“Holy shit,” Amara whispers finally. “Caroline, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think?—”
“It’s okay.” My words come out rough. “We’re fine. You heard him. We’re fine.”
She looks at me like she doesn’t believe it, eyes wide, lashes clumped with rain. Then she slams the car into gear and we peel out onto the road, tires kicking up muddy water.
The drive back to town is a blur of lightning and adrenaline. The storm’s not letting up—it’s like it’s following us, tracking us. I keep catching glimpses of white arcs in the trees, that same unnatural shimmer I saw at the quarry.
When we finally pull into the driveway, Amara doesn’t turn off the engine right away. She just sits there, hands gripping the wheel, staring straight ahead.
“I shouldn’t have dragged you out,” she says, voice cracking. “You said you didn’t want to go, and I just—I thought it’d be fun, and then?—”
“Hey,” I murmur, reaching over to rest a hand on her arm. Her skin is cold. “It was fun. Until it wasn’t. We didn’t know this was going to happen.”
Her laugh sounds like it’s breaking apart in her throat. “It’s always something, though, right? The Rift just—God, it’s like it knows when we start to feel normal again. A whole year later, and it has to do this now?”
We climb out and hurry to the porch. Thistle meows at the door, tail puffed up like a bottlebrush. I scoop Thistle into myarms the moment we step inside, holding him tight against my chest.
“You're okay,” I whisper, kissing the top of his head. “Keep an eye out, okay? And if anything starts to spark—you know the drill.”
He lets out an indignant little chirp, which almost makes me laugh.
My house feels strange, like the air’s been rearranged. There’s that hum again under my skin—soft but insistent, like static trying to find a way out. I shake out my arms, but it doesn’t help. It’s not fading.
“Tea,” I say suddenly. “Let’s make tea.”
“Caroline, your hands are shaking.”
“Yours are worse.” I try to smile, though it feels weak. “It’ll help. The chamomile blend. With the vervain. It always helps.”
We move to the kitchen, bumping into each other like we’ve both forgotten how to stand still. The stove won’t light the first few times. It sputters out, the spark flickering erratically. Amara curses under her breath as I set Thistle on the counter.
He watches her with narrowed eyes, like he’s supervising.
By the fifth try, the flame finally catches. The water begins to boil, the sound so ordinary it almost breaks me. Steam fogs the window, hiding the storm outside.
Amara paces while I measure the herbs, her bare feet leaving damp prints on the tile. “Last time, the surge knocked me out for two days,” she mutters. “You had that migraine for a week. What if this one’s worse?”
“It’s not,” I say automatically, though my skin is buzzing so hard now I could swear there’s a pulse under it. “We just need to ground. Rest. Let it pass.”
She nods, though her eyes are glassy. When I hand her the mug, her fingers brush mine, and we both flinch. The energyjumps between us, bright and sharp, like touching a doorknob after walking across carpet.
We take our tea to the couch, wrapped in blankets that smell faintly of sage. The house creaks as the storm drags across the roof. Amara curls up beside me, knees to her chest, Thistle wedged like a loaf of judgment on the armrest.
“Shit, my head’s still spinning,” she murmurs. “I’m never dragging you to one of these again. Not even if the band from Bridgewater shows up.”
“Liar.”
She huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. Liar.”
I sip my tea, the warmth sliding through me. The jittery feeling’s still there, but it’s softer now, dulled around the edges. “At least it was fun for a bit. You were having the time of your life out there with Benny.”
Her face flushes pink even in the dim light. “Oh, shut up.”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
She chokes on her tea. “No. Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
