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I roll my eyes playfully. “Yes. I know that part.”

“But like, it was that way in more than sex. You know? They didn’t put me first.” She shakes her head. “Of course, you don’t get it. Everyone wants to be with someone like you.”

Aurora has been putting me up on a pedestal all along, I think, because where did she get that idea? How could she hear about me being single for eight years, and then unceremoniously dumped, and believe everyone wants to be with me?

She’s so strange.

My brow furrows, and I shake my head. “But I do understand. No one wants me. Not anymore. Not after what happened.”

She gazes at me earnestly. “I want you.”

I know, but you shouldn’t.

I move behind her, my hands on her shoulders, and lean down to kiss the top of her head. “Those potatoes look thoroughly chopped, princess. I’ll take it from here.”

She huffs and shoves the cutting board away, and I take the knife before there’s an accident.

I turn my back, breathe, and look over my spice rack. “Are you still afraid? Of loss. Of death.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop fearing those things. Death is one of the only constants in life, right?”

I nod, add oil and salt to the bowl, and toss. Then pepper, chili powder, and garlic powder. “I’m not going to be fake enough to tell you to stop being afraid. Death and loss are inevitable. It’s not a switch we can turn off, make ourselves stop worrying about them. I know that better than anyone.”

She’s quiet for a few moments, and when she speaks again, her voice is soft.

“And what about Wendy?” Her voice softens. “What did you love most about her?”

The moment Aurora says her name, my bones are too heavy. My chest tightens.

I don’t want to talk about this—with her or anyone. Sharing her name was hard enough. There’s power in a name. Witches keep our middle names secret for a reason. Aurora looks at me like she knows how sacred the conversation is, without an ounce of jealousy or insecurity, but I can’t bring myself to say anything.

If only tonight’s dinner were more hands-on. I would have a distraction. But I don’t. There’s nothing that can tear me from the night sky in her eyes, the softness of her lips, and her life force begging me to give in and drink up every drop.

It’s still an effort to keep my magic from leeching, and she can’t understand that. How could she? We have the opposite problem.

She can’t turn her magic on.

I’m constantly struggling to keep mine off.

“I don’t remember anymore,” I whisper roughly. A lie. “I’m sorry. It’s been over a decade.”

What I loved about her was that she was my best friend. We did everything together. When my homecoming date ditched me, she picked me back up and turned the night around. When I was upset because Val was annoying me, she let me rant. I still miss those things.

People can’t replace one another. We just find new people who take up room in our hearts. The love I feel for Aurora is so unique; it’s more than enough for me. It’s not a high school sweetheart kind of love. Loving Aurora feels fated, magical, and terrifying.

But the love and regret of the past never fade, and that’s the true haunting. Not the cottage. Not the dreams. The eternal, excruciating love.

“That’s okay.” She shakes her head. “You’ve already told me a lot.”

But not enough. The silent addition hangs in the air, unspoken.

“I will tell you more,” I say. “With time.”

She nods. Acceptance.

Chapter 40

Aurora