I giggle helplessly, charmed even though I’ve witnessed greater magical feats.
Genevieve’s lips twitch with amusement. She takes a step sideways, and I automatically step with her. Another and another until we’re standing in the middle of this new place the house created for us, swaying to the sound of an old, familiar song. We’re in sync, as we’ve always been, Genevieve’s hands dropping to frame my waist as mine go up to wrap around her neck.
We’re both trembling, both unable to maintain eye-contact for more than a heartbeat. Intent smoulders between us like its a physical being.
I’m trying futilely to remind myself oftomorrow, but find myself helplessly getting rooted tonow.
“Rosemary.” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from swooning at the way she says my name—the way she’s always said it, like its a confession in and of itself. “How long have you been an oerhwu?” She asks it lightly, teasingly, her voice a low whisper. I feel the sound like hot Milo spreading deep in my belly.
I glance at her, then away, shy. “All my life,” I whisper just as lightly.
“Is it something you’re born with? A special gift only certain people get to have?”
I don’t look at her, ignoring the way my pulse skips at the word “gift”. “No, not really. Everyone has the ability to connect to the eshé.”
“Oh?”
“Think of it, in simple terms, like learning a new language. Or a new skill. It’s easier to absorb the teachings when you’re a baby. In Maraya, it’s tradition—sacred knowledge that’s passed down mostly from mother to daughter.”
Her lips quirk, drawing my gaze.
“So, all those times …” She trails off, still amused.
My pulse skitters as I think of the moments she must be referring to—times I hadn’t been able to resist using my abilities.
When she’d lost a pen. Forgotten her textbook in the hostel. Didn’t have a little extra money to buy something. Wished for extra hot water in the showers. Small “coincidences” that clearly hadn’t escaped the watchful eyes of my best friend.
“Yes,” I admit with a deliberately careless shrug.
“Magical girl,” she whispers, again in Ibiiom.
My hands tighten around her neck; hers tighten around my hips. Her hands are big. Warm. My belly hasn’t stopped dipping and rolling since we’d started swaying in the middle of our dance floor.
You need to stop, Rosemary.
You need to end this, now.
“Can’t believe you’d been keeping this little secret our entire friendship.” She’s still teasing. “I feel like maybe I should be upset.”
“Why aren’t you?” I’m being only partly serious.
All her amusement fades. “I have secrets of my own, Rosemary.”
I look away. I don’t know how to respond to that. The statement hadn’t been an invitation, so I don’t push. But I want to. Selfishly,I’mupset I don’t know everything—that she won’tgiveme anything, even though I’ve onlyjustgiven heronehidden bit of me, and only because I’d had to.
I refuse to let my petulant feelings ruin the moment, though. I’ve wanted this—yes, just this, being wrapped in her arms with unmistakable intent—for too long to let it.
“Did you also think this song was ours? Back then?” I whisper, staring at her chin because I can’t look into her eyes.
“Obviously,” she whispers back.
Strangely, my eyes burn. I shuffle infinitesimally closer, burying my face in her throat. Her breath hitches. She’sshaking, very lightly—vibrating, like she’s trying to hold her skin together. I know exactly how she feels.
I wonder if she’s going back to that night like I am. Socials had been an almost-weekly occurrence at our university, but that had been the first one we’d attended since we’d discovered our feelings—since we’d indirectly acknowledged them by not acknowledging them at all.
I remember, not unlike just now, how we’d just finished having a conversation when the song had begun. I remember how close she’d stood beside me, so close the back of her palm had brushed against mine. How we’d stared out onto the dance floor in lieu of staring at each other, and just stood and stood, barely moving, barely breathing, handsjusttouching, while Johnny Drille crooned about Romeo and Juliet with such yearning it had almost fooled me into believing the original tale had been a sweet romance, instead of a pitifully avoidable tragedy. An apt song both our subconscious had seemingly chosen to be ours.
Genevieve exhales, her breath warm against the sensitive side of my throat. On my hips, her fingers spread, almost helplessly, like she wants to touch as much of me as she humanly can. The tips end up dipping into the space between my top and skirt, brushing against the edges of my waist beads.
