worth fighting for.” I laughed and punched him lightly on the arm. “You, sir, are a major flirt. Worth fighting for? I think you two have been tigers for too long. I’m no great beauty, especially when I’m stuck out here in the jungle. I haven’t even picked a college major yet. What have I ever done that would make someone want to fight over me?” Kishan apparently took my rhetorical questions seriously. He reflected for a moment, and then answered, “For one thing, I’ve never met a woman so dedicated to helping others. You put your own life at risk for a person you met only a few weeks ago. You are confident, feisty, intelligent, and full of empathy. I find you charming and, yes, beautiful.” The golden-eyed prince fingered a strand of my hair. I blushed at his assessment, sipped my water, and then said softly, “I don’t like him being angry with me.” Kishan shrugged and dropped his hand, looking slightly annoyed that I’d steered the conversation back to Ren. “Yes. I’ve been on the receiving side of his anger, and I’ve learned not to underestimate his ability to hold a grudge.

But for reasons that genuinely escape me, it has also become spectacularly accommodating to stupidity. Where this thought most recently occurred to me was in a hotel coffee shop in Baltimore, where I was reading the local paper, the Sun, and I saw a news item noting that Congress had passed a law prohibiting the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services from funding research that might lead, directly or indirectly, to the introduction of gun controls. Let me repeat that but in slightly different words. The government of the United States refuses to let academics use federal money to study gun violence if there is a chance that they might find a way of reducing the violence. It isn’t possible to be more stupid than that. If you took all the commentators from FOX News and put them together in a room and told them to come up with an idea even more pointlessly idiotic, they couldn’t do it. Britain isn’t like that, and thank goodness. On tricky and emotive issues like gun control, abortion, capital punishment, the teaching of evolution in schools, the use of stem cells for research, and how much flag waving you have to do in order to be considered acceptably patriotic, Britain is calm and measured and quite grown up, and for me that counts for a great deal. —

When she finally opened them and took in the sight of the two men, a burble of silvery laughter spilled from her dusty lips. "You-you look like bandito snowmen from hell," she choked mirthfully. "And very old ones at that!" Rider yanked his bandanna from his face, and she laughed even harder at his two-toned complexion. Winking at Juan, Rider commented, "This is the thanks we get for coming to her rescue." Juan chuckled. "Si, I think she deserves to have to gaze at herself in the mirror. She looks the bruja pequena, hey, compadre?" "Little witch!" Willow blustered. "Well,none of you are sitting on the furniture until you've cleaned up," Miriam interjected sternly. Willow hurried to the sitting-room window, gasping at the sight of swirling, brownish-gray dirt and debris. "We might as well break out a deck of cards and take a seat on the floor because I think it's going to be awhile before we can get to the water pump and wash ourselves." As if to confirm her words, a loud boom of thunder reverberated above the house. Seconds later, rain pelted the windowpane, and a jagged spear of lightning knifed through the riotus gloom. Willow automatically jumped back from the window, surprised when she stumbled over Rider's toes. He steadied her and she gave an embarrassed smile. "Sorry. I know darn well that lightning can't get to me in here, but it never fails to make me blink and jump." Rider grinned down at her. "It's a natural reaction.If I'd been paying attention to the sky instead of you, I'd have jumped,too." Willow flushed and glanced at Miriam, hoping her friend hadn't heard his candid remark. To her dismay, Miriam winked and smiled knowingly.

Something lay in the middle of it a few yards on, a dark object like a little heap of brown leaves. Thinking it was leaves I saw no reason for comment; but Gertrud, whose eyes are very sharp, exclaimed. ‘What, do you see August?’ I cried. ‘No, no—but there in the road—the tea-basket!’ It was indeed the tea-basket, shaken out as it naturally would be on the removal of the bodies that had kept it in its place, come to us like the ravens of old to give us strength and sustenance. ‘It still contains food,’ said Gertrud, hurrying towards it. ‘Thank heaven,’ said I. We

thanks to their support, and the eldest was praised for being the responsible first-born son who brought honor to the family through his own success and provided for his family. Oh Misook and her sister realized only then that their turn would not come; their loving family would not be giving them the chance and support to make something of themselves. The two sisters belatedly enrolled in the company-affiliated school. They worked days and studied nights to earn their middle-school diploma. Oh Misook studied for her high-school certificate on her own and received her diploma the same year her younger brother became a high-school teacher. When Kim Jiyoung was in elementary school, her mother was reading a one-line comment her homeroom teacher had made on her journal assignment and said, “I wanted to be a teacher, too.” Jiyoung burst into laughter. She found the idea outrageous because she’d thought until then that mothers could only be mothers. “It’s true. In elementary, I got the best grades out of all five of us. I was better than your eldest uncle.” “So why didn’t you become a teacher?” “I had to work to send my brothers to school. That’s how it was with everyone. All women lived like that back then.” “Why don’t you become a teacher now?” “Now I have to work to send you kids to school. That’s how it is with everyone. All mothers live like this these days.

With no clever thoughts in her head, Bea resorted to the truth. “Thank you, your grace. The compliment is deeply appreciated by me, and I must own that I did not come here today expecting such a charitable reception. I assumed you would be unhappy with the arrangement, as I’m not what you or anybody could have wanted for Kesgrave.” “You shouted,” her grace said. Bea, who had managed an intelligible comment by what felt like the skin of her teeth, wondered if perhaps the real problem was her hearing. “I shouted?” she echoed. “When Kesgrave brought you here to castigate you in private, you responded to his criticism with equal fervor and refused to melt in the heat of his anger,” she explained. “I can think of no better basis for a marriage.

Violet felt so free. She could hear Jay laughing from behind her as he held on tight. She spun the craft first sharply to the right and then quickly to the left. He knew she was trying to buck him free, testing him to see how long he could hold on to her before being tossed into the frigid water of the lake as she maneuvered the miniature speedboat back and forth. But he was stronger now than ever before, and his reflexes were sharper. He seemed to know which way she was going to go even before she did. After a while, Violet slowed down near a floating dock in the lake and parked the Wave Runner. “Do you want to jump in?” she asked as she pulled the key from the ignition without waiting for an answer, making it more of a statement than a question. Jay stood up and hopped from the Wave Runner onto the dock. Violet joined him and instead of diving into the water, she sat down and dangled her feet in. “It’s quiet here,” he commented absently. He sat down beside her. “Mm-hmm,” she sighed, kicking her feet and splashing up water. “How are your knees?” He reached out and brushed his fingers across the damp bandages. Violet shrugged. “They’re fine . . .” and then she added with mock adoration, “. . . thanks to you, of course.” And to show her gratitude, she kicked water in his direction. He nudged her with his shoulder but didn’t say anything. They stayed like that for a while, enjoying the silence of being alone and enjoying each other’s presence. It was easy . . . and comfortable.

He looked directly at Grant: “I will tell them that I think you are guilty of the murder of three people and that you were the sponsor of the child-pornography smear, and that I think a person of your brand of social pathology—I believe you are a psychopath, and I will tell them that—has no place in the Senate. And I will continue to argue that here in Minnesota for the full six years of your term, and do everything I can to wreck any possible political career that you might otherwise have had.” Grant smiled at him and said, “Fuck you.” The governor said, “Okay, okay, Porter. Now, Taryn, do you have anything for us?” “No, not really. I’ll be the best senator I can be, I reject any notion that I was involved in this craziness.” She looked at Smalls: “As for you, bring it on. If you want to spend six years fighting over this, by the time we’re done, you’ll be unemployable and broke. I would have no problem setting aside, say, a hundred million dollars for a media campaign to defend myself.” “Fuck you,” Smalls said. And, “By the way, I’d like to thank Agent Davenport for his work on this. I thought he did a brilliant job, even if I wound up losing.” Grant jumped in: “And I’d like to say that I think Davenport created the conditions that unnecessarily led to the deaths in this case, that if he’d been a little more circumspect, we might still have Helen Roman and Carver and Dannon alive, and might be able to actually prove what happened, so that I’d be definitively cleared.” Smalls made a noise that sounded like a fart, and Henderson said, “Thank you for that comment, Porter.

If you want to further understanding of systemic racism even more among the people you interact with, you can try to link to the systemic effects of racism whenever you talk about racism. Instead of posting on Facebook: “This teacher shouted a racial slur at a Hispanic kid and should be fired!” you can say all that, and then add, “This behavior is linked to the increased suspension, expulsion, and detention of Hispanic youth in our schools and sets an example of behavior for the children witnessing this teacher’s racism that will influence the way these children are treated by their peers, and how they are treated as adults.” I do this often when I’m talking about racism, and pretty regularly somebody will comment with something like, “That’s an aspect of this situation I hadn’t considered, thank you.

Maybe you could tell us how you and Jordan met, Nick.” All conversation at the table stopped. Frankly, Nick was surprised it had taken this long for someone to ask. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jordan take a nervous sip of her wine. He knew this was the part of the evening she’d dreaded, the part where they told more lies to her friends. Perhaps he could help her out with that. “Jordan and I met two weeks ago, at her store,” he said. “On the night of the big snowstorm.” Pete chuckled. “You really must’ve been jonesing for wine to go out in that mess.” Nick reached across the table and linked his fingers through Jordan’s. “I think Fate had a higher purpose for bringing me to her store that night.” He winked at her. I’ve got this. Melinda melted. “That’s so sweet.” “Then what happened?” Corinne prompted. Nick faced Jordan’s friends. For her sake, he’d tell the truth—perhaps not the whole truth—but at least nothing but. “Well, I asked Jordan a few questions, some quips were exchanged, and I distinctly recall her making a sarcastic comment about chardonnay. I can’t tell you exactly what happened from there, but five days later I found myself at Xander Eckhart’s party drinking pink champagne.” Her friends laughed. Charles raised his glass. “That’s how it happens, Nick. A cute smile, a few clever words, and five years later you’re watching Dancing with the Stars on Monday nights instead of football.” “Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Pete said indignantly. As the group teased Pete, Nick felt Jordan squeeze his knee underneath the table. She spoke softly as she held his gaze. “Thank you.” It took far more effort than it should have to make his tone sound as cavalier as always. “Any time, Rhodes

They seem nice.” Zane raised his eyebrows. “Sure. Skinny, starving kids. I can hardly wait for the rest of the folks to turn up. Maybe we’ll have a rock star next. Or some business executive who wants to bring his laptop along so he can work while riding.” She wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she ignored his comments. “Thanks for letting the kids go get something to eat.” His gaze narrowed. “What has Maya told you about me?” The only thing she could think of was her friend’s claim that Zane looked like Adam Levine. “Ah, what do you mean?” “You’re surprised that I wouldn’t want kids to starve. I figured she’d claimed I was a jerk, but it sounds like she’s also telling you that I’m mean to children.” “No, nothing like that.” She took a step back. “Maya thinks you’re a little, you know, uptight maybe.” His expression hardened, and she wanted to suck back the words. “But not in a bad way.” “Right.

Elizabeth was standing at the edge of the grassy plateau, a few yards beyond where they’d held their shooting match. Wind ruffled through the trees, blowing her magnificent hair about her shoulders like a shimmering veil. He stopped a few steps away from her, looking at her, but seeing her as she had looked long ago-a young goddess in royal blue, descending a staircase, aloof, untouchable; an angry angel defying a roomful of men in a card room; a beguiling temptress in a woodcutter’s cottage, lifting her wet hair in front of the fire-and at the end, a frightened girl thrusting flowerpots into his hands to keep him from kissing her. He drew in a deep breath and shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her. “It’s a magnificent view,” she commented, glancing at him. Instead of replying to her remark, Ian drew a long, harsh breath and said curtly, “I’d like you to tell me again what happened that last night. Why were you in the greenhouse?” Elizabeth suppressed her frustration. “You know why I was there. You sent me a note. I thought it was from Valerie-Charise’s sister-and I went to the greenhouse.” “Elizabeth, I did not send you a note, but I did receive one.” Sighing with irritation, Elizabeth leaned her shoulders against the tree behind her. “I don’t see why we have to go through this again. You won’t believe me, and I can’t believe you.” She expected an angry outburst; instead he said, “I do believe you. I saw the letter you left on the table in the cottage. You have a lovely handwriting.” Caught completely off balance by his solemn tone and his quiet compliment, she stared at him. “Thank you,” she said uncertainly. “The note you received,” he continued. “What was the handwriting like?” “Awful,” she replied, and she added with raised brows, “You misspelled ‘greenhouse.’” His lips quirked with a mirthless smile. “I assure you I can spell it, and while my handwriting may not be as attractive as yours, it’s hardly an illegible scrawl. If you doubt me, I’ll be happy to prove it inside.

I’m afraid I can’t comment on the name Rain God at this present time, and we are calling him an example of a Spontaneous Para-Causal Meteorological Phenomenon.’ ‘Can you tell us what that means?’ ‘I’m not altogether sure. Let’s be straight here. If we find something we can’t understand, we like to call it something you can’t understand, or indeed pronounce. I mean if we just let you go around calling him a Rain God, then that suggests that you know something we don’t, and I’m afraid we couldn’t have that. ‘No, first we have to call it something which says it’s ours, not yours, then we set about finding some way of proving it’s not what you said it is, but something we say it is. ‘And if it turns out that you’re right, you’ll still be wrong, because we will simply call him a . . . er, “Supernormal . . .” – not paranormal or supernatural because you think you know what those mean now, no, a “Supernormal Incremental Precipitation Inducer”. We’ll probably want to shove a “Quasi” in there somewhere to protect ourselves. Rain God! Huh, never heard such nonsense in my life. Admittedly, you wouldn’t catch me going on holiday with him. Thanks, that’ll be all for now, other than to say “Hi!” to Wonko if he’s watching.

Separately they surveyed their individual plates, trying to decide which item was most likely to be edible. They arrived at the same conclusion at the same moment; both of them picked up a strip of bacon and bit into it. Noisy crunching and cracking sounds ensued-like those of a large tree breaking in half and falling. Carefully avoiding each other’s eyes, they continued crunching away until they’d both eaten all the bacon on their plates. That finished, Elizabeth summoned her courage and took a dainty bite of egg. The egg tasted like tough, salted wrapping paper, but Elizabeth chewed manfully on it, her stomach churning with humiliation and a lump of tears starting to swell in her throat. She expected some scathing comment at any moment from her companion, and the more politely he continued eating, the more she wished he’d revert to his usual unpleasant self so that she’d at least have the defense of anger. Lately everything that happened to her was humiliating, and her pride and confidence were in tatters. Leaving the egg unfinished, she put down her fork and tried the biscuit. After several seconds of attempting to break a piece off with her fingers she picked up her knife and sawed away at it. A brown piece finally broke loose; she lifted it to her mouth and bit-but it was so tough her teeth only made grooves on the surface. Across the table she felt Ian’s eyes on her, and the urge to weep doubled. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked in a suffocated little voice. “Yes, thank you.” Relieved to have a moment to compose herself, Elizabeth arose and went to the stove, but her eyes blurred with tears as she blindly filled a mug with freshly brewed coffee. She brought it over to him, then sat down again. Sliding a glance at the defeated girl sitting with her head bent and her hands folded in her lap, Ian felt a compulsive urge to either laugh or comfort her, but since chewing was requiring such an effort, he couldn’t do either. Swallowing the last piece of egg, he finally managed to say, “That was…er…quite filling.” Thinking perhaps he hadn’t found it so bad as she had, Elizabeth hesitantly raised her eyes to his. “I haven’t had a great deal of experience with cooking,” she admitted in a small voice. She watched him take a mouthful of coffee, saw his eyes widen with shock-and he began to chew the coffee. Elizabeth lurched to her feet, squired her shoulders, and said hoarsely, “I always take a stroll after breakfast. Excuse me.” Still chewing, Ian watched her flee from the house, then he gratefully got rid of the mouthful of coffee grounds.

He sat beside his brother and glanced at the notes. “The broken pew in the chapel has been repaired—you can cross that off the list. The keg of caviar arrived yesterday. It’s in the icehouse. I don’t know whether the extra camp chairs are here yet. I’ll ask Sims.” He paused to drink half his coffee in one swallow. “Where’s Kathleen? Still abed?” “Are you joking? She’s been awake for hours. At the moment she’s with the housekeeper, showing deliverymen where to set the flower arrangements.” A fond smile crossed Devon’s lips as he rolled the pencil against the tabletop with the flat of his hand. “You know my wife—every detail has to be perfect.” “It’s like staging a production at St. James’s Music Hall. Without, sadly, the chorus girls in pink tights.” West drained the rest of his coffee. “My God, will this day never end?” “It’s only six o’clock in the morning,” Devon pointed out. They both sighed. “I’ve never thanked you properly for marrying Kathleen at the registrar’s office,” West commented. “I want you to know how much I enjoyed it.” “You weren’t there.” “That’s why I enjoyed it.” Devon’s lips twitched. “I was glad not to have to wait,” he said. “But had there been more time, I wouldn’t have minded going through a more elaborate ceremony for Kathleen’s sake.” “Please. Shovel that manure in someone else’s direction.

My mouth dropped open. 'You're naked!' 'I am,' Kieran replied. And he was. Like completely naked, and I saw way too much tawny-hued skin. Way too much. I quickly spun around, my wide eyes clashing with Casteel's. 'You should see your face right now,' Casteel gripped the arrow in his stomach. 'It looks like you've been sunbathing.' 'Because he's naked,' I hissed. 'Like, super naked.' 'What do you think happens when he shifts forms?' 'The last time his pants actually stayed on!' 'And sometimes they don't.' Casteel shrugged. 'Those pants were looser, I suppose,' Kieran stated. 'There's no need to be embarrassed. It's only skin.' What I saw was not only skin. He was... well, his body was a lot like Casteel's. Lean, hard muscle and... I wasn't going to think about what I saw. At a loss for what to say, I blurted out in a whisper. 'He has to be cold!' 'Wolven body temperatures run higher than normal. I'm just a little chilled,' Kieran commented. 'As I'm sure you noticed.' Casteel smirked. 'I doubt she knows what you're referencing.' I inhaled deeply through my nose and exhaled slowly. 'I know exactly what you're referencing, thank you very much!' 'How do you know that?' Casteel lifted his brows, and I noticed that his pupils seemed to have returned to their normal size. 'If you know what that means, than someone has been very naughty.

Chad made a sour face. He turned to Shadow. “Okay,” said Chad. “Through that door and into the sally port.” “What?” “Out there. Where the car is.” Liz unlocked the doors. “You make sure that orange uniform comes right back here,” she said to the deputy. “The last felon we sent down to Lafayette, we never saw the uniform again. They cost the county money.” They walked Shadow out to the sally port, where a car sat idling. It wasn’t a sheriff’s department car. It was a black town car. Another deputy, a grizzled white guy with a mustache, stood by the car, smoking a cigarette. He crushed it out underfoot as they came close, and opened the back door for Shadow. Shadow sat down, awkwardly, his movements hampered by the cuffs and the hobble. There was no grille between the back and the front of the car. The two deputies climbed into the front of the car. The black deputy started the motor. They waited for the sally port door to open. “Come on, come on,” said the black deputy, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. Chad Mulligan tapped on the side window. The white deputy glanced at the driver, then he lowered the window. “This is wrong,” said Chad. “I just wanted to say that.” “Your comments have been noted, and will be conveyed to the appropriate authorities,” said the driver. The doors to the outside world opened. The snow was still falling, dizzying into the car’s headlights. The driver put his foot on the gas, and they were heading back down the street and on to Main Street. “You heard about Wednesday?” said the driver. His voice sounded different, now, older, and familiar. “He’s dead.” “Yeah. I know,” said Shadow. “I saw it on TV.” “Those fuckers,” said the white officer. It was the first thing he had said, and his voice was rough and accented and, like the driver’s, it was a voice that Shadow knew. “I tell you, they are fuckers, those fuckers.” “Thanks for coming to get me,” said Shadow. “Don’t mention it,” said the driver. In the light of an oncoming car his face already seemed to look older. He looked smaller, too. The last time Shadow had seen him he had been wearing lemon-yellow gloves and a check jacket. “We were in Milwaukee. Had to drive like demons when Ibis called.” “You think we let them lock you up and send you to the chair, when I’m still waiting to break your head with my hammer?” asked the white deputy gloomily, fumbling in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. His accent was Eastern European. “The real shit will hit the fan in an hour or less,” said Mr. Nancy, looking more like himself with each moment, “when they really turn up to collect you. We’ll pull over before we get to Highway 53 and get you out of those shackles and back into your own clothes.” Czernobog held up a handcuff key and smiled. “I like the mustache,” said Shadow. “Suits you.” Czernobog stroked it with a yellowed finger. “Thank you.” “Wednesday,” said Shadow. “Is he really dead? This isn’t some kind of trick, is it?” He realized that he had been holding on to some kind of hope, foolish though it was. But the expression on Nancy’s face told him all he needed to know, and the hope was gone.

Pride in my father, thankfulness that he had been my father, and an ultimately grateful feeling of respect (grudging at first, it took a while to come) for the aching if imperfect love he never ceased to feel for Mom—these are the things I wanted to hold on to. It will soon be seven years since the night I bent down by his bed to press my ear against his chest and listen to his breathing as his life came to its end. But even now, and even after rounding out the story of his sometimes turbulent complexity, as I’ve felt obliged to do in order to keep faith with the reality of who he was, it is the reaffirming memories that crowd out all the rest. The sense that I was on a journey with my father—seventy-two years is a good big piece of anybody’s life—did not end abruptly on the day I buried him. On cold November nights when I’m in a thoughtful mood or worried about problems with my work, or personal missteps I may have made, and go out walking by myself along the country roads around my house, I like to imagine that he’s there beside me still, tapping that old cane of his, making his amusing comments on the unpredictable events and unexpected twists and turns in other people’s lives. Perhaps, over the next few years, that sense of his continuing companionship will fade. It probably will. But some part of the legacy my father and good mother gave me will, I know, remain with me even when their voices and their words and the expressions on their faces and the vivid details of their life’s adventure become attenuated in the course of time. Some of the blessings that our parents give us, I need to believe, outlive the death of memory.

O that today you would hearken to his voice! —Psalm 95:7 (RSV) MARIA, INSPIRATION BEHIND HOLY ANGELS HOME Maria was nine in 1965 when I first wrote about her, a bright, little girl with an impish smile. Born hydrocephalic, without legs, a “vegetable” who could not survive, she’d dumbfounded experts and become the inspiration behind a home for infants with multiple handicaps. Now I was back at Holy Angels in North Carolina to celebrate Maria’s fiftieth birthday. I had to trot to keep up with Maria’s motorized wheelchair through a maze of new buildings, home now for adults as well as infants. At each stop, Maria introduced me to staff and volunteers who simply exuded joy. And yet the people they were caring for had such cruel limitations! How could everyone seem so happy, I asked, working day after day with people who’ll never speak, never hold a spoon, never sit up alone? “None of us would be happy,” Maria said, “if we looked way off into the future like that.” Here, she explained, they looked for what God was doing in each life, just that one day. “That’s where God is for all of us, you know. Just in what’s happening right now.” How intently one would learn to look, I thought, to spot the little victories. In my life too…. What if I memorized just the first stanza of Millay’s “Renascence”? What if I understood just one more function on my iPhone? What if just one morning I didn’t comment about my husband’s snoring? “Thank you, Maria,” I said as we hugged good-bye, “for showing me the God of the little victories.” Through what small victory, Father, will You show me Yourself today? —Elizabeth Sherrill Digging Deeper: Ps 118:24; Mt 6:34

I text her from the lobby and tell her I’m on my way up. Having a badge is a really convenient way to get past building security. Not that this place has much. She’s standing in the open doorway of her apartment when I get off the elevator, hand on her hip with her head cocked to the side in question. “I brought donuts,” I offer by way of explanation for showing up unannounced. “Did you need a favor or something?” she asks, taking the box from my hands and setting it on the tiny round dining table just inside the door of her apartment. Not a promising start, but she does allow me to follow her inside. “I just brought you a favor,” I comment then eye her. “Do you own any pants?” She’s wearing another pair of those godforsaken leggings. “What are you talking about? I’m wearing pants right now. And how does this count as a favor when I didn’t ask for it? It shouldn’t count towards my favor tally if I didn’t make the official request.” She pops open the donut box and peeks inside. “You’re like the worst genie ever.” “I know. But your favors are piling up. I gotta work them off. And those aren’t pants.” “Leggings are pants. They’re very popular.” “What the hell is even on them?” I step closer and eye her ass, focusing on the print. Purely for research purposes. “Are those black cats?” “They’re my seasonal leggings!” she retorts and selects a donut as I walk past her into the tiny aisle of a kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee. “Oh. Did you want something to drink? Let me get that for you,” she says sarcastically before biting into a donut. I ignore her tone. “No, no. I’ve got it, thank you.” I take the mug and pass by her, taking a seat on her couch

forgot about my huge goal. I focused on what I could control: what I did every day. After a little experimentation and a lot of thought, I settled on a process. Because the Internet never sleeps, here’s what I did every day: Write a new post. Without fail. No excuses. Build relationships. I contacted three people who tweeted my posts that day, choosing the three who seemed most influential, the most noteworthy, the most “something” (even if that “something” was just “thoughtful comment”). Then I sent an e-mail—not a tweet—and said thanks. My goal was to make a genuine connection. Build my network. I contacted one person who might be a great source for a future post. I aimed high: CEOs, founders, entrepreneur-celebrities . . . people with instant credibility and engaged followings. Many didn’t respond. But some did. And some have become friends and appear in this book. Add three more items to my “list of great headlines.” Headlines make or break posts: A great post with a terrible headline will not get read. So I worked hard to learn what worked for other people—and to adapt their techniques for my own use. Evaluate recent results. I looked at page views. I looked at shares and likes and tweets. I tried to figure out what readers responded to, what readers cared about. Writing for a big audience has little to do with pleasing yourself and everything to do with pleasing an audience, and the only way to know what worked was to know the audience. Ignore my editor. I liked my editor. But I didn’t want her input because she knew only what worked for columnists who were read by a maximum of 300,000 people each month. My goal was to triple that, which meant I needed to do things differently. We occasionally disagreed, and early on I lost some of those battles. Once my numbers started to climb, I won a lot more often, until eventually I was able to do my own thing. Sounds simple, right? In a way it was, because I followed a self-reinforcing process:

Fortunately—or unfortunately—Mo’s high chair was beside Sarah, who had already angled her stool toward her. There was an expression that I wouldn’t have believed she was capable of yesterday on her face as she watched Mo, like she was a fucking unicorn or something. Which she was. Jonah, though, was on the side I’d planned to sit on next to Peter, with a free stool beside him. I slipped into it and looked around expectantly. What the hell was everyone waiting for? Did they… did the Collins family pray before eating? Because it was a Sunday? Was that why Peter and Grandpa weren’t moving? Jonah had never prayed before a meal. Uh…. “Baby Jesus, thank you for our food. Amen,” Grandpa Gus rushed out all of a sudden out of fucking nowhere, startling the fuck out of Peter and me, who both stared at him like we didn’t know who the hell he was anymore. And…. Did he say baby Jesus? The cough beside me had me glancing at Jonah, who had his lips pressed together and his gaze straight ahead at the wall behind his mom and Mo. Glancing back at Grandpa, his cheeks were pink like he didn’t know why the hell he’d said that and was debating whether or not he regretted it. “Ah, amen,” Sarah managed to get out, sounding pretty damn graceful and not like my gramps had just thanked baby Jesus of all people. “That’s the last time I let you watch Talladega Nights,” I muttered under my breath just loud enough for my grandpa to hear. And apparently Jonah too because he coughed, a lot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grandpa replied before nudging the plate of pancakes closer to the middle of the island, avoiding eye contact. “Okay, let’s eat unless someone else wants to… pray or make another useless comment that I have no reference for.” I laughed. But it was Jonah beside me who cleared his throat, reached for the spatula, slid two pancakes onto it before transferring them over to my plate first, as he said, very quietly, very calmly, “I do have a question, were you praying to eight-pound, five-ounce baby Jesus or….” I threw my head back and laughed a second before I slid off the stool and onto the floor. It was a long, long time before I managed to start eating.

I might know a way we could repay that debt.” Everything inside Darius sharpened at that comment, just like it did when he stumbled across an idea for a new experiment. “Oh?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual. “The young lady drew me aside after she returned from her luncheon today. She made an odd request.” Darius recalled their earlier run-in at the pond. Odd didn’t begin to describe it—him stalking her through the grass in his sodden clothes and bare feet. She’d handled herself with plenty of spirit, though, and he’d thought they’d left on good terms. “I did have words with her this morning,” he admitted, though it seemed like forever ago now, with all that had happened since. “Her request did not pertain to you, sir. At least, not directly.” Darius arched a brow. “What did it pertain to?” Wellborn was always serious, but something in the man’s expression made the back of Darius’s neck prickle. “Miss Greyson requested, if anyone came to Oakhaven asking after a young woman matching her description, that I not reveal her presence here. Also, that I make her aware of the situation at once.” Darius fell back against the worktable. He grabbed the edge to steady himself. “She’s in some kind of trouble.” Wellborn dipped his chin in agreement. “It seems a logical conclusion. I’d thought to discuss the matter with you later this evening.” “Thank you for bringing it to my attention,” Darius said, ironically slipping into the same formality he had chided Wellborn for earlier. However, when a man lost his equilibrium, he tended to resort to old habits to regain his footing. “I found her phrasing of the request a bit odd.” A contemplative look came over the butler’s face. Darius mentally reviewed Wellborn’s account, analyzing each section as he would one of his journal articles until a hypothesis formed. “She’s more concerned over someone recognizing her appearance than her name.” Wellborn nodded. “That is the impression I gained.” Interesting. It seemed his new secretary might have accepted the position under false pretenses. Well, a false name, at least. Not that it mattered. The woman had proved herself more than capable. Her name didn’t matter. “Let’s adhere to her wishes for now. With one deviation.” Darius pushed up from the table and braced his legs apart, as if preparing for battle. “If anyone comes looking for her, inform me first. She deserves our protection, Wellborn. I intend to see that she gets it.

The Guardian’s Paul Vallely has given a decent account of how Cardinal George Pell, appointed by Francis, began a review of the bank’s operations. Pell had successfully overhauled the Church’s finances in Sydney and Melbourne. The Australian son of a former heavyweight boxer, Pell is a political and doctrinal conservative who speaks aggressively and does not believe in man-made climate change. He is a cult hero among conservative Catholics. You can imagine what the Lavender Mafia think of him. Vallely notes grudgingly that, “For all his conservatism, Pell had for years been a vocal critic of the Roman Catholic bureaucracy and its corruption.” Pell moved quickly, and made enemies. A straight dealer to the point of unbearable bluntness, especially in the delicately perfumed and gold-embroidered world of the Holy See, Pell probably didn’t anticipate getting tripped up by dirty tactics: in this case, stories leaked to the media about—you guessed it—clerical abuse. The press reports were coincidentally timed, arriving just as Pell’s reforms of the bank began to take hold. It was alleged that Pell was soft on child abuse, thanks to offhand comments he had made years before, in typically ribald and direct Australian fashion. It was suggested that he may himself have some questions to answer about covering up abuse. Then the allegations widened, to direct accusations of historic sex abuse, at which point Pell had to put his work at the bank on hold. Now Pell is back in Australia, trying to clear his name, and his reforms are stalling, just as the intriguers intended. This is how efforts to clean up the Roman Catholic Church usually end.

Consequently we have only to discover these laws of nature, and man will no longer have to answer for his actions and life will become exceedingly easy for him. All human actions will then, of course, be tabulated according to these laws, mathematically, like tables of logarithms up to 108,000, and entered in an index; or, better still, there would be published certain edifying works of the nature of encyclopaedic lexicons, in which everything will be so clearly calculated and explained that there will be no more incidents or adventures in the world. en—this is all what you say—new economic relations will be established, all ready-made and worked out with mathematical exactitude, so that every possible question will vanish in the twinkling of an eye, simply because every possible answer to it will be provided. en the ‘Palace of Crystal’ will be built. en ... In fact, those will be halcyon days. Of course there is no guaranteeing (this is my comment) that it will not be, for instance, frightfully dull then (for what will one have to do when everything will be calculated and tabulated), but on the other hand everything will be extraordinarily rational. Of course boredom may lead you to anything. It is boredom sets one sticking golden pins into people, but all that would not matter. What is bad (this is my comment again) is that I dare say people will be thankful for the gold pins then. Man is stupid, you know, phenomenally stupid; or rather he is not at all stupid, but he is so ungrateful that you could not find another like him in all creation. I, for instance, would not be in the least surprised if all of a sudden, A PROPOS of nothing, in the midst of general prosperity a gentleman with an ignoble, or rather with a reactionary and ironical, countenance were to arise and, putting his arms akimbo, say to us all: ‘I say, gentle- man, hadn’t we better kick over the whole show and scatter rationalism to the winds, simply to send these logarithms to the devil, and to enable us to live once more at our own sweet foolish will!’ at again would not matter, but what is annoying is that he would be sure to find followers—such is the nature of man. And all that for the most foolish reason, which, one would think, was hardly worth mentioning: that is, that man everywhere and at all times, whoever he may be, has preferred to act as he chose and not in the least as his reason and advantage dictated. And one may choose what is contrary to one’s own interests, and sometimes one POSITIVELY OUGHT (that is my idea). One’s own free unfettered choice, one’s own caprice, however wild it may be, one’s own fancy worked up at times to frenzy—is that very ‘most advantageous advantage’ which we have overlooked, which comes under no classification and against which all systems and theories are continually being shattered to atoms. And how do these wiseacres know that man wants a normal, a virtuous choice? What has made them conceive that man must want a rationally advantageous choice? What man wants is simply INDEPENDENT choice, whatever that independence may cost and wherever it may lead. And choice, of course, the devil only knows what choice.

guiding users through a process quickly and easily is good for business, because the fewer people who get frustrated or confused, the more sales or sign-ups are completed. The problem, though, is that making interactions feel smooth and simple sounds nice, but it starts to fail as soon as you’re asking users for messy, complicated information. And as you’ll see in this chapter, all kinds of everyday questions can be messy and complicated—often in ways designers haven’t predicted. NAMING THE PROBLEM Sara Ann Marie Wachter-Boettcher. That’s how my birth certificate reads: five names, one hyphen, and a whole lot of consonant clusters (thanks, Mom and Dad!). I was used to it being misspelled. I was used to it being pronounced all sorts of ways. I was even used to everyone who looks at my driver’s license commenting that it takes up two whole lines. But I didn’t expect my name to cause me so many problems online. As it turns out, tons of services haven’t thought much about the wide range of names out there. So, on Twitter I forgo spaces to fit my professional name in: SaraWachterBoettcher. On online bill pay, they’ve truncated it for me: Sara Wachter-Boettch. In my airline’s online check-in system, hyphens straight up don’t exist. The list goes on. It’s irritating. It takes some extra time (do I enter a space between my last names, or just squish them together?). I see more error messages than I’d like. But it’s still a minor inconvenience, compared to what other people experience.

You should have some new gowns made up as well,” he said. “I'm tired of seeing you in all that halfmourning—gray, brown, lavender… No one expects it of you any longer. Order as many as you like. I'll take care of the expense.” Holly stared at him openmouthed. “Not only are you daring to complain about my appearance, you are also insulting me by offering to pay for my clothes?” “I didn't mean it as an insult,” he countered warily. “You know very well that a gentleman would never purchase items of apparel for a lady. Not even a pair of gloves.” “Then I'll subtract the necessary amount from your salary.” Bronson gave her a cajoling smile. “A woman with your looks deserves to wear something beautiful. I'd like to see you in jade green, or yellow. Or red.” The idea seemed to spark his imagination as he continued. “I can't imagine a finer sight in the world than you in a red gown.” Holly was not mollified by the flattery. “I most certainly will not order new gowns, and I'll thank you to spare me further mention of the subject. A red gown, indeed! Do you know what would become of my reputation?” “It's already tarnished,” he pointed out. “You may as well enjoy yourself.” He seemed to enjoy her spluttering outrage at the comment. “You sir, may… may…” “Go to the devil?” he suggested helpfully. She seized on the expression with enthusiasm. “Yes, go right at once to the devil!

That night, though, Mom was getting things ready for a party at the restaurant, so I had to bum a ride with Jack and Julie. Jack said they didn’t need a chaperon, but it was just talk. He always helped me when it mattered. While we were waiting for Julie, I asked him about the one detail that was bothering me. “I’m supposed to meet her there,” I said. “Do I meet her inside the gym or outside?” “Do you have a date or not?” “More or less.” Jack grinned and shook his head. “Well, it’s not that simple,” I told him. “She can’t go out on dates, so she’s coming with her parents, and I’m supposed to meet her.” Jack broke out laughing. “You’re singing the freshman blues again, Eddie. Everything ends up half-baked.” “So where do I meet her on a half-baked date?” “Inside,” he said. “That way you won’t have to pay for her ticket.” “I don’t want to look like a cheapskate.” “Why hide the truth? Besides, her parents are bringing her, right? You don’t want to meet her father, do you?” “I don’t know.” “Look, he’ll just shake your hand and give you a dirty look. That’s what freshman girls’ fathers always do.” “Really?” “So save the hassle and the money. Wait inside.” I ended up waiting right inside the door. When Wendy and her father came in, she was careful to keep things looking casual. She pretended not to notice me at first, then said, “Oh, hi, Eddie,” and introduced me to her father as a boy in her algebra class. He shook my hand and gave me a dirty look. For a minute I thought the three of us would end up sitting together, but her father decided not to join us in the student rooting section. Wendy and I found an empty bench in the bleachers and were alone for twenty or thirty seconds before two of her friends came along, then three of mine. Then some friends of theirs. And finally Wayne Parks squeezed into a spot on the bench behind us. All through the game he kept leaning forward and making comments like “Where’s the ref keep his Seeing Eye dog during the game?” Even if Wendy and I hadn’t had an audience, we couldn’t have done much talking. During every time-out the Los Cedros Spirit Band, sitting three rows behind us, blasted us off the benches with fight songs. To top things off, Wendy’s father sat across the aisle and stared at us all night. And the Los Cedros Panthers blew a six-point lead in the final minute and lost the game at the buzzer. Before Wendy and I had our coats on, her father showed up beside us, mumbled, “Nice to meet you, Willy,” and led her away. The night could have been worse, I guess. I didn’t break an ankle or choke on my popcorn or rip my pants. But I had a hard time being thankful for those small favors.

All those songs I used to pretend to understand, all the angsty, heartbroken songs I had heard all my life, they suddenly made so much more sense. "Well, then she probably needs a giant coffee, a huge box of your creations, and some time to nurse her feelings in private, don't you think?" Brantley Dane, local hero, saves girl from sure death brought on by sheer mortification. That'd be his headline. "Come on, sweetheart," he said, moving behind me, casually touching my hip in the process, and going behind counter. "What's your poison? Judging by the situation, I am thinking something cold, mocha or caramel filled and absolutely towering with full fat whipped cream." That was exactly what I wanted. But, broken heart aside, I knew I couldn't let myself drown in sweets. Gaining twenty pounds wasn't going to help anything. There was absolutely no enthusiasm in my voice when I said, "Ah, actually, can I have a large black coffee with one sugar please?" "Not that I'm not turned on as all fuck by a woman who appreciates black coffee," he started, making me jerk back suddenly at the bluntness of that comment and the dose of profanity I wasn't accustomed to hearing in my sleepy hometown. "But if you're only one day into a break-up, you're allowed to have some full fat chocolate concoction to indulge a bit. I promise from here on out I won't make you anything even half as food-gasm-ing as this." He leaned across the counter, getting close enough that I could see golden flecks in his warm brown eyes. "Honey, not even if you beg," he added and, if I wasn't mistaken, there was absolutely some kind of sexually-charged edge to his words. "Say yes," he added, lips tipping up at one corner. "Alright, yes," I agreed, knowing I would love every last drop of whatever he made me and likely punish myself with an extra long run for it too. "Good girl," he said as he turned away. And there was not, was absolutely not some weird fluttering feeling in my belly at that. Nope. That would be completely insane. "Okay, I got you one of everything!" my mother said, coming up beside me and pressing the box into my hands. She even tied it with her signature (and expensive, something I had tried to talk her out of many times over the years when she was struggling financially) satin bow. I smiled at her, knowing that sometimes, there was nothing liked baked goods from your mother after a hard day. I was just lucky enough to have a mother who was a pastry chef. "Thanks, Mom," I said, the words heavy. I wasn't just thanking her for the sweets, but for letting me come home, for not asking questions, for not making it seem like even the slightest inconvenience. She gave me a smile that said she knew exactly what I meant. "You have nothing to thank me for." She meant that too. Coming from a family that, when they found out she was knocked up as a teen, had kicked her out and disowned her, she made it clear all my life that she was always there, no matter what I did with my life, no matter how high I soared, or how low I crashed. Her arms, her heart, and her door were always open for me. "Alright. A large mocha frappe with full fat milk, full fat whipped cream, and both a mocha and caramel drizzle. It's practically dessert masked as coffee," Brantley said, making my attention snap to where he was pushing what was an obnoxiously large frappe with whipped cream that was towering out of the dome that the pink and sage straw stuck out of. "Don't even think about it, sweetheart," he said, shaking his head as I reached for my wallet. "Thank you," I smiled, and found that it was a genuine one as I reached for it and, in a move that was maybe not brilliant on my part, took a sip. And proceeded to let out an almost porn-star worthy groan of pure, delicious pleasure. Judging by the way Brant's smile went a little wicked, his thoughts ran along the same lines as well.

Jews have grown so obsessed with Israel that the overt and covert signals of anti-Semitism beamed from the interior of the Trump campaign appeared to be disregarded by people like Adelson and Bernie Marcus, the Home Depot co-founder and Republican mega-donor who seemed wowed by candidate Trump’s solemn promise to immediately move the U.S. embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem and to back Likud’s expansive settlement policy on the West Bank. Never mind that both moves were purely symbolic: Netanyahu was going to do what he was going to do regardless of Washington’s feckless policies or the location of its ambassador. What mattered was Israel, pure and simple. It was something of a comeuppance when President Trump immediately backed off his promise of an embassy move, swiftly sent a letter to Prime Minister Netanyahu scolding him on settlements, and promised a new push for Israeli-Palestinian peace talks. But beyond leaked word that Adelson was really, really, really angry, no apologies or mea culpas were forthcoming from American Jewry. Trump did make Israel a stop on his first trip abroad—the earliest visit to the Jewish state by any American president. But before his arrival, his White House made no comment on the two Israeli-American journalists who were denied visas to follow the president into Saudi Arabia, where he happily danced with swords and his commerce secretary boasted that there had been no protestors. Once he had landed in Jerusalem, Trump did note that he “just got back from the Middle East,” a moment memorialized by Ron Dermer, Israel’s ambassador to the United States, covering his face with his hand in frustration or amazement. Trump scheduled all of fifteen minutes for a stop at Yad Vashem, Israel’s revered Holocaust memorial and museum, and in his brief remarks there—from 1:27 to 1:34 p.m.—he managed both to extol the Jewish people and let slip his cherished stereotypes: “Through persecution, oppression, death, and destruction, the Jewish people have persevered. They have thrived. They’ve become so successful in so many places.” Ever solicitous, Netanyahu thanked the president, who “in so few words said so much.” No one took note of the irony that the Holocaust survivor who greeted Trump, Margot Herschenbaum, had been rescued in 1939 by the Kindertransport, which had whisked her out of Germany and had saved thousands of other Jewish children. Refugees like Herschenbaum had been denied entry to the United States during World War II, just as Trump has steadfastly denied the entry of Syrian children fleeing war and death in their own country.

casting a light right on her face and she looks like a fucking angel. I don’t even know if people should use the words fucking and angel in the same thought structure, but shit. She really looks like a fucking angel with her blonde hair and big eyes. I’m not even sure what color her eyes are because it’s dark and I didn’t really pay attention when we were in Sky’s bedroom, but whatever color they are, it’s my new favorite color. “You’re very charismatic,” she says. Jesus. Her voice completely slays me. “Thanks. You’re pretty cute yourself.” “I didn’t say you were cute, Daniel. I said you were charismatic. There’s a difference.” “Not much of one,” I say. “You like Italian?” She frowns and pulls back a few inches like I just insulted her. “Why would you ask me that?” Her reaction confuses me. I have no idea how that comment could have offended her. “Uh, have you never been asked out on a date before?” The scowl disappears

Darius slid his hand from my thigh, running it up my side over the fabric of the t-shirt until he found my hair where he began twisting it through his fingers. This was too damn weird. Why was he touching me like that? What the hell had we done last night to make him think he could? And why the hell was I letting him? I still hadn’t moved, my head still lay over his pounding heart, my fingers still rested on the edge of his waistband. “Please tell me we didn’t...” I couldn’t actually bear to say it but I had to know because my memory was turning up blanks. “I prefer my girls a little less blind drunk and a little more eagerly responsive,” he replied. “Besides, you wouldn’t forget it if I’d fucked you.” Heat rose along my spine at that insinuation but I ignored it in favour of focusing on the relief his words provided. “Thank heaven for small miracles,” I sighed but for some reason I still hadn’t moved. “No need to sound so pleased about it,” Darius muttered but he sounded kind of amused at the same time. “So why am I here?” I asked because this still made no damn sense to me and for some unknown reason I seemed to be frozen in place. “You got yourself so wasted that you passed out and started using magic in your sleep.” I frowned at that. I’d been drunk, yeah, but I could handle my alcohol. Passing out in a public place was pretty full on even for me and I was fairly sure I wouldn’t have drunk that much… would I? Darius kept explaining when I didn’t respond. “I had to use my power to bring yours back under control and then I brought you back here so that I could make sure you didn’t set your bedroom alight in the night or anything.” At his words, I noticed the feeling of his magic coiling around mine where it had obviously been all night. He hadn’t actually pushed it to merge with mine but it was dancing along the edges of my power as if it was asking to join it. On instinct I let the barrier around my power drop, welcoming his in. Darius sucked in a sharp breath as his magic tumbled into mine and a breathy moan escaped my lips before I could stop it as the thrill of his magic caused every muscle in my body to tighten for a moment. The ecstasy of our magic combining was kind of addictive, like I could feel the heat of his power filling every dark space in my body and I had to fight to make sure it didn’t burn me. I pushed his magic back out before I could get lost in the feeling of it and we lay in silence for a few long seconds, neither of us commenting on what I’d just done. I was glad he didn’t ask me about it because I really didn’t know why I’d done it. But now every inch of my skin was alive with the memory of his magic filling me. His fingers kept moving in my hair and I frowned, wondering why he was doing that. And why the hell I still hadn’t moved. It was like we were under some spell where peace existed between us and we both knew it would be broken if either of us made any sudden movements. “Did you undress me?” I asked slowly, heat clawing along my spine at the idea of that. Darius released a breath of laughter and I inched back a little, moving so that my head was on the pillow beside his instead of resting on his chest. He rolled towards me, moving onto his side and shifting so that his hand rested on my bare thigh. He didn’t move his hand once it landed there but the heat of his touch was burning through me like magma. (Darius POV)

I’m pretty sure he plans on killing me anyway,” I said with a shrug. “At least if he kills me for this, it was for something that matters.” “I-” “Tell him I came here and spoke with you about Darius. Tell him I made some excuse to get you to leave the room and by the time you came back I’d done this. Put all the blame on me. I mean that.” “Okay…” she said hesitantly and I met her eye. “Do I need to make you swear it on the stars?” I growled. “No. I’ll tell him. Thank you, Roxanya.” “It’s Tory. Only Darius calls me Roxy and I can’t make him stop, but I don’t want anyone else making a habit of it,” I said. Although at this point if Darius started calling me Tory it would probably just be weird. Not that I’d ever admit that I was okay with the Roxy thing. “Okay. Thank you, Tory.” I smirked at her and hit post. Catalina gasped as Xavier’s secret went viral and I glanced down at my Atlas as reactions and comments began to pour in before I locked the screen. Shit, what if Daddy Acrux really does kill me for this? “Run, Tory,” Catalina breathed, real fear dancing in her eyes. “Run for the gate and get back to the academy before he comes back. If he finds you here-” “Consider me gone.” I barked a laugh as nerves made my heart flutter. Catalina smiled at me before ripping her dress off, knocking her hair free of its perfectly styled bun, flashing me those gloriously fake tits and leaping out of thewindow after her son. She transformed as she plummeted and my lips fell open as a stunning silver Dragon burst from her flesh. She beat a path up towards the clouds just as Xavier dipped beneath them with an excited whinny. I quickly raised my Atlas and snapped a picture of the two of them dancing through the sky before I took a running jump out of the window too. My wings burst to life at my back and I flew hard and fast along the drive until I soared over the gates, beyond the anti-stardust wards where I landed quickly, my boots skidding in the gravel. I grabbed the stardust from my pocket and winked at the startled guards half a second before I tossed it over my head and the stars whisked me back to the academy. I stumbled as they deposited me and suddenly strong arms locked around my chest from behind, making me scream in surprise. A hand slapped over my mouth and I stilled for a moment as the scent of smoke and cedar overwhelmed me. Darius dragged me back through the hole in the wards, pulled me through the fence and shoved me up against a huge tree at the edge of campus before he took his hand from my mouth. His hands landed either side of my head as he penned me in, glaring down at me with an angry as fuck Dragon peering out of his eyes, his pupils transformed into reptilian slits and a hint of smoke slipped between his lips. He was only wearing sweatpants and I got the impression he’d flown here to ambush me the moment I returned. I guess he didn’t like my FaeBook post. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he demanded. “Whoa, chill out dude,” I said, pressing my hands to his chest to push him back. He didn’t move a single inch and I just ended up with my hands pressed to his rock hard muscles, his heart pounding frantically beneath my right palm. “Do you know what you’ve done?” Darius snarled. “Father could kill Xavier for this! He could-” “He won’t,” I snapped angrily. “He can’t. Don’t you see that? The only power he held over Xavier was in keeping his real Order form a secret. Now everyone knows, he’s free. Killing him wouldn’t change the truth. And he can’t very well alienate every Pegasus in Solaria by making his Orderist bullshit public knowledge. He’ll have to let Xavier leave the house, join a herd, fly.” Darius was staring at me like he didn’t know whether to kill me or kiss me and as my gaze fell on his mouth, I found myself aching for the latter. Fuck the stars. (Tory POV)

You want a doughnut?" I held the plate out to them, and Middle Kipling's face flickered with rage for what I was pretty certain was the first time I'd ever seen any emotion on it. "You can keep your carb filled whores, thank you very much," he bit out before turning sharply and stalking from the room. "He's not a fan of food with holes," Kipling Senior commented like he was discussing the weather. "Too provocative," Junior agreed. "Practically begging for it," Senior said with a nod. "Especially if there's a glazed topping." Junior nodded at the doughnuts and the two of them turned and walked away without another word, leaving me to spit my fucking doughnut out with a shudder.

Once upon a time, I had Amma to thank for my love of storytelling, but now she’s become the reason I guard my hopes so deep inside my chest, where a callous comment can’t blow them away like a stolen wish on dandelion fluff.

I know how important it is for you to be a good therapist, so when you make stupid comments like that, I usually thank you profusely. After all, I am an incest survivor—I was trained to take care of the needs of grown-up, insecure men. But after two years I trust you enough to tell you that those comments make me feel terrible. Yes, it’s true; I instinctively blame myself for everything bad that happens to the people around me. I know that isn’t rational, and I feel really dumb for feeling this way, but I do. When you try to talk me into being more reasonable I only feel even more lonely and isolated—and it confirms the feeling that nobody in the whole world will ever understand what it feels like to be me.

I don’t know how to swim,” I said as we walked onto the back deck where the pool awaited. “I’ll teach you,” Bailey said, smiling over her shoulder. “First, I need to clean out some of the gunk from the storm.” After scooping up dead leaves and bugs until the pool looked pristine, Bailey jumped into the pool. “There’s a secret to swimming,” she said, giving me a wink. Tossing off my shirt, I didn’t think about how much I hated to go shirtless outside of the cage. I just walked into the water and returned her bright smile. “What’s the secret?” “Friction.” Before I could ask, Bailey slid her wet body against mine. “Lots of friction,” she murmured, grinning wildly. The moment my hands went to her ass, her legs wrapped around my waist. “I feel like I might drown. More friction might be necessary.” When I nibbled at her shoulder, she went soft in my arms. Getting cocky, I tugged at the strap of her bikini with my teeth. “Shit,” she muttered and I knew we had company. Glancing back, I found Kirk watching us while Sawyer gnawed at an ice cream. “Screwing my daughter in the pool,” he said, exhaling cigarette smoke. “I like a man with balls.” Bailey frowned. “We’re not screwing.” To ensure the moment was truly awkward, Bailey slid her hands up and down my chest. Nothing made a guy piss his pants like having his nutty girlfriend feel him up in front of her scary dad. “We’re going out to Longhorn’s for dinner tomorrow night. Brass Balls can come with us.” “Thanks, Pop,” Bailey said, grinning like her hands weren’t on my ass. “We’re grilling and your brothers are here.” Sawyer grinned at me then Bailey. “A man should die with a full stomach.” Snorting at his kid’s comment, Kirk took her hand then walked away. Bailey watched them leave then looked at me. “I was going to fuck you in the pool,” she whispered. “You’re going to get me killed.

It wasn’t until he turned that she saw him, a huge, towering man close enough to hear everything they were saying. She gasped, and Beckett laughed. “Don’t scare her to death!” He pulled Candy over to the man in the shadows, smiling. “This is my security detail. Mouse, meet Candy Cox.” Mouse nodded. “Hey, Candy.” He stepped forward, and she noticed he was younger than she’d initially thought. His voice was high and squeaky. He made no comment about her name, and that made her like him. Beckett slapped Mouse on the arm but missed the look of pure devotion on the man’s face because he’d turned back to speak to her. “If you ever see this dude around, know I sent him. He’s safe.” Candy held out her hand formally, like her family had ingrained in her. Mouse took it and gave her a gentle smile. “Thanks, Mouse. Nice to meet you.” He nodded and stepped back, scanning the area.

After parking in the west lot, far from a certain gang member with a reputation that could scare off even the toughest Fairfield football players, Sierra and I walk up the front steps of Fairfield High. Unfortunately, Alex Fuentes and the rest of his gang friends are hanging by the front doors. “Walk right past them,” Sierra mutters. “Whatever you do, don’t look in their eyes.” It’s pretty hard not to when Alex Fuentes steps right in front of me and blocks my path. What’s that prayer you’re supposed to say right before you know you’re going to die? “You’re a lousy driver,” Alex says with his slight Latino accent and full-blown-I-AM-THE-MAN stance. The guy might look like an Abercrombie mode with his ripped bod and flawless face, but his picture is more likely to be taken for a mug shot. The kids from the north side don’t really mix with kids from the south side. It’s not that we think we’re better than them, we’re just different. We’ve grown up in the same town, but on totally opposite sides. We live in big houses on Lake Michigan and they live next to the train tracks. We look, talk, act, and dress different. I’m not saying it’s good or bad; it’s just the way it is in Fairfield. And, to be honest, most of the south side girls treat me like Carmen Sanchez does…they hate me because of who I am. Or, rather, who they think I am. Alex’s gaze slowly moves down my body, traveling the length of me before moving back up. It’s not the first time a guy has checked me out, it’s just that I never had a guy like Alex do it so blatantly…and so up-close. I can feel my face getting hot. “Next time, watch where you’re goin’,” he says, his voice cool and controlled. He’s trying to bully me. He’s a pro at this. I won’t let him get to me and win his little game of intimidation, even if my stomach feels like I’m doing one hundred cartwheels in a row. I square my shoulders and sneer at him, the same sneer I use to push people away. “Thanks for the tip.” “If you ever need a real man to teach you how to drive, I can give you lessons.” Catcalls and whistles from his buddies set my blood boiling. “If you were a real man, you’d open the door for me instead of blocking my way,” I say, admiring my own comeback even as my knees threaten to buckle. Alex steps back, pulls the door open, and bows like he’s my butler. He’s totally mocking me, he knows it and I know it. Everyone knows it. I catch a glimpse of Sierra, still desperately searching for nothing in her purse. She’s clueless. “Get a life,” I tell him. “Like yours? Cabróna, let me tell you somethin’,” Alex says harshly. “Your life isn’t reality, it’s fake. Just like you.” “It’s better than living my life as a loser,” I lash out, hoping my words sting as much as his words did. “Just like you.” Grabbing Sierra’s arm, I pull her toward the open door. Catcalls and comments follow us as we walk into the school. I finally let out the breath I must have been holding, then turn to Sierra. My best friend is staring at me, all bug-eyed. “Holy shit, Brit! You got a death wish or something?” “What gives Alex Fuentes the right to bully everyone in his path?” “Uh, maybe the gun he has hidden in his pants or the gang colors he wears,” Sierra says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “He’s not stupid enough to carry a gun to school,” I reason. “And I refuse to be bullied, by him or anyone else.

She shielded her eyes from the sun, her truck keys dangling down the back of her free hand, as Cooper lowered the passenger window and leaned forward so he could see her. “G’day, Starfish. Need a lift?” She needed a lot of things. Hot coffee, sisters who weren’t nosy, a clear vision about what should be next on her life agenda. Being inside a small, sporty vehicle, trapped mere inches from Cooper Jax, even for the short ride down to Half Moon Harbor? That she definitely did not need. “I’m good, thanks. And can we retire the nickname? Please?” He’d begun calling her that after she’d regaled him with a steady string of childhood stories of life lived by the sea, and he’d commented that she seemed too big a fish for such a small pond. A starfish, as it were. She’d rolled her eyes at the very bad pun, but the nickname had stuck. Aussies were big on nicknames. And the honest truth of it was, she hadn’t minded hearing him call her that, even though it had been a joke, delivered as a ribbing, not an endearment. Now? Now she wasn’t sure how he meant it, or what it made her feel when he said it. Better to just bury it right, Ker? Like you do everything that makes you uncomfortable. She really needed to find a way to strangle her little voice. “I’ve got a meeting,” she went on, not giving him a chance to respond. He nodded to the basket in her arms. “Yes, I can see that. Demanding lot, laundry.” She glanced down, then back at him. “No, with my sisters. About Fiona’s wedding.” “Yes, I heard about it.” She didn’t ask how he could possible know that, or who he’d been talking to this time, because any person in town could have brought him up to speed on the goings-on about pretty much any person he wanted to know about. The downside to being home. One of the great things about being a wanderer was that folks only knew whatever parts of her story she opted to share with them. Cooper, she realized now, had already known more than pretty much anyone she’d met in her travels up to that point. God only knows what he’d learned in the twenty-four hours he’d been in the Cove. She didn’t want to examine how that made her feel either. “Three McCrae weddings in less than a year,” he commented, as if casually discussing the weather. Then he grinned. “Is it catching?

Mr. Kenton told me about the kiss you shared with Everett. The poor man was completely baffled about how to handle the situation, although he did mention something about a bat being involved, and not the type of bat that flies through the air at night.” Millie’s lips curved into a grin as she looked to Mr. Kenton, who smiled back and sent her a wink. Looking around the backyard, she was about to thank everyone for coming such a long way when Everett and the children reappeared, the children grinning from ear to ear and Everett looking rather . . . determined. He strode across the lawn and came to stop directly in front of her, silence descending as he took hold of her hand. Giving that hand a little squeeze, he smiled. “I was not comfortable saying anything until getting the approval of the children, but now that that has been fulfilled . . .” He dropped to his knees, but then, surprisingly enough, frowned. “Good heavens. This isn’t right. I don’t have a—” “I have one right here, darling.” Dorothy hurried up, pressed a small box into Everett’s hand, muttered something about it being a family heirloom, and then sent Millie a rather misty smile before she hurried back to Fletcher’s side. “You may continue.” “Thank you, Mother.” Everett looked up and smiled at Millie. “Where was I?” “You were getting ready to ask Miss Millie to marry you,” Thaddeus called. “Yes, quite right, thank you, Thaddeus.” Swallowing a laugh, Millie bit her lip as Everett grinned, but then he sobered a second later. “Miss Millie Longfellow, I know we’ve had our differences, and I know I’ve been a complete idiot with you, but as the esteemed Mr. Darcy said, or said something like this—through the pen of Jane Austen, of course—you are my reason for living, and I’d be beyond honored if you’d agree to become my wife.” “That’s not what Jane Austen wrote in her book,” Lucetta called. “Not even close.” “And you forgot to tell her you love her,” Elizabeth added. Everett turned and arched a brow at Lucetta. “I understand you have this gift for memorization, but honestly . . .” He directed his attention to Elizabeth next. “And as for your comment, I thought the whole ‘you are my reason for living’ covered that.” Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not the same.” Sending Elizabeth a wink, Everett looked back up at Millie and smiled. “Well, there you have it. So I suppose all that’s left for me to say is . . . I love you.” With knees that were distinctly wobbly and a heart that felt ready to burst, Millie smiled back at him. “I love you too.” “And you’ll marry me?” “Of course.” Slipping the ring Dorothy had provided over Millie’s finger, Everett rose to his feet. Pulling Millie close to him, he smiled at the crowd watching them so intently, and then . . . he kissed her.

Um—let me split the check. I have money.” “I know. Eighty dollars.” He dug into his eggs. “Really, I’d like to pay my share,” she said. He lifted a sausage patty off his plate and slid it onto hers. “Forget it, I’ve got it. Try this, it’s the best sausage patty you’ll ever taste.” “You obviously need a lot of fuel to do what you do,” she commented. Then she tasted the patty. “Hmm, right. You’re so right.” He plunged his fork into the large biscuit and gravy and held it out to her. “Here. This is even better.” For a second she was still. He was feeding her right off his fork? Then before the mood could drift away, she leaned toward that fork and sampled the biscuit and gravy. She hummed in agreement, let her eyes drop closed in appreciation and when she opened them, he was smiling happily. There was something so intimate, so generous about that simple gesture, it touched her heart. “I knew you’d like it. I can never finish everything. Help yourself.” “Thank you, Ian,” she said quietly. *

Let’s have a bet, then. If I’m right, you kiss me,” he says. “And if I’m right?” “Name it.” It’s like taking candy from a baby. Mr. Macho Guy’s ego is about to be taken down a notch, and I’m all too happy to be the one to do it. “If I win you take me and the class project seriously,” I tell him. “No teasing me, no making ridiculous comments.” “Deal. I’d feel terrible if I didn’t tell you I have a photographic memory.” “Alex, I’d feel terrible if I didn’t tell you I copied the info straight from the book.” I look at the research I’d done, then flip open to the corresponding page in my chem book. “Without looking, what does it need to be cooled at?” I ask. Alex is a guy who thrives on challenges. But this time the tough guy is going to lose. He closes his own book and stares at me, his jaw set. “Twenty degrees. And it needs to be dissolved at one hundred degrees, not seventy,” he answers confidently. I scan the page, then my notes. Then back at the page again. I can’t be wrong. Which page did I--“Oh, yeah. One hundred degrees.” I look up at him in complete shock. “You’re right.” “You gonna kiss me now, or later?” “Right now,” I say, which I can tell shocks him because his hands go still. At home, my life is dictated by my mom and dad. At school, it’s different. I need to keep it that way, because if I have no control in every aspect of my life I might as well be a mannequin. “Really?” he asks. “Yeah.” I take one of his hands in mine. I’d never be this bold if we had an audience, and am thankful for the privacy of the nonfiction titles surrounding us. His breathing slows as I sit up on my knees and lean into him. I’m ignoring the fact that his fingers are long and rough and that I’ve never actually touched him before. I’m nervous. I shouldn’t be, though. I’m the one in control this time. I can feel him restraining himself. He’s letting me make the move, which is a good thing. I’m afraid of what this boy would do if he let loose. I place his hand against my cheek so it cups my face and I hear him groan. I want to smile because his reaction proves I have the power. He’s unmoving as our eyes meet. Time stops again. Then I turn my head into his hand and kiss the inside of his palm. “There, I kissed you,” I say, giving him back his hand and ending the game. Mr. Latino with the big ego got bested by a ditzy, blond bimbo.

Winnie, may I cut yours for you?” The question hung in the air just as Winnie reached for her tart with her fingers. “Bronwyn?” Miss Farnum’s voice was perfectly polite. “His lordship has offered to cut up that delicious tart for you.” The child sighed mightily but nodded. “Yes, please.” She watched, eyes near crossed with anticipation, as the earl cut hers into small pieces, then slid the plate to her. “Thank you.” “Go ahead. Mind you don’t choke, lest I have to turn you upside down and whack at you to save your scrawny neck.” Miss Farnum looked like she’d take great exception to his comment, but when Winnie only picked up her fork and began taking dainty bites, the lady held her peace. “I

Winnie, may I cut yours for you?” The question hung in the air just as Winnie reached for her tart with her fingers. “Bronwyn?” Miss Farnum’s voice was perfectly polite. “His lordship has offered to cut up that delicious tart for you.” The child sighed mightily but nodded. “Yes, please.” She watched, eyes near crossed with anticipation, as the earl cut hers into small pieces, then slid the plate to her. “Thank you.” “Go ahead. Mind you don’t choke, lest I have to turn you upside down and whack at you to save your scrawny neck.” Miss Farnum looked like she’d take great exception to his comment, but when Winnie only picked up her fork and began taking dainty bites, the lady held her peace. “I take it you are a neighbor, Miss Farnum?” “I am,” she said, regarding her tart rather than her host. “Shall I cut yours, too, madam?” The earl lifted an eyebrow when she blinked at him. Rustics were an odd lot, and women left to rusticate too long were the oddest of all. She wasn’t old by any means, but her expressions and mannerisms were old. Careful, as if she expected to be unpleasantly surprised at any moment. “Thank you no, my lord.

Thank you for your compliments. I’m happy I had the opportunity to pass on my mentorship skills to someone like you, and in turn you are able to help others. Do you remember that one of “E.R.O.S.” dictums is for its members to pass the mentorship baton to the next generation of initiates? I’m gratified that I’ve done my part to honor this adage. That said I’m looking forward to hearing more about Bernard. How did he cope after you returned to London? Did his parents approve of your mentorship to their son? I’m looking forward to your next correspondence. Please send my regards to your significant other. Are the both of you married? Maybe, I will have a fortuitous blessing to court you again (joking). Please tell Walter not to take offence to this comment. I will never imperil both your relationships. I am happy when you are happy. Remember the passages I quoted you from The Art of Loving by Erich Fromm when we were young and so in love? Well, my sweet Eros, until I hear from you. Stay happy and love unceasingly. Your ex-Valet and lover, Andy.

Christmas Day 2012 Continuation of my Message to Andy (part 2)   After the evening’s ‘Kumbayah’ singalong at the OBSS camp, we had some alone time before returning to our respective tents for a good night’s sleep, fresh and ready for the following day’s Outward Bound events.               Just as I was ready to garner some quality time to myself, Jules asked, “How are you feeling, Young?”               “I’m good sir, and you?” I answered.               “Care for a stroll with me?” “Sure. I was about to find a quiet spot to contemplate,” I said.               “What are you contemplating?”               “Oh. This, that and the other,” I remarked nonchalantly.               “Is something bothering you?” he pressed.               I looked at him for a brief second. “Maybe there’s something that’s bothering you?” I countered.               He went silent, thinking of an appropriate parry. “Err, err… there is nothing bothering me. I’m concerned about your recovery… from the swimming incident.”               “I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.”               Silence followed, before the instructor muttered, “Shall we walk? I’d like to get to know you better.”               We headed away from the camp, but remained silent. When out of earshot, Jules began, “You are different from the other boys at the camp.”               “How so?”               “You are mature beyond you age,” he opined. “Most of the boys who come to OBSS lack social and human relationship skills. But you… you seem to know a lot more than meets the eye.”               The Caucasian was inveigling me to confide in him.               “I learned the art of social conversation and human relationships at my English boarding school.”               “It must be an excellent school,” he declared.               “It sure is. I learned a lot of invaluable skills, not taught in regular classes,” I commented sportively.               Jules pressed, “What exactly did they teach you?”               “Oh, I’d rather show than tell,” I teased. “Would you like me to demonstrate?

Let's have a bet, then. If I'm right, you kiss me," he says. "And if I'm right?" "Name it." It's like taking candy from a baby. Mr. Macho Guy's ego is about to be taken down a notch, and I'm all too happy to be the one to do it. "If I win you take me and the class project seriously," I tell him. "No teasing me, no making ridiculous comments." "Deal. I'd feel terrible if I didn't tell you I have a photographic memory." "Alex, I'd feel terrible if I didn't tell you I copied the info straight from the book." I look at the research I'd done, then flip open to the corresponding page in my chem book. "Without looking, what does it need to be cooled at?" I ask. Alex is a guy who thrives on challenges. But this time the tough guy is going to lose. He closes his own book and stares at me, his jaw set. "Twenty degrees. And it needs to be dissolved at one hundred degrees, not seventy," he answers confidently. I scan the page, then my notes. Then back at the page again. I can't be wrong. Which page did I- "Oh, yeah. One hundred degrees." I look up at him in complete shock. "You're right." "You gonna kiss me now, or later?" "Right now," I say, which I can tell shocks him because his hands go still. At home, my life is dictated by my mom and dad. At school, it's different. I need to keep it that way, because if I have no control in every aspect of my life I might as well be a mannequin. "Really?" he asks. "Yeah." I take one of his hands in mine. I'd never be this bold if we had an audience, and am thankful for the privacy of the nonfiction titles surrounding us. His breathing slows as I sit up on my knees and lean into him. I'm ignoring the fact that his fingers are long and rough and that I've never actually touched him before. I'm nervous. I shouldn't be, though. I'm the one in control this time. I can feel him restraining himself. He's letting me make the move, which is a good thing. I'm afraid of what this boy would do if he let loose. I place his hand against my cheek so it cups my face and I hear him groan. I want to smile because his reaction proves I have the power. He's unmoving as our eyes meet. Time stops again. Then I turn my head into his hand and kiss the inside of his palm. "There, I kissed you," I say, giving him back his hand and ending the game. Mr. Latino with the big ego got bested by a ditzy, blond bimbo.

Not leaving so soon, are you?” he asked when he reached her. “Lord Carrington was in pursuit,” she said. He nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. “And you ran like a rabbit.” “Like a jackrabbit,” she agreed, smiling. “How did you know it was me?” He touched a curl hanging to her shoulder. “No one else has hair like that.” His comment brought her pleasure. “Thank you. I think.” She smiled up into his face. He put her hand on his arm and turned back toward the ballroom. “It’s necessary for us to face our fears. I promise to protect you.” “How easy for you to say,” she said. “You aren’t out of your element like I am mine. I don’t even know how to dance.” “We can remedy that.” He laid his right hand on top of hers, where it rested on his left arm. “I’m not the best dancer in the world, but I can waltz without breaking your toes.” “I can’t give you the same promise,” she said. “You’ll be risking your feet if you dance with me.” “I do believe it would be worth it,” he said, leading her back into the crowd.

Thanks to Obamacare, millions of Americans can visit a doctor’s office and see what a print magazine actually looks like.

At 9.03 pm on June 21, 1982 Diana produced the son and heir which was cause for national rejoicing. When the Queen came to visit her grandchild the following day her comment was typical. As she looked at the tiny bundle she said drily: “Thank goodness he hasn’t got ears like his father.” The second in line to the throne was still known officially as “Baby Wales” and it took the couple several days of discussion before they arrived at a name. Prince Charles admitted as much: “We’ve thought of one or two. There’s a bit of an argument about it, but we’ll find one eventually.” Charles wanted to call his first son “Arthur” and his second “Albert”, after Queen Victoria’s consort. William and Harry were Diana’s choices while her husband’s preferences were taken into account in their children’s middle names.

Why me?” I ask him. He looks up at me, but only for a second. He goes quickly back to his icing. “Why not you?” “I’m not like them,” I point out. “Thank God for that,” he murmurs. “No, I mean I’m not at all like them.” “Who’s the them we’re talking about? Cheerleaders?” “Well…yeah.” I look down and am immediately mortified to find that I’ve completely cleaned my plate. “I dated the cheerleader because she was nice. Not because she was petite. Personally, I’d whole lot rather kiss a chick your size.” I drop my fork and it clatters loudly onto the plate. Did he really just talk about my height? Right in front of me? “I don’t have to wrench my neck to kiss you. Short petite chicks make big guys like me feel like Neanderthals. I always worry I’m going to break them.” Whereas with me, he’d have to worry about the opposite. “I want a girl I can hold on to. With a rear end, and tits.” His face goes rosy again. “But that’s just me.” I’m trying to process his comments. “Rear end and tits,” I whisper to myself. “Rear end and tits,” he says again. “Why are you so surprised?” “It’s just…not…what I’m used to.” “What

Valerie, do you have a coffee?” Anders asked as he retrieved plates from the cupboard. “No. It only finished dripping just before you came in,” she answered, turning the last two pancakes. “I haven’t had a chance to grab one.” He didn’t comment, but a moment later set a fresh cup of coffee down beside her. “Thank you,” Valerie murmured and picked it up to take a tentative sip. Her eyes widened as she tasted it. “Cream and one sugar, right?” Anders asked uncertainly when he noted her expression. “Yes,” she said quietly. “It’s good. I was just surprised you remembered how I ordered it yesterday.” “I was driving. I ordered it for you,” he pointed out. “Yes, but you had to order five different coffees. I’m just surprised you remembered how I take mine.” “I made a mental note of it,” Anders said simply as he moved away. Valerie stared after him as he retrieved maple syrup for the pancakes, and ketchup for the sausages under Leigh’s instruction. He’d made a mental note of how she liked her coffee. What did that mean? Why had he gone to the trouble? For her? Did that mean he liked her? Was he interested in her?

I was wondering,” she began as if the argument hadn’t happened. “If I went to buy the new bedding, would you pick out the mattress? It would save time.” “Huh?” His eyebrows went up. “I don’t need to test it,” she said hastily. “Well, I’m not going to be sleeping on it.” Kenzie didn’t respond directly to his faintly mocking comment. “Let me explain. You’re a guy. You don’t know what it’s like to lie down on a mattress with a store salesman grinning at you.” Linc could see her point. It was all too easy to imagine her stretched out on a satin-topped, brand-new double. Fully clothed, of course. But even so. “It’s on Norm.” She reached into her pocket for a handful of hundreds. “Just get whatever mattress seems reasonable, so long as it’s in stock and they can deliver it today.” His arms uncrossed but he didn’t take the money. “Did I say yes to this? I don’t think I did.” “Please, Linc.” He studied her, making her wait. The room was nothing to write home about but she seemed happy here and, all of a sudden, a lot less tense, judging by her body language. He gave in. “All right.” Claws retracted, Kenzie patted his cheek. “Thank you so much.” A while later, he was tying a plastic-wrapped mattress to the top of his car.

FROM: VJ CAPELLO DATE: APRIL 20 TO: VIVIAN JANE COHEN SUBJECT: THANK YOU Vivian Jane, I appreciate you defending me to Alex, although it’s hardly necessary. I only hope I can justify your faith in me with my performance on the field. Your emails have been a welcome distraction from the fact that I am now 0-3 on the season. I don’t think you understand your own gifts sometimes. I am also glad to hear you’re spending time with Alex outside of games and practice. His sister sounds like a real character, but possibly a friend for you as well. I wouldn’t get too bothered by her comments about you and Alex. Friends are most excellent. Now I really must go watch some videos before my next start. The team hasn’t been playing great lately, and I need to fix things. Hoping both of our knuckleballs knuckle, VJ FROM: VIVIAN JANE COHEN DATE: APRIL 22 TO: VJ CAPELLO SUBJECT: FINE-NESS VJ, Well, of course I am going to defend you to Alex!

We are like football announcers constantly commenting on the game, while at the same time believing that the game is happening thanks to our commentary.

There was a silence, and then Tuppence burst out: ‘Money, money, money! I think about money morning, noon and night! I dare say it’s mercenary of me, but there it is!’ ‘Same here,’ agreed Tommy with feeling. ‘I’ve thought over every imaginable way of getting it too,’ continued Tuppence. ‘There are only three! To be left it, to marry it, or to make it. First is ruled out. I haven’t got any rich elderly relatives. Any relatives I have are in homes for decayed gentlewomen! I always help old ladies over crossings, and pick up parcels for old gentlemen, in case they should turn out to be eccentric millionaires. But not one of them has ever asked me my name—and quite a lot never said “Thank you.”’ There was a pause. ‘Of course,’ resumed Tuppence, ‘marriage is my best chance. I made up my mind to marry money when I was quite young. Any thinking girl would! I’m not sentimental, you know.’ She paused. ‘Come now, you can’t say I’m sentimental,’ she added sharply. ‘Certainly not,’ agreed Tommy hastily. ‘No one would ever think of sentiment in connection with you.’ ‘That’s not very polite,’ replied Tuppence. ‘But I dare say you mean it all right. Well, there it is! I’m ready and willing—but I never meet any rich men! All the boys I know are about as hard up as I am.’ ‘What about the general?’ inquired Tommy. ‘I fancy he keeps a bicycle shop in time of peace,’ explained Tuppence. ‘No, there it is! Now you could marry a rich girl.’ ‘I’m like you. I don’t know any.’ ‘That doesn’t matter. You can always get to know one. Now, if I see a man in a fur coat come out of the Ritz I can’t rush up to him and say: “Look here, you’re rich. I’d like to know you.”’ ‘Do you suggest that I should do that to a similarly garbed female?’ ‘Don’t be silly. You tread on her foot, or pick up her handkerchief, or something like that. If she thinks you want to know her she’s flattered, and will manage it for you somehow.’ ‘You overrate my manly charms,’ murmured Tommy. ‘On the other hand,’ proceeded Tuppence, ‘my millionaire would probably run for his life! No—marriage is fraught with difficulties. Remains—to make money!’ ‘We’ve tried that, and failed,’ Tommy reminded her. ‘We’ve tried all the orthodox ways, yes. But suppose we try the unorthodox. Tommy, let’s be adventurers!’ ‘Certainly,’ replied Tommy cheerfully. ‘How do we begin?’ ‘That’s the difficulty. If we could make ourselves known, people might hire us to commit crimes for them.’ ‘Delightful,’ commented Tommy. ‘Especially coming from a clergyman’s daughter!’ ‘The moral guilt,’ Tuppence pointed out, ‘would be theirs—not mine. You must admit that there’s a difference between stealing a diamond necklace for yourself and being hired to steal it.’ ‘There wouldn’t be the least difference if you were caught!’ ‘Perhaps not. But I shouldn’t be caught. I’m so clever.’ ‘Modesty always was your besetting sin,’ remarked Tommy. ‘Don’t rag. Look here, Tommy, shall we really? Shall we form a business partnership?’ ‘Form a company for the stealing of diamond necklaces?’ ‘That was only an illustration. Let’s have a—what do you call it in book-keeping?’ ‘Don’t know. Never did any.’ ‘I have—but I always got mixed up, and used to put credit entries on the debit side, and vice versa—so they fired me out. Oh, I know—a joint venture! It struck me as such a romantic phrase to come across in the middle of musty old figures. It’s got an Elizabethan flavour about it—makes one think of galleons and doubloons. A joint venture!’ ‘Trading under the name of the Young Adventurers, Ltd.? Is that your idea, Tuppence?’ ‘It’s all very well to laugh, but I feel there might be something in it.

But when I do get a note back, I’m thrilled. It’s like an espresso buzz times ten. Today I got an email from an engineer at GrainPro, which makes a specialty plastic bag that keeps the beans fresh during shipping. He wrote a couple of paragraphs, ending with “on behalf of my proud colleagues in GrainPro, I thank you for your great comments that have made us joyous.” Joyous no less!

you want to further understanding of systemic racism even more among the people you interact with, you can try to link to the systemic effects of racism whenever you talk about racism. Instead of posting on Facebook: “This teacher shouted a racial slur at a Hispanic kid and should be fired!” you can say all that, and then add, “This behavior is linked to the increased suspension, expulsion, and detention of Hispanic youth in our schools and sets an example of behavior for the children witnessing this teacher’s racism that will influence the way these children are treated by their peers, and how they are treated as adults.” I do this often when I’m talking about racism, and pretty regularly somebody will comment with something like, “That’s an aspect of this situation I hadn’t considered, thank you.

When I intervened to reassure her, saying, “Come on, you were just a little girl—it was your father’s responsibility to maintain the boundaries,” Kathy turned toward me. “You know, Bessel,” she said, “I know how important it is for you to be a good therapist, so when you make stupid comments like that, I usually thank you profusely. After all, I am an incest survivor—I was trained to take care of the needs of grown-up, insecure men. But after two years I trust you enough to tell you that those comments make me feel terrible. Yes, it’s true; I instinctively blame myself for everything bad that happens to the people around me. I know that isn’t rational, and I feel really dumb for feeling this way, but I do. When you try to talk me into being more reasonable I only feel even more lonely and isolated—and it confirms the feeling that nobody in the whole world will ever understand what it feels like to be me.

Trump to thank Root for making highly questionable—bordering on blasphemous—comments, asserting that the American president is like “the king of Israel” and the “second coming of God,” should concern earnest Jews and Christians alike. Could this be a prophetic sign to the intercessors and watchmen, directing us to once again make the pride and arrogance of President Donald Trump a focus of our prayers? And is God orchestrating events

Thanks to these imaginative arrangements and the interplay of seasoned, eclectic, open-minded, professional musicians who could step from a full-blown jazz session to a pop or folk context with practised ease, British folk-rock was aerated with a looseness that carried it beyond its one-man-and-a-guitar roots. ‘I think those kind of musicians at the time were the most flexible,’ commented Cameron many years later. ‘The early rock musicians were sometimes not as flexible as they should be. The classical musicians were totally inflexible, so you needed someone with a large amount of musicality but who could think on their feet. People like Danny Thompson, of course, came into their own. Danny was one of the first of those musicians who said, “I don’t want any boundaries, I’ll play what I damn well like,” and it was those kind of musicians who were great to use.

It’s the cats who trained with the Dark Forest who are fighting hardest, Crowfeather realized. They’re throwing themselves into the worst of the battle. As he looked around, Crowfeather’s heart swelled with pride as he saw his Clanmates, who had suffered so much suspicion after the mistake they’d made, showing their loyalty by risking their lives for their Clan. At the same time, rage against the stoats gave him new strength and energy. A stoat rushed at him, rearing up to attack him with both forepaws. Crowfeather ducked underneath its forelegs, and as the stoat landed, he spun around to fasten his teeth in its throat. He pinned it to the ground, his paws gripping it determinedly until he felt a warm rush of blood; the stoat went limp and he tossed it aside. Looking up, he found himself staring into the face of Nightcloud. “Neat kill,” she commented. “Leave some for the rest of us, won’t you?” As she spoke, a stoat dived for her, leaping up to land on her back. But before it could get a firm grip on her, Crowfeather lashed out with one forepaw, knocking it to the ground. Nightcloud sank her claws into its throat; the stoat twitched and lay still. She gave Crowfeather a nod of gratitude before turning back to the battle. Crowfeather and Nightcloud fought together, standing tail to tail as they turned in a circle, paws striking out at the endless surge of stoats. As soon as they killed or injured one, another would take its place. The white bodies, the small, malignant eyes and snarling fangs, seemed to Crowfeather like something out of a nightmare. He could only go on struggling, grateful for Nightcloud’s steady presence beside him. Then pain exploded in Crowfeather’s shoulder. He turned his head to see a stoat gripping him with its claws, while a splash of drool on his muzzle warned him it was going for his throat. Crowfeather couldn’t shake it off; he dropped to the ground, buying time, but the pressing weight of the frenzied creature made him feel there was no escape. The angle of their bodies meant that he couldn’t batter at it with his hind legs. StarClan, help me! he prayed. The stoat abruptly vanished. Crowfeather looked up to see Nightcloud holding it by the scruff, shaking it vigorously, then tossing it away into the crowd. “Thanks,” Crowfeather gasped, scrambling to his paws. “Anytime,” Nightcloud responded. They turned as one to attack two other stoats that dived in from opposite directions. Even while his body remembered his battle moves, Crowfeather could reflect on how well he and Nightcloud fought together, how well they knew each other. We may not be in love, but we make a fierce team on the battlefield. I know she’ll fight ferociously for me, and for all her Clanmates. Crowfeather’s reflections were interrupted by a screech of pain. Glancing over his shoulder he saw Lionblaze fall, the golden tabby warrior overwhelmed beneath a swarm of stoats. Crowfeather leaped toward him, only to run into what

Mom always taught me the best way to deal with bullies is to ignore them or stand-up to them. I decided to try a bit of both. First I just totally ignored MG’s nasty comments and I kept talking to Shelby. After about 5 minutes of ignoring MG’s little rant, I saw Shelby’s face begin to show her anger at her friend being insulted. I put my hand softly on her shoulder and said, “It’s okay, I’ll handle this.” I turned to MG and calmly said, “Thanks Bethany, I’m always ready to accept constructive criticism about my appearance from intelligent, fashionable and thoughtful people like yourself.” Bethany looked confused. Then I continued in a calm and confident voice, “But hang on, I just realized, you’re definitely not intelligent, nor thoughtful and perhaps not even fashionable, so I really couldn’t care less about your opinion.” Shelby

Contingent upon the setting of the audit, numerous entrepreneurs can cause more mischief by reacting to a negative survey than not, in particular in light of the fact that there are such countless potential snares to fall into when reacting to an irritated client. In this way, as opposed to quickly replying, make a stride back and ensure you have a methodology for reacting. Stage one is evaluating the audit. It is vital to survey the audit cautiously and carefully. A few analysts are searching for a reaction immediately on the grounds that they really need a response to a worry which they express inside their survey. These audits ought to be reacted to immediately with an answer that tends to the issue straightforwardly with an answer if there is one. Image for post The survey reaction will live everlastingly and will be seen by many individuals (not simply the commentator), so it needs to ponder emphatically the business. We suggest the accompanying structure: Say thanks to them by name for setting aside the effort to leave criticism Recognize the particular circumstance (you don’t need it to appear to be a nonexclusive reaction) Apologize for their negative insight Express that what they encountered isn’t the means by which the business works Clarify any means you will take to guarantee that no one has that experience once more Welcome them to reach you straightforwardly as you’d like a chance to make it right Give your name and an immediate telephone number and additionally email Attempt to utilize your regular voice and be certified and legit. Official-sounding PR articulations simply don’t work in survey reactions; putting on a show of being a genuine human does.

Granted, I didn’t understand most of what Reed said to Will during those three hours. For example, at one point, Reed said: “What if we were to saturate the vocals and make them extra dirty?” And I was like, Huh? Another time, Reed said, “We could turn up the flux on the Echo to around 300, playback level at zero. Let’s try that and see if it makes our balls vibrate.” It was another huh? But even without understanding the conversation, I could plainly surmise, thanks to Will’s reactions to Reed’s comments, Reed was making a powerful contribution to Will’s art.

understand the extent of my neurosis before this book, he sure as hell does now. Few authors are as lucky as I am to have an editor like Mike. He’s humble, patient, and diligent, even when I’m not. That this book was brought to you only a year after Golden Son is a miracle of his making. I doff my cap to you, my goodman. And to each and every reader, thank you. Your passion and excitement have allowed me to live my life on my own terms, and for that I am ever grateful and humbled. Your creativity, humor, and support come through in every message, tweet, and comment. Getting to meet you and hear your stories at conventions and signings is one of the perks of being an author. Thank you, Howlers, for all that you do. Hopefully we’ll have a chance to howl together soon. Once I thought that writing this book would be impossible. It was a skyscraper, massive and complete and unbearably far off. It taunted me from the horizon. But do we ever look at such buildings and assume they sprung up overnight? No. We’ve seen the traffic congestion that attends them. The skeleton of beams and girders. The swarm of builders and the rattle of cranes… Everything grand is made from a series of ugly little moments. Everything worthwhile by hours of self-doubt and days of drudgery. All the works by people you and I admire sit atop a foundation of failures.

I remember one of the few (awkward. Oh God, so, so awkward) sex-centered conversations I had with my mom. It was right before she… died, and she’d caught me checking out a guy while we waited in line at a store. She waited until we were in the car, thank God, before she said anything. I felt her worry long before she said anything. “Don’t ever… give yourself to someone you don’t trust, Meda,” Mom finally started. I’m pretty sure I had a bratty comeback regarding the euphemism “give yourself”. Probably paired with the classic snotty-shit eye roll I’d managed to perfect in my fifteen years on earth. She ignored me like the brat I was, and kept talking. “When you sleep with someone, whether you know it or not, whether you want to or not, you give them a little piece of you they can break.” I had another dismissive comment on the tip of my tongue, but there was something in her voice that stopped me. Something dark and sad. Something that scared me enough to shut the hell up and just nod. She’d turned toward me. “You may think you’re different, but you’re not.” Her eyes grew distant. “Trust me.

Well, a chaperone would protect good little me from big bad you. I choose to think that you see us on more equal footing than that.” “A nice way of saying that I have no teeth.” To her surprise, he didn’t seem offended by the notion. Lord Geoffrey, if he ever offered to take her anywhere, would more than likely make some comment that she would need a chaperone to protect her maidenly virtue from his manly rakishness. “It’s not that,” she returned. “I think you have teeth. It’s just that you also have honor.” He looked at her for a moment, the expression in his eyes growing cool again. “You’re wrong about that, but thank you.” Benjamin trotted around the

rare contentment to complete a set. I feel this sense of rare contentment every morning at this hour.” Rare? Soren thought. That was a word he knew, for his parents had told them that the family of Barn Owls to which they belonged, the Tyto Alba, had become rare, which meant there were not many of them. So how could this owlet’s contentment be rare if it happened every morning at a particular hour? “I, too, feel perfect.” Another owlet now spoke, turning toward Gylfie this time. It was nearly the same speech. At regular intervals now, the two owls turned alternately to Soren and Gylfie and gave short little reports on their states of contentment. On occasion, these reports became interspersed with comments. “25-2, for an owlet of your exceedingly tiny stature you have a fine posture as you peck.” “Thank you,” Gylfie replied, and dipped her head in what she thought was a docile manner. “You are most welcome, 25-2.” Then the owlet closest to Soren began, “12-1, your beak work is quite advanced. You work with industry and delicacy.” “Thank you,” said Soren. And then for some reason he added, “Thank you very much.” “You’re welcome. But you need not be excessively polite. It wastes energy. Politeness is its own reward—just like flecks.

Also, I’ve been meaning to explain this to you. When I show my teeth, it’s not a display of power or dominance. I’m smiling. It means I’m amused or happy.” “Truly?” That astonished him. He never would have made that connection on his own. “Would it trouble you not to clarify this to others? It makes you less imposing.” “Uh, sure. They can keep thinking it’s a scary battle face, I don’t mind.” “Thank you, Terrible One.” “What did I say about working on your endearments?” she snapped. Zylar processed the reaction, but he didn’t understand her outrage. “It is a compliment. You will behold many fearsome competitors in the Choosing, but I do not believe anyone can best you.” “It’s a cultural thing, I get that. But if you want to put a smile on my face, call me sweetheart or baby or…” She stopped talking, likely reading his horror. “Why would I comment on the delectable nature of your organs?” Zylar shuddered delicately. “It’s even worse to infantilize you.” She tilted her head. “Shit, since you put it that way, now I don’t like those options either. Then…just use my name, okay?” “Yes, Beryl. That I will do gladly.” He set off again, pleased with how readily they’d reached a sensible compromise. “What does your name mean?” “It’s a mineral found on Earth. A gemstone, to be precise. The best known types are emerald and aquamarine, but I’m honestly glad my mom didn’t get more specific.” “These gemstones are valuable, yes?” “Some of them. Why?” Ignoring the question, Zylar churred in satisfaction. “You are well named, my unexpected treasure.” “I…thanks.” She ducked her head, and the color of her cheeks shifted, darkening with what looked like it might be an injury. “Are you well enough to compete?” he asked. “We’ll find out.

about you.” It was an almost girlish statement as she walked forward, graceful in a white sari embroidered in blush pink and powder blue. “So human you look, though you wear wings,” she murmured. “Your skin must show every bruise, every wound.” Such a casual comment. Such a quiet threat. Elena answered with the truth. “Your skin is flawless.” A blink, as if she’d surprised the other angel. Then Anoushka inclined her head by the merest fraction. “I don’t think I’ve heard a compliment from another female angel for at least a hundred years.” A smile that should have been charming, and yet . . . “Will you walk with me?” “I’m afraid I’m headed to training.” She glimpsed Galen out of the corner of her eye, hoped he’d keep his distance. Right now, Anoushka did appear merely inquisitive. Any sign of aggression and things might get ugly. “Of course.” Anoushka waved her hand. “It must worry Raphael to have a mate who is so very weak.” Having the other angel at her back felt like beetles crawling over her skin. She was almost glad to fall into step beside Galen—right now, trying to protect herself from a weapons expert sounded like a far better bet than fencing with an angel who might be a true cobra. According to the rumors she’d heard, Anoushka had grown up drinking poison with her mother’s milk. A shiver skated across her body, and she was more than ready to throw herself into the gruelingly physical training. However, another one of Neha’s creations—Venom—interrupted the hand-to-hand combat session midway. The vampire had on his ubiquitous shades, his body clothed in a black on black suit. But, for once, his expression held no hint of mockery. “Come. Sara is waiting for you on the phone.” She was already walking at a fast clip beside him. “Has something happened to Zoe?” Fear for her goddaughter caught her by the throat. “You should speak to her directly.” Her wings brushed the steps as she walked up to Raphael’s office. She pulled them up instinctively, the action second nature now—thanks to having been put on her ass by Galen more than

The final page was altered to be more of a note than part of the text. Most of the actual typewritten words had been edited through with a red pencil. There was a large aside written in a flowing hand across the bottom third of the page. The words read, “Final conclusions drawn; When he is young, he asks why do people have to die? A wise older man tells him that life would be far less precious if we didn’t die someday. In his youth, he wants to go on living with the people he loves and never wants to leave them. When he is a sixty-year-old man, he is asked whether he would want to live his life again. He answers that he would prefer not to. He was happy with where his life has taken him. He likes his life and loves the people he is with. He would not want to chance that a second attempt would leave him less happy. When he is eighty-five, he decides he is old and tired and ready to die. He wants to live in order to be with those he loves, as he will miss them when he is gone. He knows they have their own journey to take and has faith that someday they will once again be together.” Beneath the text was a separate comment. In scribbled words it read, possible inscription: “Thank you Lord, for the nameless depression that endlessly haunts the recesses of my mind. Without it, I would be a far less compelling author.

The two-year-olds were standing over a pile of dirty forks and spoons, laughing hysterically. "They're okay," Claudia said. "No thanks to you," Mary Anne commented under her breath. "If you're so concerned, why don't you teach Marnie and Ryan to play Parchessi?" Claudia said, marching out of the room. "They're already making a silverware sculpture!" Mary Anne retorted. (Boy, was Mary Anne furious. She never talks like that).

Thankfully, she can’t see me roll my eyes. “I’m half Italian. He’s half Samoan.” “But they’re practically the same, aren’t they? They’re like next door neighbors.” Wyatt helplessly chuckles. “What?” “Italy and Samonily.” Her comment furrows my brow in confusion. Nate cautiously questions, “You mean Sicily?” Nadia promptly nods and gives him a playful point. “Right! That’s where Samoans are from!

I thank heaven for a man like Adolf Hitler, who built a front line of defense against the anti-Christ of Communism.” It was a throwaway comment made in an interview with the New York World-Telegram from his office at Calvary Church on Park Avenue and Twenty-first Street, and it did not reflect his wider thinking on the subject. Still, it illustrates how easily even the most serious Christians were initially taken in by Hitler’s conservative pseudo-Christian propaganda.

I hate fighting. I’m sensitive and, frankly, not good at it. If the consequence of bickering online means I’ve got to spend the afternoon feeling bad because a kid I don’t remember from high school called me a “fat-ass Kelly Price” over a Reductress article, please murder me. And if my tweets get on your goddamn nerves: BLOCK ME FIRST. Kill me with your powerful brain! There are too many places in real life where blocking is not a viable option to tolerate someone ruining your secret lives online. You can’t block the coworker who won’t stop fucking talking while loitering nearby as you’re just trying to put half-and-half in your breakroom coffee, but you can block that friend of a friend who says shit like, “I’m not prejudiced, I don’t care if a person is purple or green or blue.” LMAO, blue people???? SHUT THE FUCK UP. You can’t delete the neighbor whose eyesore of a car is parked halfway across your driveway and whose cat keeps shitting on your deck, but you can delete your cousin who earnestly believes that rap music is reverse racism and vehemently comments as much on every Kendrick Lamar video you share. There’s no mute button for the woman at the grocery store who won’t stop asking you where the shampoo is, even though you’re pushing your

When I intervened to reassure her, saying, “Come on, you were just a little girl—it was your father’s responsibility to maintain the boundaries,” Kathy turned toward me. “You know, Bessel,” she said, “I know how important it is for you to be a good therapist, so when you make stupid comments like that, I usually thank you profusely. After all, I am an incest survivor—I was trained to take care of the needs of grown-up, insecure men. But after two years I trust you enough to tell you that those comments make me feel terrible. Yes, it’s true; I instinctively blame myself for everything bad that happens to the people around me. I know that isn’t rational, and I feel really dumb for feeling this way, but I do. When you try to talk me into being more reasonable I only feel even more lonely and isolated—and it confirms the feeling that nobody in the whole world will ever understand what it feels like to be me.” I genuinely thanked her for her feedback, and I’ve tried ever since not to tell my patients that they should not feel the way they do. Kathy taught me that my responsibility goes much deeper: I have to help them reconstruct their inner map of the world.

These comments you see on the internet about DR VOKE (DOCTORVOKE@GMAIL.COM) are not just comments, they are truthful words of experience written by those who have been there and found help in reuniting with the ones they hold dear to their heart and other marital and financial problems. I can tell you this because I also asked him for help to cast a spell to fix my relationship with the only woman I have ever loved. we got married but couldn't have a baby and then I discovered my wife was barren. I had to try some spell casters but to no avail until I contacted DR VOKE. HE restored my wife's womb and just like that she got pregnant, she has given birth now and our baby is growing. Thank God for our lives and also to DR VOKE who God has used to blessed us. I know that not everybody will believe this moreover its just something on the internet but my heart knows every of this word that formed this entire comment is true. his contact is: DOCTORVOKE@GMAIL.COM

Mr Tanner rolled his eyes and pushed past Dexter. ‘Oh yes, we’ve all heard about you. The so-called “genius” with sixty-four A levels.’D142 His voice was really dreary, like a can of brown paint had somehow learned how to speak. ‘We didn’t agree with you being in that school, I must say,’ joined in Mrs Tanner, whose voice sounded more like a car alarm than a human. ‘It was unfair on the other children. You’re not normal. You should have been in a lab instead, being investigated by scientists.’ Dexter suddenly felt winded. Like he’d been hit in the chest by a football. He was working out how to reply to such a horrible comment when Toby suddenly began to cry like a baby. ‘Mummy! Daddy! Thank goodness you’re here!’ he screamed. ‘This doctor was so cruel to me! He said I deserved to be in deathly, agonizing pain forever and ever and that he hoped that my foot would fall off. Waaah!