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“Tea?” she asked.
“Sure.” He waited while she boiled water and fixed him a cup. When she placed the teacup in front of him, he took her hand and held it for a long while. He wanted her so much. She looked down at him. For a moment they stood without speaking.
“I thought I had done everything I needed to do,” she finally said.
“Why are you keeping me away? I’m not a boy.” He pulled her closer and she sat on his lap.
She ruffled his hair. “No, you’re not. You’re right.”
He leaned over and kissed her. He had never kissed a girl other than Schuyler. But this time, he wasn’t thinking at all of Schuyler, only of Freya.
Freya smelled like milk and honey and the wonderful scent of spring. He felt her move against him, and he pulled her closer so that he could put his hand on her chest. He felt his heart begin to pound—he was so nervous—what was he doing?—he did not know how to do this—had not planned for this—and yet…he heard Freya sigh, but it was not a sigh of exasperation…it was the sound of acceptance and invitation.
“Come with me,” she said, and led him to the bed.
She undressed and slipped underneath the covers. She looked as beautiful as a Botticelli painting. Oliver’s hands trembled as he quickly removed his clothing and joined her under the blankets. He was so nervous—what if she laughed? What if he did it wrong somehow? Could one get it wrong? He wasn’t so innocent, but he wasn’t so experienced either. What if she didn’t like what he…. Her body was warm and inviting, and he fell on her like a thirsty man in front of a waterfall. He stopped doubting. Stopped worrying. Stopped feeling nervous.
It was his first time. With Schuyler, they had been waiting for the right time, or perhaps they had waited because they knew the right time would never arrive. It didn’t matter. Only Freya mattered now.
Her hands felt warm and light on his body, and he shivered against her. Her soft mouth on his neck kissed him sweetly. She pulled him ever closer, and then they were joined together. Her body rippled underneath him, and he looked into her eyes and heard her cry out for him.
There was so much to feel, so much to see. He was in and outside of his body, in and outside of his blood. He was flying above the ceiling, looking at the two of them from below, marveling at how sleek and slippery their limbs were as they rolled together, the beautiful shape they made, their bodies intertwined. It felt as if she were turning him inside out, and all he could do was keep doing what he was doing, and he felt her all around and inside his body and inside his soul.
When it was over, he was covered in sweat and shaking. He opened his eyes and saw he was still in the same room, looking at the same cracked ceiling. “I love you,” he said, over and over again. “I love you, Freya.”
Freya looked at him tenderly. “No, you don’t, my darling. But you are no longer in pain.”
SIX
A Last Good-bye
The next morning they had breakfast at Veselka, a Ukrainian diner that was famous for its borscht. Oliver felt ravenous and energized. He did not know if it was the loss of sleep or the love they had made, but he felt like a new man. He felt sufficiently brave enough to ask Freya the question he had been dreading the moment he noticed the Holiday had been irrevocably changed.
“Where are you going?” he asked, spearing a pierogi and covering it with sour cream.
“My family is moving back home. To North Hampton.”
“Why?”
“It’s complicated,” she said ruefully. “A story for another day.”
Oliver settled against the booth, feeling the cracked leather dig into his skin. Did he feel better? Different? Worse? Better. Definitely better. He touched the side of his neck. He did not feel the same throb there.
Schuyler. He could say her name. He could remember her without the pain. Remember and honor their love, their friendship, but no longer be tortured by her absence. It was as if Schuyler was behind glass. Part of his past but no longer the torment of his future. He missed his friend. But he would survive her loss. Her loss.
He put down his fork. “Who are you? What are you?” he asked Freya.
“I’m a witch.” She smiled. “But then I think you already knew that, scribe.”
“You know about the Blue Bloods?”
“Yes. Of course. We have to. But we keep away from their business. My family does not like to…intervene. But you were a special case.”
“Will I ever see you again?”
“Maybe,” Freya said thoughtfully. “But I don’t think you’ll need to.”
She was right. He did not love her. He had loved her last night, as it was love that they had shared together. And now she was going away, but it was all right.
