Chapter 11 The New Normal
THE NEW NORMAL
WHERE I FINALLY BECOME THE MAIN CHARACTER.
Six weeks later, I stood in Marcus’s bathroom—our bathroom now—and stared at the chaos I’d created.
My shampoo bottles had multiplied. Seven of them lined up on the edge of the tub, plus two conditioners, a deep conditioning mask I’d used exactly once, and something labeled “volumizing mousse” that I’d bought in a moment of optimism and never opened.
They formed a small army against Marcus’s single bottle of all-in-one wash, which he used for his hair, his body, and probably his dishes if I wasn’t watching.
“You know,” his voice came from the doorway, “when I said you could move some things in, I didn’t mean your entire Target hair care aisle.”
“This is a reasonable amount of products for a woman my age.”
“There are seven shampoos.”
“They do different things!”
“They all do one thing. They clean hair.”
“They clean hair differently. This one is for volume. This one is for shine. This one is clarifying, which you use when the other ones build up too much. This one—”
“I’m sorry I asked.”
I caught his eye in the mirror and grinned. He was leaning against the doorframe in his bathrobe, coffee in hand, hair still rumpled from sleep. He looked annoyed. He also looked like home.
“Your towels are too small,” I said.
“My towels are normal-sized.”
“Your towels are hand towels masquerading as bath towels. I feel like I’m drying off with a napkin.”
“You could buy new towels.”
“I could. But then where would I put them? The towel rack is very minimalist.”
“The towel rack holds towels. That’s not minimalist, that’s functional.”
“It holds one towel. Maybe two if you fold creatively. I need at least three towels per shower.”
“Why do you need three towels?”
“One for my body, one for my hair, one for…” I trailed off. “Backup.”
“Backup towels.”
“You never know.”
He shook his head, but he was smiling—that soft, private smile that I was learning was just for me. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet you let me move in.”
“Temporary insanity.” He crossed the bathroom, wrapped his arms around me from behind, and met my eyes in the mirror. “I’m clearly not thinking straight.”
I leaned back into him. Watched our reflection—this rumpled, middle-aged couple in a too-small bathroom, arguing about towels and shampoo like it was the most important thing in the world.
Six weeks ago, I’d been drowning in magical chaos, surrounded by ghost exes and disco enthusiasts, convinced I was incapable of choosing anything. Now I was bickering about toiletries with a man who’d seen me at my worst and decided to keep me anyway.
“What are you thinking?” Marcus asked, watching my expression in the mirror.
“That this is strange. Good strange. But strange.”
“The towel situation?”
“The… all of it situation.” I turned in his arms to face him properly. “Six weeks ago, I had forty-seven first dates worth of commitment issues and a phone that wouldn’t stop generating romantic options. Now I’m arguing about bathroom storage with a man I’m pretty sure I’m in love with.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them. We’d been dancing around them for weeks—showing instead of telling, demonstrating instead of declaring. But there they were, hanging in the air between us.
Marcus went very still.
“Pretty sure?” he said finally.
“Okay, very sure. Completely sure. Terrifyingly sure.” I took a breath. “I love you. I probably should have said it before now, but I was scared that saying it would jinx it somehow, which is ridiculous because I don’t believe in jinxes, except apparently I do when it comes to—”
He kissed me. Cut off my rambling with his mouth on mine, soft and certain.
“I love you too,” he said when he pulled back. “I’ve been waiting for you to say it first because I didn’t want to pressure you. Which is ridiculous because I’ve been thinking it for weeks.”
“We’re both ridiculous.”
“We are.” He kissed me again. “But at least we’re ridiculous together.”
From the bedroom, Tequila meowed his judgment of the entire scene.
“Coming,” I called.
“He just ate an hour ago,” Marcus said.
“He’s a growing boy.”
“He’s sixteen pounds. He’s a grown man.”
“Don’t fat-shame my cat.”
I extracted myself from Marcus’s arms and went to deal with Tequila, who was sitting next to his empty bowl with the air of a creature who had never been fed in his entire life and was mere moments from perishing of starvation.
“You’re very dramatic,” I told him.
He meowed again. You’re still the person who forgets to buy cat food.
“That was ONE time. And I didn’t forget—I just got distracted by the magical crisis.”
Excuses.
“You know what? Fair.” I refilled his bowl, scratched behind his ears.
You said the L word, he observed. Finally. I was starting to think you’d both choke on it.
“You were listening?”
I’m always listening. It’s what I do. He bent to eat, then paused. He’s good for you. The grumpy one. I approve.
“High praise.”
Don’t let it go to your head.
The winery had been patient with me, but patience had its limits.
“You’ve called in sick fourteen times in the past two months,” Valentina said, arms crossed, standing in the middle of the tasting room like a general surveying a battlefield. “Fourteen. That’s more sick days than you took in the entire previous year.”
“I had a lot going on.”
“You had a ‘magical emergency.’” She made air quotes. “Multiple times. I don’t even know what that means, Diane.”
I couldn’t exactly explain that I’d been dealing with a possessed phone, an army of summoned ex-boyfriends, and the discovery that I’d inherited matchmaking powers from my dead great-aunt.
Valentina was many things—brilliant, demanding, terrifying in a pantsuit—but she was not someone who would take “sorry, disco ghosts” as a valid excuse.
“I know I’ve been unreliable,” I said. “And I’m sorry. Things have… settled down now.”
“Settled down.” She studied me with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. “You do seem different. Less…”
“Chaotic?”
“I was going to say ‘like you’re about to bolt at any moment,’ but chaotic works too.” She uncrossed her arms, which was as close to relaxing as Valentina ever got. “I’m not going to fire you. You’re too good at your job when you actually show up. But I need to know you’re committed.”
“I am. I’m—” I almost laughed at the word. Committed. Me. “I’m in a different place now. Literally and figuratively. I moved in with someone.”
Her eyebrows rose. “The antique shop man?”
“How do you know about—”
“Small town. People talk.” A hint of a smile crossed her face. “He seems grumpy.”
“He is grumpy. It’s part of his charm.”
“Hmm.” She picked up a clipboard—Valentina always had a clipboard—and made a note. “Fine. You’re back on the schedule starting Monday. Full hours. No more ‘magical emergencies.’”
“No more magical emergencies,” I agreed. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I’m being realistic. But I’ll give you as much notice as possible.”
She sighed the sigh of a woman who had learned to accept what she couldn’t control. “That’s the best I’m going to get, isn’t it?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Monday. Seven AM. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.”
I walked out of the winery into the autumn sunshine, feeling lighter than I had in months. I had a job. I had a home—a real home, with someone who wanted me there. I had friends who’d become family and magic that had finally stopped trying to drown me.
For the first time in my life, I had a life I actually wanted to live.
It was terrifying. It was wonderful. It was mine.
Sunday dinner at Cassie's had become tradition.
Not the kind of tradition that felt like obligation—the kind that felt like gravity. Like no matter what else happened during the week, we all just naturally ended up at 47 Maple Street when Sunday rolled around, drawn together by something stronger than habit.
Tonight, the table was chaos in the best possible way.
Liam had made something Scottish involving potatoes and an alarming amount of butter.
Cassie had contributed a salad that was mostly croutons—she’d gotten better at magic but not at cooking.
I’d brought wine, because that was my role and always would be.
Marcus had brought a cheese plate arranged with the precision of a man who’d spent thirty years handling delicate antiques.
Margaret had brought unsolicited advice and a mysterious jar of something she refused to identify.
“Your wards need refreshing,” she told Cassie, helping herself to cheese. “The southeast corner is getting thin.”
“The southeast corner is fine.”
“The southeast corner let a family of raccoons establish a small civilization in your garden shed last week.”
“Those raccoons were already there. They’re basically tenants at this point.”
“They’ve started organizing. I saw one with a clipboard.”
Luna hopped onto the table, ignored everyone’s protests, and settled directly in the center of the cheese plate. “The raccoons are harmless. They’re running a book club.”
“A book club,” Marcus repeated flatly.
“Romance novels, mostly. They have questionable taste but strong opinions.”
Liam reached around the cat to rescue a piece of brie. “I’m not asking how you know that.”
“Wise choice.”
I watched them all—this strange, impossible family I’d somehow stumbled into.
Cassie and Liam, pressed close together, finishing each other’s sentences.
Margaret, sharp and knowing, pretending she wasn’t enjoying herself.
Luna, judging everyone equally from her throne of cheese.
And Marcus beside me, quiet and steady, his hand finding mine under the table like it was the most natural thing in the world.