And this unicorn? She didn’t do roots. She’d made that crystal clear. She was nothing more than glitter and mayhem and impulsivity. She was temporary. Except I wasn’t thinking about the fucking unicorn. I was thinking about Chloe. I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about Chloe. If it wasn’t remembering exactly what she tasted like, it was glimpses of her with my daughter. Laughing and singing and pulling my sweet, shy, broken girl out of her shell.
