We finish our last bracelets in time for the final song of the concert. Flint carefully knots one onto my wrist: more glittery purple. This time with a tiny dragon, a pizza slice, a book and the phrase WITCHY WORDSMITH in gleaming white and black.
I tie his on, too. Threaded in black and green, with a tiny sword, a heart, and a tag that says “Anchor.”
He holds my eyes for a long moment before leaning in to brush a whisper of a kiss against my lips. As Calida dances to the music, Flint and I sit wrapped in each other, wrists shining with handmade magick.
We’re not quite a family yet but, I think we’re getting there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
After the events of last week, Flint has been on edge. I can see him tense when the bells ring to announce a new arrival. I think he’s trying to seem like he’s not, but it’s obvious that he’s tense. Personally, I think he scared Brett enough that he may leave me alone entirely, or at least give me a reprieve from his creepy behaviors.
After Flint spoke to Betsy and Annemarie, thethree of them ganged up on me and essentially insisted that I have a partner at work, especially if I’m closing. Annemarie wanted his head on a platter. Betsy had a glint in her eye that I have chosen not to think too hard on. So, I relented and fell in line. It’s frustrating and, distracted as I often am, it still makes me twitchy to know that I have someone looking over my shoulder all of the time. Not that I don’t love and appreciate their concern. I do. I really do. I just… I do miss having at least a little time alone to daydream with the books.
Especially now that I actually have someone to daydream about.
Flint has been answering my vague questions about Goira lately, which has been super helpful. While I’m careful to not ask too much about battles and his experience as a warrior, he’s been happy to fill in details about the government, some stories from his childhood, or funny stories about neighbors. It’s so in line with what I imagine in my head that it’s crazy, almost like I’ve been there, and I think it’s helping me figure out where my story needs to go.
My story itself is gaining more structure and the scenes don’t feel as disjointed as they did before. Maybe this really isthestory. My story. Something I can leave to be remembered by.
My old therapist would tell me that, because I have so few memories, I have a deep, subconscious desire to be remembered, to have an illusion of permanence. She pointed that out when she saw my tattoos.
She chose violence and I had to end that relationship, like any self-respecting crazy.
Tonight, Anne is my closing buddy. Flint and Betsyleft earlier, with the latter asking for help moving something at home. Both of us had offered, but Betsy just muttered something about muscles and hustled Flint out of the shop. Calida was at home, likely watching theEras Tour(again).
Since Anne does very little with the book portion of the shop, she’ s mostly been lounging, chatting and scrolling on her phone while I shut down.
“If you would just let me read a page…”
“No.”
“Come on, Cas! Just one page!”
“No. It isn’t ready for people yet.” I’m not sure it ever will be, but that’s neither here nor there.
No. Words are spells. It willeventuallybe ready to be read by someone other than me. Someday. Just definitely not today.
“Ugh,” she groans, tossing her phone on the low table in front of her and flopping her body back onto the cushions. “Spoilsport.”
I grin.
“Fine then. How are things going with Flint? Are you in loooooove?” She draws the word out, batting her eyelashes at me. Bitch.
Then again, I thought she was going to melt into a puddle on the floor that I’d have to mop up when she spotted the bracelets we made together. She swore it was the cutest thing ever and is now refusing to even consider a relationship unless the man is willing to engage in bonding exercises like that. She is on the hunt for a “book boyfriend”. I think she’s been spending too much time around Betsy.
“Anne!”
“You’re saying my name like what I asked isn’twarranted.” She begins ticking points off on her fingers. “You’re already living together. You’ve gone on at least one date, although I think you should increase that number significantly. By your accounts, you’re having really stupendous sex — a fact of which I am incredibly jealous. The man practically worships the ground you walk on. Even when you have a creepy psycho on your ass, he acts like the sun still shines out of it.”
I snort.
“I don’t know what it is. We haven’t defined it or really talked about our feelings. It feels like… I don’t know. Like I’ve known him forever. He takes care. He really listens to people. He listens to me. He’s completely content to just hang out on the couch and read while I write and re-write.”
“So, yes.”
I heave out a deep breath. “Yeah, I think so.” Just admitting that much has butterflies staging a riot in my stomach.
Admittedly, I’ve thought about dropping those three little words on Flint, but I’ve been holding back. Brett drama aside, things really have been going so well. I don’t want anything to change that, not even me. Flint seems to be content with the way things are. Besides, what’s the rush?
