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got
sparkling cider, too. We can pretend its champagne and toast each
other.” I figured it was better to keep alcohol out of the equation
since she wasn’t old enough to drink, and I’d nearly gotten bombed
earlier.
    “ I can’t wait.” She hopped
up and down, light on her feet in spite of her heavy boots. She
looked so bright and happy, wonderfully pleased with the
description of my surprise.
    “ I’m going to sing you a
song I wrote, too.”
    “ Is your guitar in the
arbor?”
    I nodded. “It’s an authentic 1939
Martin acoustic.” By most standards, a guitar like that would be
staggeringly expensive, but in the sphere of schizophrenia, I could
afford to own one. “The song is about a blue-eyed fae. That’s why
we made the arbor into a fairy den.”
    She sighed like a smitten
teenager, which was exactly what she was. Nineteen and Crazy . Like the country
song, only with a different interpretation.
    “ Can we go there now?” she
asked.
    “ Absolutely.” We walked
toward the center of the garden, with the moon and the stars for
company.
    As we approached the arbor, she
gasped. “Oh, Seven. It’s beautiful.”
    It was a work of art, at least to us,
anyway. No one else would be able to see it. If someone from the
staff came outside, all they would find was Abby alone in the
garden, without the idyllic trimmings.
    I tried not dwell on how truly sad
that was or how it made me ache inside. I pushed away the bad
feelings and took her hand.
    We ducked into the arbor and I said,
“The blanket is blue and trimmed in lace, and the lights are soft
pastels, just like the streamers.” I wanted her to see it exactly
the way we’d created it. We’d spent hours working on it, treating
it as if it was real. “The candles aren’t burning yet. I’ll light
them now.” I removed an old-style Bic from my pocket and flicked
it. “They’re caramel-scented candles in jeweled
decanters.”
    “ This is the most magical
place ever.” Imagination bloomed in her eyes. “I love it.” She
pressed a hand to her heart. “Everything is perfect. And the
pastries. They look delicious. Where did you get them?”
    “ From a bakery in 105.”
I’d paid for them fair and square. If I’d gotten them here, I
would’ve had to steal them. “All of the decorations came from 105,
too.”
    We sat down together, and I opened the
cider and poured it. I lifted my flute to hers. “To the most
amazing girl I’ve ever known.”
    Her glass clinked with mine. “And the
most amazing boy. You’re my beautiful musician, Seven.”
    Her compliment tugged at my heart,
reminding me that she was my beautiful muse. We would always belong
to each other in that way.
    She glanced around. “Where’s your
guitar?”
    “ Over there.” I gestured
behind us. “I covered the case in rose petals.”
    “ Oh, yes. I see. Oh, my
goodness. You thought of everything.”
    I leaned forward to kiss her, soft,
slow, and rife with passion. The caramel candles had begun scenting
the air, making the moment sweeter.
    Soon we were indulging in the
pastries, feeding each other bits of cake and pie and chocolate.
While we ate, we made sounds of pleasure. It was downright
orgasmic.
    When the time came for me to sing her
my song, my nerves kicked in. Once she heard the lyrics, she would
know for certain how tragically in love with her I was.

Chapter Eleven
     
    I dusted the rose petals
off the case and opened it, removing my prized guitar. Eric Clapton
had used one in his iconic unplugged performance of Tears from Heaven , and
somehow that seemed fitting. The fairy in my song was from
heaven.
    I played it for Abby. I sang it from
deep within my tortured soul.
    Tears rushed to her eyes. She
understood. She comprehended the message.
    She was the blue-eyed fae who sprouted
from the angels, her wings constructed from paper and glue and
glitter.
    So easily torn. So easily
damaged.
    The fairy’s smile was slightly
crooked, her hair blonde and ragged. She was afraid of