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Maybe the intellectual construct of fate, of destiny, was just a way to frame all the shitty fucking things that happened to people. Maybe all the proverbial bad luck that rained down on the heads of essentially good folks, all that Murphy’s Law, was actually not luck at all, just the impersonal nature of chaos at work. Maybe all the disappointment and injury, the loss and alienation, the chips off the soul and the heart that were inevitable during any mortal’s tenure upon the ashes and the dust to which they were doomed to return, were not preordained or personal in the slightest. Maybe there
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Without love, even evil was unhappy.
Balz was a thief with no conscience, so lying by omission was like sneezing to the guy.
He took a moment to study her face. Word had always had it that hers was the greatest beauty in the species, and he knew this to be fact, not rumor. Ever since the first moment he had seen her at Darius’s old place—back when he’d been a human and had no idea what he was getting himself into—she had struck him stupid. Except for him, it was not her looks that created such a compelling, compulsive attraction. It was the soul behind the lovely eyes, the voice that came out of those perfect lips, the heartbeat behind the curves. Her soul was what really did it for him.
His faith was strong. His love for Marissa was even stronger. His control over destiny? Big nope on that one.
losses were as much of a currency as happiness in life. Somehow, they were noticed more, though.
The other passengers were on their phones and not because they were talking to someone on a call, their heads tilted down, their eyes locked on little screens that provided them a virtual world vitally important yet made of less than air.
It was important to feel small and insignificant when you talked to God.
“I was poor,” he said. “Not the poor where you want things you can’t have. Not the poor where you’re bitter about what other people are doing or what they own. Poor like you don’t know if you’re going to be eating at nightfall. Like you aren’t sure whether there will be clothes for you to wear. Like if you get sick, you’re going to die and you’re okay with that because all you know is how hungry and thirsty and tired you are.” “God, Syn—” When she reached over and put her hand on the sleeve of his leather jacket, he moved away sharply. “No. I’m going to get through this once and then I’m never
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You’re worthy of love. You deserve to be respected and cherished, and to get that, you don’t need to be anything different than you are. You have been created for a reason. You’re here for a reason. You have a purpose, and you have to believe that you’ll find someone who will help you in that purpose. And until that happens? All you really need to know is that you don’t have to be validated by anybody but yourself. You are enough.”
“What’s going on with you?” “I’m developing the skills necessary to be a throw rug. This requires a great degree of horizontal work and concentration.”
He had tried to call her every hour, on the hour, and failed to press send each time. He had no clue what to say to her, and now that he was standing outside her bedroom window like a stalker, he discovered that physical proximity had not improved his vocabulary.
Jo kissed him and got serious. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For what? I’ve not really done anything.” Reaching up, she traced the features she loved so much with her fingertips. “For giving me a home. A proper home.” “Well, this mansion isn’t mine—” “I’m not talking about the building we’re in.” She thought of her lonely childhood, her sense of being lost in the world even as she lived around other people. “More than the answers to who I am, I’ve been searching for a home. You are my home. You, and only you, are my shelter and my comfort.”
