Chapter Eighteen #2
The younger version of myself shrugs. It’s so easy, watching like this, to pretend that she’s another person. But that girl is still a part of me. Her hurts are my hurts, buried deep beneath the bandages I’ve made for myself.
I still feel like I don’t fit, but I’ve stopped trying to force myself into the spaces that aren’t made for me.
I pretend, as much as I can, that it doesn’t bother me.
I do my best to meet my parents’ expectations with a smile on my face.
But knowing I still fall woefully short, it’s—it’s hard for me.
“They want something different,” I hear my voice whisper. “I’ve tried to figure out what that is, to be more like Samantha, but it’s not—they don’t want—”
I dissolve into more tears and Matilda tucks my face against her shoulder. She whispers something in my ear that I can’t hear, but I remember the feeling. How she tried to patch all my holes with her affection. She always knew exactly what to say to make me feel strong.
I miss her so much.
Nolan tugs on my hand until I look at him again, frowning at what I’m sure is an impressive display of nonwaterproof mascara on my cheeks. He reaches up and wipes at my face gently, just like my aunt Matilda did.
I manage a wobbly smile. His frown deepens.
“Time to go,” he says. “We don’t need anything else from this memory.”
But we haven’t gotten anything we’ve come for either. If there are clues hidden here, I haven’t seen them. I haven’t even bothered to look. I’ve been too distracted.
I pull my hand from his. “A little longer,” I almost beg. “Please. I just want to—”
He nods, understanding tightening his eyes. “Aye, we can stay a few minutes more. But come here,” he grunts, tugging me closer. “You’re too far away.”
I let him pull me into his body, his arm over my shoulder and his hand spread over my collarbone.
Possessive. I’m greedy for it—for the affection, the reassurance, the steady pound of his heart against my back.
He rests his chin on the top of my head and I let out a grateful sigh.
I feel more grounded like this, wrapped in his arms. Protected, like maybe the ground won’t fall out from beneath my feet as soon as we leave this place.
Like maybe I can hold on to this memory just like I’m holding on to him.
We watch my aunt and the teenage version of myself cling to each other in the melting daylight and I let myself feel every inch of the grief I so rarely indulge in.
But for the first time in a long time, there’s a light shimmering just beneath it.
A reminder that I can remember without it hurting so bad.
That I carry pieces of Aunt Matilda around with me everywhere I go.
That I stand in the same place she did, every day, and I can still see her in the fingerprints she left on me.
She doesn’t have to be gone. Not if I don’t want to let her go.
The two women wander off, leaving Nolan and me alone in the middle of the shop. I cling to his forearm and take one shaky breath. Then another.
“Okay. I think I’m ready.”
His arm tightens around me and we’re spinning, spiraling, spooling away, his magic threading around my legs and anchoring around my waist. I clench my eyes shut tight, not wanting to watch as we’re yanked away from this memory.
I keep my eyes closed when we land. I feel the stillness, feel the press of Nolan’s fingers against my shoulder. I listen to our breathing and the quiet way he says my name, his stubble catching in my hair.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice a rough scratch. His grip tightens on me. “For making you cry?”
“You didn’t make me cry. These are happy tears,” I try to explain. “That was—you gave a piece of her back to me. You made it easier to remember.” I tilt back to look at him, his arm still anchored across my chest. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Nolan’s eyes search mine, his face intent. He’s quiet for so long, I think I’ve said something wrong. But then I feel it. Bright and bursting, like soap bubbles popping against my skin. Nolan’s magic licks at me and dances away again, playful.
“Nolan, what—”
His hand shifts to cup the back of my head, gently guiding me until we’re facing each other.
He drops his forehead to mine and I grip his wrists, holding on.
My heart is thundering, stomping out a beat I can’t catch up with.
His magic spins out around us, faster and faster. Coiling up and over. A rising tide.
I catch a flash of green out of the corner of my eye. When I turn to look, I gasp.
Tucked between the stained glass lanterns, mistletoe starts to blossom against the tin ceiling of my antiques shop.
Like a living forest, hundreds of sprigs of green leaves slowly burst to life, growing larger by the second.
Heavy bundles with glossy red berries push their way in between the panels.
Smaller ones with shiny leaves dance down the lamps.
The whole ceiling vibrates with mistletoe of all shapes and sizes while a small zipping thread of golden sparks dances between them, bouncing from leaf to leaf.
Nolan’s magic, I realize.
I tear my eyes away from the ceiling and fix them on him instead, his mouth inches from mine.
“You used your magic,” I whisper, delighted.
He nods, his nose brushing against mine. “I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted an excuse.”
I barely dare to breathe. “For what?”
“For this,” he says.
And then he ducks his head and kisses me.