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I drop my head to my hands again and moan. “Can’t I find some guy at a bar to kiss? According to Kierst, I am very good at that.”
My aunt flips through the pages. “This is not my particular area of expertise, but I think you’d have to re-create the original conditions as precisely as possible. Spells like these can be finicky.”
I am fudged.
“The good news is,” my aunt pipes in again, “you’ve got a whole month to figure it out.”
I look up, confused, because I haven’t the faintest idea what she’s talking about.
“The moon.” She pushes the book toward me. “It says right here,Send away the one that wronged you under waning gibbous.Waning gibbous. That’s the phase of the moon just after the full. This makes perfect sense, as it’s the optimal moon for any sort of cleansing or closure activity. But I’m afraid yesterday was the final night. The next one isn’t for a month.”
Kiersten’s finger traces the spell until it lands on the spot just above the salsa stain, where it states, very clearly, exactly what my aunt just said.
“So even if we weren’t missing lover boy, we can’t do it today.”
I stare down at the last line and read it twice as the adrenaline from the morning drains into a cool pool of dread in my stomach.
I’m stuck here for a month. And if I can’t find a way to get Dax to kiss me, I could be stuck here indefinitely.
Aunt Livi points to the Tupperware in front of us. “If we’re not using it for the spell, will anyone object if I heat up the chicken?”
Chapter 7
“So, Aunt Livi,what are we watching tonight?” I settle into my aunt’s couch, resting my feet on the coffee table, reaching for her ancient converter.
She checks her watch before easing herself out of her La-Z-Boy. “I think I’m about ready to turn in for the evening. You’re welcome to my couch for as long as you like, but I have a very steamy romance on my nightstand that I’m itching to get to. Darn it…” She looks toward her kitchen. “I hope I’m not out of double-A batteries.”
There is no shame on her face. Not the smallest hint of flush to her cheeks. However, mine flare what I’m sure is a fire engine red. “Well, good luck with that. And I changed my mind. I think I’m gonna go.”
We walk to the apartment door, where I grab my purse, avoiding her eyes. She holds her arms out for a hug. I crouch enough to lay my head on her ample bosom—a comfort move I’ve done since I was a kid, when sleepovers at her house became an almost everyday occurrence.
“Remember that great love and great achievements involve great risk,” she murmurs into my hair before I pull away, puzzled.
“What’s with the cryptic message?”
She cups my cheek with her wrinkled hand. “Just something I read on the tag of my morning tea, poodle. Send me a message when you get home. Let an old doll know you got in safe, okay?”
She places a kiss on my forehead before opening her door and letting me out.
I take my time walking home. I stop by the window of Wilde Beauty to gaze in awe at the manifestation of my dream, then head to my dark and potentially mouse-infested apartment—essentially a basic girl’s nightmare.
It’s just as I remember it. No better, no worse. And I last a whole seven minutes before I grow restless and decide that although I have almost a month until the moon is good to go, I don’t want to wait that long to get Dax back into my life.
He may not know me, but I know him, and I know there’s only one place Daxon McGuire hangs out on a Tuesday night.
—
The Grand VictoriaLawn Bowling and Curling Club is not known as a hot spot for nightlife in the city. But the lighting is dim, and they have twelve-dollar domestic pitchers on tap and a retired radio DJ who sets up a plastic folding table in the corner and plays hits from his iPhone.
I push open the doors and breathe in the scent of artificial ice and thirty-five-cent chicken wings. The same thing I’ve done every Tuesday from October until the end of May for the last three years of my life.
The club looks the same as I imagine it did sixty years ago. Paneled walls. A long narrow bar and a scattering of tables and chairs, all the same shade of light pinewood.
A big glass window opens to the curling rink, where eight teams look to be playing their tenth and final ends, after whichthey’ll make their way to the bar for pints and socializing, the entire point of the sport for most curlers.
It doesn’t take long to spot Dax. A special seashell in the Tuesday night recreational league, Dax doesn’t come for the beer. The man loves to curl, which is evident as I gaze at him hovered just above the ice, spending two minutes too long assessing his next shot.
I never thought I’d grow up to be a below-average curler in a recreational curling league. However, a few years ago, my job at Eaton’s Drug Mart had this annual health challenge where everyone was supposed to take on a new activity. I have the coordination of a newborn deer on ice. There’s a good reason why I spin instead of cycling outdoors (the safety of my fellow Hamiltonians is at stake). Dax heard about my dilemma and suggested we join the most ridiculous sport we could come up with. It came down to curling and bobsledding, but the latter is ridiculously expensive and requires much more stamina than one would think.
