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It’s just…
I hear his sister saying that Daphne used to have some weird power over him. I’ve seen it too, haven’t I? Danny’s thought about what she said to him for years. It’s influenced his perception of himself…even though it seems to me it’s his mask she was talking about. The part of himself he tries to present to the world because he was taught that the real him wasn’t right.
Somehow, she wasn’t able to see beyond it. Or maybe she thought it was his limitations that made him basic.
Either way, she’s a fucking idiot, and I don’t want her voice in his head, telling him he’s not enough.
My phone buzzes, and I sigh as I lift it up for a look.
It’s a message from Josie’s number.
It’s done. I can feel that the hex has been lifted.
Is this your way of saying you can’t get back here within the next five minutes? Because that’s what it sounds like.
“What are you writing?” Byron asks, trying to look over my shoulder. “Is it about me?”
“Sort of,” I say, because I’m not beyond the point of wanting to cause him a little discomfort. After all, he’s the reason we’re out here, freezing our asses off in front of a crayon drawing made by a thirty-year-old woman.
No. You only needed to reach a resolution between yourselves. I figured thirty minutes of forced proximity would do the job. Either that, or it’d make everything worse. It was up to you. But my connection to the other side tells me it all worked out. There are no more ill feelings on either side, and the hex is dead.
Wait, are you in there? Are you watching us with a camera or something? Because I’ve had it with the whole being watched thing. It definitely doesn't do it for me anymore.
No, my third eye does the work for me.
Byron jostles closer, trying to see my phone. I poke at his leg with the crutch, but it occurs to me that I should relent on the off-chance Josie is right. So, I show him the phone.
“Oh, rad,” he says. “That makes sense. She’s right about the ill feelings thing. I don’t want your hair to fall out anymore.”
“You wanted my hair to fall out?” I ask, unable to keep the annoyance out of my voice. I don’t bother adding that I still have a few ill feelings toward him, although no actual desire for revenge. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Because mine got fucked up. Girls are always going on about doing their hair to get over a breakup, so I figured I’d give it a try…and then this happened. I guess I felt bitter.”
“I didn’t realize this had hurt you so much,” I say. “I figured you didn’t care too much. I’m sorry.”
I mean it. I’m very happy we’re not together, and also that I hopefully won’t have to see him again after this afternoon, but I didn’t intend to cause him pain.
“Thank you for that.” He taps the pocket he stuffed the phone into. “And for the sick lyrics.” He nods, kisses two fingers, and taps them to my temple. “It was real while it was real.”
His eyes flash again, and I can tell he’s weighing whether or not it would ruin a theatrical moment if he took his phone out to record that line too. He holds back, though, and for that I can be grateful—and generous.
“Take care of yourself, Byron. The blond’s not bad on you.”
A lie, but a kind one.
He’s humming as he turns to go to his car. It’s not until he gets in that I remember the scarf, but I figure I’ll let him have it. It looks better on a blond.
I pick up my phone again and see another message from Josie:
How are the plans for Thanksgiving going? If you’d like to have some extra guests, Poe and I will be in town, and we would be willing to do readings for the whole group.
I’m going to block you now. No offense, but friends don’t hex friends.
Not even if they’re paid?
Not even then. Take it easy.
What if I said we need to be there?
