Page 65 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

“I’m going to try to breathe through it,” I say, slowing and controlling my breaths. I can hear the air filling my lungs and leaving it.

Damien draws a thumb over my skin in a soothing arc. “Let’s go sit down and—”

Cold tile against my temple. The sound of a cat’s chirp nearby and the jingling of the bell on its collar. Fingers brushing through my damp, sweaty hair.

“You’re alright,” a deep voice says, just loud enough for me to hear, not loud enough that it echoes like the rest of the sounds around me. “You had a seizure, but you’re alright. It was a short one. And I caught you before you hit the floor. You’re in your house, inside your kitchen. You made us some really amazing dinner that we’re going to eat together while I do whatever batshit thing you ask me to do because this was totally my fault and you should probably set me on fire.”

I huff a laugh as I inhale deeply and exhale slowly. My brow is damp with sweat—actually, my entire body is drenched.

“Laughter is good,” he says.

“I feel like I got hit by a truck.” I say.

“You did go tonic, so that tracks,” he says. “But you’re pretty lucid already, so that’s encouraging.”

“I’m sorry,” I groan. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, or sorry,” he says. “This stuff is easy for me. Used to be my bread and butter. I’m just glad you don’t come out of yours throwing hands. Happens more often than you’d think.”

“Could you wet a rag or a paper towel for me?” I ask.

He stands and grabs one as I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling while the last remnants of the post-seizure ick fades. There’s always a tense period coming out of a seizure where it feels almost as uncomfortable as the aura before it. When I was little, I used to throw up after almost every seizure because the vertigo could be so bad.

I miss Nan. Her absence feels as keen as a punch to the gut. The way she used to know exactly what to do when I seized. They way she would tut, and brush a cool rag over my forehead. The way she would comb her nails through my hair and comfort me.

When Damien returns, he asks if he can prop me up on his knees, and I nod. He gets me settled, his legs my pillow as he dabs at my face with cool water. It’s just what I need; the cool water paired with the ocean breeze helps those last tendrils of lightheadedness fade away. I feel like I’ve summoned him—manifested this perfect man who can effectively take care of me almost as well as Nan did.

“You know, if we’re going to be boyfriend and girlfriend, you can’t just seize every time you get into trouble,” he teases.

I laugh, smiling up at him. “Yeah, if you still even want that.” My memory is always pretty hazy after I seize, and I’m hopeful I started spilling my guts to him, but I’m worried I’m making that part up. “Nothing like a witch under what is essentially magical house arrest as a girlfriend.”

I meet his gaze and look for signs of skepticism, but I don’t see any. Then I look for signs of well-meaning-but-definitely-disturbed worry. What I do see is a man that’s tired, a man who maybe hasn’t slept well this week. I see the faint smear of concealer beneath his eyes, thinly covering a lavender tinge of tired bruising.

“I think we can hash out the word-spaghetti you threw at me while we eat the delicious pasta you made and you recover from the seizure,” he says. “But if you’re poking the bear to see if you’ve freaked me out, I’m afraid you’re going to just have to accept the fact that there is nothing about you that would make me run away from you. Not ever, Lillith. Not even some bloodline curse or a weird demon—not even magical house arrest.”

My throat tightens and two tears slip out of my eyes and right into my ears.

He clicks his tongue and dabs at my eyes with the wet rag. “I can’t believe you worried about this for so long, Lillith.”

“It was only like a month,” I say.

“No, it wasn’t—it started back with Whitman,” he says.

He’s right. Ever since Whitman, I always just assumed I’d have to be with another witch like Bastion, or never be with anyone at all.

“You’re... not even skeptical?” I ask. “You don’t think I’m like—schizophrenic, or something?”

“Well,” he says with an exhale. “People who think they are crazy, paradoxically, rarely are. I won’t lie; it does sound a little weird. But I knew when I met you that you were a witch and it would be shitty of me to try and tell you what’s what about your own experience. Even if you didn’t have proof, I’m not about to tell you your spiritual beliefs are mental illness. That’s a disservice to you and the people with mental illnesses out there.”

“So basically, whether I’m an actual witch or am just having a psychotic break—”

“Yeah, I’m not going anywhere,” he interrupts. “And you’re still worthy of love in both scenarios. Hell, even if it was both—even if you’re a witch with psychosis, I’m still all in. I mean, I am if you are.”

“Obviously I am,” I say through more tears spilling from my eyes. “Gods, I’m so fucking into you, Damien. I can’t do anything without thinking about you. I’m obsessed.”

He smiles, leaning down to kiss my brow. “Me too. Now—let’s get you off the floor, sweetheart. We gotta eat this pasta before it gets too cold.”

“I’m so hungry,” I groan.