3. Magnolia
THIS CANNOT BE happening. This can not be happening.
It’s happening.
It can’t.
Riggs is Mr. Finlay.
My brain whirls as I try to formulate some kind of reaction beyond open-mouthed stupor. The only consolation is that Riggs seems to be having the same response as me. I’m having trouble even contemplating the fact of him being here, and somewhere in the recesses of my mind, there’s a squad of mini-mes screaming and flailing at how much hotter he is in the daylight.
Seriously. It’s unreal. He’s unreal, standing in front of me, looking like he stepped out of a fashion shoot despite the shock on his face.
“No, it’s not seven just yet,” comes Mrs. Hayes’ blissfully ignorant response.
He can’t let everyone know. It will ruin everything. Panic floods my system and I’m jolted back to reality.
Mrs. Hayes continues. “As I was saying?—”
I stick my hand out to shake his. “Magnolia Rowan,” I say, and it must sound aggressive and not like my usual quiet self because Mr. Dander and Mrs. Hayes both whip their heads to me.
“Riggs Finlay,” he responds, and time seems to slow. His ice-blue eyes, so intense in the bar, are flat-out deadly in the sun.
It’s always taken everything I had to withstand him in the bar. But here? Standing in front of him, being his sole focus in the daylight? Butterflies launch in my stomach, fluttering and swooping.
This can’t be good.
It’s only when Riggs reaches to clasp my hand that it occurs to me I have never actually touched the man. Which, of course I haven’t. We know each other from karaoke, and that’s it. Sure, we’ve flirted, and yeah, I’ve imagined the way his hands would feel against my bare skin far more than is probably appropriate, but whatever. Seven is allowed those thoughts.
Our hands touch, and a magnetic shock ripples through me. He feels it, too. It’s clear by the subtle widening of his eyes, and all I can think is, shit. Followed immediately by absolutely not and hell no.
I know what that shock of energy means, and it absolutely can not mean what it means.
I refuse.
Not that magic has ever listened to me, or even deigned to be more than an occasional blip inside me. But still.
“Miss Rowan is our chemistry teacher,” Mrs. Hayes barrels on, and I wipe my hand on my skirt like it’s going to help.
News flash: it is not going to help.
“Is that so?” Riggs seems to be coming to grips with the reality of our situation much faster than I am. “I’d love to hear more. Join me?” He holds up an empty beer bottle and indicates the bar.
“Yes,” I say, my voice a bit strangled, then I practically sprint ahead of him, so eager to get a drink that I nearly plow down the French teacher as I haul to the tiki-themed bar.
For the record, I hear her shocked Mon Dieu! behind me, and I deliberately ignore it, because she was born and raised in New Jersey and is fooling no one with that that accent.
Mr. Taylor, the school’s janitor among many other things, is the bartender this evening, and smiles as I approach. “What’s the rush, Magnolia?”
“Just thirsty.” Which is true. Partly because the hot-as-sin man approaching behind me makes my mouth go dry while other parts of me most definitely…aren’t. And partly because it turns out that hot man is going to be my principal, which puts my entire world at risk. It changes everything.
Hechanges everything.
I force myself to breathe and smile. “Can I get one of those mixed drinks and a beer for our new principal?” My voice cracks on the last word, as though my body is also having a hard time accepting the very real situation we’ve found ourselves in.
Riggs is the principal. The freaking principal. In what world is this okay? It is not. It is not okay. At all. I make a note to have a talk with the Universe later. Not that she’ll listen, but I can try.
Mr. Taylor doles out the punch that I know from previous experience is basically pure-grain alcohol mixed with whatever juice was on sale at the Piggly Wiggly, and slides the red plastic cup to me. I chug half while Riggs gets his beer, then motion him over to a quiet spot.
My voice is low. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“So you really are her. Something’s different about you.”
“Of course I’m her!” I hiss. “I’m not a twin. Those are my sisters.”
His eyes widen, and it might be because he finally knows something personal about me. “You have twin sisters?”
I wave it off. “Focus. You can’t tell anyone that I sing karaoke at Al’s. Ever.”
“But you’re incredible?—”
“No one. Ever.” I growl the last word.
His eyes narrow thoughtfully. “What aren’t you telling me?”
A lot. I’ve built a house of cards on secrets. One wrong move and it will all come crashing down.
“How did I not know you were a teacher?” he continues. “Of chemistry. Ironic, don’t you think?”
“Why is that ironic?”
He blinks. “Because we have…chemistry?”
“Not anymore we don’t,” I shoot back.
I swear his eyes dim with disappointment. After a beat, he dips his chin. “You’re right. Probably against school policy anyway.”
“No one,” I insist again. “You tell no one.”
“Mags, there you are!” My best friend Ava appears and hooks her arm through mine. “I see you met our new principal, Mr. Finlay.”
Riggs blinks and straightens, transforming from the intense man I’m well acquainted with into a more bland, safe version of himself. Something about the whole thing makes me clammy.
“Miss Green. We have indeed.” He smiles, then steps back and claps his hands. “I’ll leave you to it—more people to meet.” Touching the brim of his hat, he catches my gaze with his own before turning away. The real Riggs is in those eyes, and it’s not hard to read the message in them: we aren’t done here.
I shouldn’t feel immediately turned on by the dominance in his expression, or the fact that I’m the only one who saw it. I also shouldn’t be ogling his butt as he walks away.
“Miss Rowan, are you making eyes at our new principal?” Ava teases, giggling as she takes a drink of the punch.
“Definitely not.” I turn my attention fully to her.
Ava narrows her eyes and inspects my nose, not seeing what she’s hoping to find. “He’s hot. He’s got that whole older-man vibe happening. Too bad I’m not into that kind of thing,” she snickers. “You two, on the other hand…”
“Never gonna happen,” I declare flatly.
She sucks down the rest of her punch. “Why not? He’s single, available, older—what’s not to like?”
“How do you know he’s single?”
“Mrs. Hayes.”
I roll my eyes. I swear, that woman. She is a busybody of the highest order and has been since my own mother was a student. She needs to retire.
Ava looks closer at me. “Are you okay?”
I swallow. I need to remember where I am. Who I am. “Let’s get more punch.”
Two hours later,I’ve managed to avoid Riggs entirely and am cuddled up beside Ava on the back deck’s loveseat, giggling drunkenly as we watch sweet Sarah Bird attempt to flirt with Gary Edwin. “It’s adorable,” I wheeze.
Ava grabs my arm. “Wait. Wait. Oh god—she’s going for it. Bless Mrs. Hayes’ punch!”
I never use my magic, mainly because it never works, but at this point I’m too far gone to care whether anything happens this time. I close my eyes and send my intention to the Universe.
Seconds later, Ava hisses, “Magnolia! They’re kissing!” She tightens her grip on my arm. “Are you asleep? Wake up and look!”
Sure enough, Sarah and Gary are wrapped around each other in the shadows. Holy crap. It worked. My heart soars, my whole body tingling with the knowledge that I’ve done it. For the first time in decades, I successfully wielded my magic.
Or maybe it’s the punch. My stomach sours at the thought and I turn away. “Stop watching them,” I admonish.
“You’re no fun,” Ava pouts.
“That’s true.” Because it is. I’m the least fun sister. The least interesting sister. If I’m being honest, I’m the least everything sister. As the second-oldest, I should definitely have a bit more magic.
Something happened during the Gathering on my sixteenth birthday, and no amount of tea concoctions or any of the subsequent Gatherings have helped me figure it out and counteract it. All I know is that I turned sixteen and the people I loved started getting hurt when I sang.
The first time, my sister Aspen fell out of the tree in the front yard and broke her arm. The magnolia tree, incidentally. Then, I was singing outside the kitchen window when I thought no one was around. Turns out, Mom was inside, and she sliced her hand open. The third time, my sister Willow snuck up on me as I walked along the part of Sacred River that runs through our property. She got an earache so bad she lost hearing in that ear for a week. The final time, six-year-old Clementine was doing an experiment in the greenhouse. I’d been outside, singing beneath the willow tree, and right as I’d hit the swelling chorus, a glass pane blew out of the greenhouse. I can still hear my baby sister’s cries of terror. The explosion burned her arm, a deep, bruised strawberry color going up her forearm to her bicep, an obvious and consistent reminder never to do it again.
It was terrifying. To have this compulsion to sing, to physically need to do it or get sick from holding it in, and unable to do it around those I loved. At first, I’d go on long walks, belting out songs I didn’t even realize I knew while hoping no one would recognize me. I went away for college and found karaoke, while somehow managing to keep it all from my best friend and family.
So here we are. I’ve constructed a perfect double life. Except now, one man has the power to ruin everything.
He can’t breathe a word.