“But chilling is not a talent of mine,” I informed her seriously. “Indeed, legend says that when the tiny fairies went flying through the hospital nursery, flinging out talents to the newborn babies like Mardi Gras beads, the Chill Fairy passed directly over my crib and shook her head. She said, ‘Oh, no, sisters, I cannot bless this one.’ And do you know why, Fern?”

“I’m going to regret asking this,” she muttered, but I could hear the smile in her voice. “No, Teagan, please tell me why legend says you were not blessed by the Chill Fairy.”

“Because the fairies must pick and choose the gifts they bestow to provide balance. So the Chill Fairy said, ‘Sisters, this child has already been given a fondness for crop tops that makes a mockery of his love of sourdough. This child shall have an eidetic memory for Broadway show tunes and the vocal abilities of a cat in heat so that his friends will refuse to karaoke with him. This child—” I threw my head back, squeezed my eyes shut, and lifted both hands toward the ceiling, lost in my own vision. “—will be given an unquenchable thirst for love and be doomed to one day have his heart shredded and mangled, sacked and pillaged, burned and salted, by a man he’s devoted the best six months of his life to, until nothing remains but a desiccated husk barely useful for sustaining life and utterly incapable of nurturing romantic affection ever again. There is no room in this child for chill! Indeed, it is his very un-chill-ness that will save him!” I lowered my hands, cleared my throat, and concluded in a normal tone. “So, like, who am I to argue with the Chill Fairy?”