Red’s grandma is world famous, being one of the few level five mages in existence. She made those cookies to help her granddaughter unlock her potential. She wasn’t aware that Red was passing the tin of cookies around to Cinder and me.
While Red immediately launched into her power, Cinder and I are left in suspense, waiting to see if we manifest powers too.
So far, zilch.
Cause magic = cool.
But inheriting a big beautiful old house from an aunt I hadn’t seen since I was fourteen is pretty dramatic too.
As soon as we enter the house, the three of us burst into coughing fits.
The smell fills my mouth and nose with choking toxicity, making my eyes water.
I jog to the front sitting room and open the windows to air the place out. Once a breeze makes the room semi-breathable, I take it all in.
A thick layer of dust covers the vintage furniture, a chandelier dips down from the ceiling, barely hanging by a wire, and it’s possible an animal might have curled up and died somewhere in here, judging by the stench.
“Sweet witchtits,” Red exclaims, covering her mouth to keep more dust particles from choking her. “When was the last time your aunt was here?”
“Not since her last marriage. He was number seven, or was it eight?” I can’t remember. A tremor of fear races through me, but I shove it down. That won’t happen to me. I’m not like my aunt.
“Eight?” Cinder’s brows rise.
“I never met any of her men. She wasn’t home often, always jet setting somewhere. I mainly got postcards with a picture from whatever cruise or trip she was on with her latest husband. At first it seemed exciting and glamorous,” I admit. “But as I got older, and she hit her fourth or fifth husband, I started to realize things probably weren’t all roses.”
Only because my mom told me that. Whenever I was envious of my aunt, mom would jump in to point out that my aunt wasn’t exactly stable. I still couldn’t help but be envious of how admired, how worshipped she was by these men. Her life was exciting and so full of fun. Or it felt that way the summer I spent with her in this house.
She might be flighty, but everyone couldn’t help but fall in love with her.
But now I understand the reality of her situation. So many attempts at love, even more failure and heartbreak. She never found her person, was never safe to fully love. Never fully loved in return.
My chest twists painfully, recognizing how my storyline paralleled hers eerily close. Falling in love constantly with places, ideas, and men, but none of them sticking.
Lawrence’s words return, pummeling the valves of my heart like a punching bag.
Vapid. Flaky.
I suck in a lungful of stale air and try not to feel the bruises form.
Granted, I hadn’t married any of my beaus, but that wasn’t for a lack of trying. Some of the guys fed me pillow talk about envisioning me in a white dress, or holding their baby one day, but when it came to any real commitment, they crumbled like pecan sandies.
If I got any more desperate or hit a certain age, I also might start collecting husbands and heartbreak like a hoarder.
Fear has me in a chokehold while my numerous broken hearts fight in my chest with jagged edges. Faelords, why does nothing work out for me?
Why can’t I find the thing I love? Why can’t I find a man to love?
And if I did, would they even love me back?
I swallow hard over my constricted throat, trying to calm myself.
But I’ve sworn off men, so I won’t end up like her, I assure myself.
Still, the fear hugs my skin like sticky molasses. All the expectations, disappointments and possibilities threaten to overwhelm me, pressing on me like a weighted blanket.
Come on, Goldie, let’s live in the moment. We are standing at the literal threshold of opportunity.
I’m here with my friends who love and support me. Life is good.
