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Normally—I see something I want—and I go and get it. It’s how I’ve always been. It’s how I’m wired. The one exception to that rule? Elise Parrish.
“Today, tears,” she says, patting my back. “Tomorrow, we plot his murder and take over the world.”
It’s official, I’m now mortified. Beyond mortified. I actually don’t need tampons anymore because I’ve just died.

