Karaoke Chemistry: A Witchy Small Town Romcom (Sacred River Book 2)

17. Magnolia

IMANAGE TO avoid every sister as I bolt upstairs to my room to grab the journal I’d long since stopped writing in. It’s buried in the back of a drawer stuffed full of skirts, the leather binding smelling just as delicious as always. A gift to each of us from Mom, the black ink on the creamy, thick pages is visible only to me. It can hold as many pages as we need it to, and only ever appears to be a slim, tidy journal to anyone other than the owner. Mine is a beautiful, glossy green, bringing the leaves of my namesake tree to mind. Which was, of course, purposeful.

My entries begin at age five, when clearly I thought I was at the height of my witchy power. Tales of singing with birds, watching tadpoles in the river, and fights with my sisters abound. As I get older, the entries get more mature, focused on the usual things a normal girl would be focused on—fitting in and boys—but also worries that only a witch would have. Things like the truth spell my sister put on me and the many concoctions I drank to counteract that spell (all failed), or the tea pranks we played on each other that turned hair purple or made armpit hair grow as long and thick as a boa constrictor overnight.

My entries were long and frequent, but once all the harm came to my sisters, the entries came to an abrupt halt. I’d wanted to be done. Done with all of it: being a witch, being susceptible to curses, the near-painful need to sing that had to get out or make me sick…all of it.

Now, as I stride to the willow tree near the edge of our property, I’m thinking of one particular entry that I need to look at: the last one.

The one I’d asked the Universe to wipe from my memory as soon as I wrote it down. And once I’d written it, I shoved it in the drawer and tried to forget about it. Until recently, that’s been enough.

But now?

Making sure no one is around, I lean against the willow and slide down to sit beneath it. It’s quiet under here, cooler. There’s no real grass to speak of, but the dirt and moss are soft. The magic is gentle here, and as I blink, wisps of vibrant lime green flow between the branches, following the leaves as they sway in the breeze that never seems to stop around the tree. Never in my forty years have I seen it.

I rub my eyes, wondering if it’s a trick of the light. It’s not. The wisps are still here, ebbing and flowing, deep and verdant, then bright and vibrant. As I watch, they float to me, swirling and dancing through the shade until they meet my fingers, then wrapping up and around my hands and arms before disappearing into my skin.

I close my eyes and choke back a sob, unable to do anything but feel in this moment. I’ve missed this, the simplicity of the magic. The beauty of it, the pure generosity of it.

It’s only now that I even remember that I missed it, and at that realization, the tears flow freely down my cheeks, hitting the green of the leather in my lap and darkening it, sinking into the journal like their own entries.

It takes a while before I’m able to open the journal. I start a few entries back.

September10

Something is wrong and I think it’s Kera’s fault. The ceremony for our Sixteenth Gathering was two nights ago, and it should have been the best night of my life. But she brought a boy, and when he wouldn’t stop looking at me like the slimy perv he clearly was, she freaked out. Cornered me, accused me of trying to steal her boyfriend, and swore she’d get back at me. Wouldn’t listen when I told her I didn’t want anything to do with the guy.

The next night, when we were all around the bonfire for the final evening of Gathering celebrations, all she did was stare at me, her lips moving silently as she gripped something in her hand. I felt a prick of something against my neck, but ignored it.

Now it’s been a week, and every time I sing, things happen. Not in a good way, either.

September15

It’s bad. I have to sing or I feel bad. But I think it might be hurting my sisters.

October1

Aspen heard me. She broke her arm.

October30

I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. Mom’s been hurt. Willow’s been hurt. They’ve all gotten hurt in one way or another. And Clementine…my god. I’m done. No more singing.

I’ve barely moved readingthese. I don’t remember any of this—not really. Not the thing about Kera.

All of this…this pain because of jealousy? Ridiculous, petty jealousy over a stupid boy? My stomach churns, and the taste of iron fills my mouth. It’s disgusting.

And it explains so much. The way she always stares at me, even now. What must she see when she looks at me? Someone she broke, probably.

A kernel of something hot and angry takes root in my chest, and somewhere far in the recesses of my mind, a small voice says I shouldn’t worry. That I should move on, and forget, and forgive.

Yeah—no. I welcome the anger. Let it sit and whirl within me, seep into my pores like the magic itself.

With the wisps of magic still dancing in the shadows around me, I take a deep breath and ready myself for the final entry.

November15

This is the last time I’ll write in here. Whatever has happened to me, it’s mine and mine alone to deal with. Maybe it was Kera, maybe it wasn’t, I just don’t know anymore. It doesn’t matter. All I know is that I have to sing, but every time my family hears me, they get hurt, and their injuries got worse every time they heard me.

And I know that I can’t ask my sisters to help me fix it. Clearly—whatever this is, it is aimed at me and me alone. This is my problem to solve.

So with these final words, I call on the Universe to make my family forget I ever sang. I call on the Universe to protect them from me, to separate my sisters and mother from me as much as possible in both thought and action. And I ask the Universe to wipe this from my memory, because it hurts. All of this just…hurts.

I’m done.

Anger,red-hot and fiery, blooms within me as I let the journal fall from my grip and wrap my arms around my knees, burying my head in the cocoon it makes.

I want to give in. To swim in the darkness of fury and blame, to point a righteous finger at Kera and push every piece of sadness and disappointment and worry of the past decades at her. And god, it is so tempting. I play it all out in my head, the way I’d tell my sisters, the way we’d plot an epic revenge plan to go down at the Gathering that’s coming up.

I won’t. I’m better than that.

Well, I’m a little better than that. I know enough that if—no, when—I take her down, it’ll be with my family by my side.

I wipe the tears away and read the last entry again. In a way, I’ve done this all to myself. The distance from my sisters and mom…all me. All by my own doing.

The kernel of anger flares again within me, but I tamp it down. Getting angry won’t do any good. I need to think.

This is why my sisters never asked me for help. Never sought me out for anything, magical or otherwise. This is why Aspen and Mom never…god. This explains so much. I was an idiot to ask the Universe for such a thing. And that the Universe granted it tells me just how upset I really was when I asked. It’s unheard of for a witch to voluntarily separate herself from her sisters. I mean, sure, I’ve lived with them these past nearly twenty-five years since the curse, but that’s it.

Last night, getting ready for my date with Riggs, had been the first time anything like that has happened with me and my sisters. Even at Clementine’s wedding, I’d felt removed from everyone, as though I was on one shore and they were on another. Not that they knew that. The dual memories cause tears of pain and gratitude to prick at my eyes, and I let them fall. Because it’s time I felt everything. And it’s past time I stopped separating myself and started figuring out how to fix this.

With my sisters.