Chapter 25 Annalise
Annalise
“You’ve officially lost your mind.” Kenna sends me a suspicious side-eye.
My face sours as I lick my cherry-chip ice cream cone, the sugar curdling into spoiled milk. “It wasn’t official before?”
“You were like ninety-nine percent there. This puts you over the edge.”
“Yay.” An icy droplet dribbles down my hand as we browse the outdoor shops in downtown Rutland. “You can’t pretend to know what you’d do in my situation.”
“Yes, I absolutely can,” she counters. “I’d go all in, Annalise. Fifty million percent. Balls to the wall.”
“Your balls are bigger than mine.”
“Fact.” Humming under her breath, she peers over to one of the quaint stores. “Oh! You need to start manifesting. It’s a new moon. I’ll get you a candle and some stones.”
“I don’t know anything about moon magic,” I grouse.
“So? You can learn.” She licks her half-eaten cone, grabs mine, then tosses them both in a trash can. Her fingers curl around my wrist as she drags me toward the entrance. “One time, I manifested front-row tickets to see Sleep Token. Then they just showed up.”
I blink at her. “That’s not manifesting. That was Rick Doherty trying to get you naked.”
“All I’m saying is it worked.” The doorbell jingles as we enter, and a dark-haired young woman welcomes us with a smile. “Let’s get you properly aligned.”
My shoulders slump as I glance around the shop that smells like lavender and patchouli. Every surface is filled with velvet-draped tables stacked with jars of loose herbs, shelves lined with multicolored crystals, and hanging displays of pendulums that glint under the amber light.
Kenna beelines for a shelf cluttered with gems, waving her fingers like she’s scanning for the right vibe. “Okay, first you need clear quartz for clarity and amplification. Then rose quartz, because your heart chakra is a disaster. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“And this one”—she grabs a small handful of smoky black stones—“black tourmaline. For protection from bad vibes. And from guys who look like Tom Sandoval.”
“Offense taken.” My eyes narrow at the jab at Alex. “He’s not as bad as you think he is. We’re both putting in the effort.”
This snags Kenna’s attention. She whips around in her bright turquoise maxi dress, her expression softening. Her faux-yellow hair contrasts inky grown-out roots and tan skin, making her look like a sun-drenched punk mermaid.
“Annalise,” she says, tone low and sober. “Your effort is in trying to fix what’s broken. His effort is in keeping things broken, so you’re forced to stay and fix it. Healthy effort is in the progress. The teamwork.”
Her words make me itch. “That’s not what’s happening.”
“You want to be in the band, right? That’s where your heart is. Music, creating. Singing your soul to anyone who will listen.” Stepping closer, she presses a hand to my upper arm. “Alex isn’t listening. He’s only making you feel bad and bringing you down. He doesn’t hear you.”
My cheeks flame. With anger or awareness, I can’t tell. “I want to be with him.”
“Do you? Be honest with yourself. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life with him, or is that just guilt and the fear of change whispering in your ear?”
I shake my head, slithering out of her grip. “You don’t understand. We’ve built a life together. Everything I have is because of him.”
“That’s not true. You have me. Tag. Your parents, even though they’re living it up with the chickens in Alabama.”
“Georgia.”
“I’m just saying, you have them. They’re only a phone call away, and we both know they’d jump on the first flight out if you needed them.” Her eyes mist, shimmering in the low light. “You also have a way out if you’re brave enough to take it.”
My eyes close.
She doesn’t get it. It’s not about being brave; it’s about being smart. Quitting my job, leaving my boyfriend, and becoming a homeless, struggling musician isn’t smart. It’s reckless.
Kenna sighs, sensing my barriers. My hopes and dreams wrapped in steel. “What about Chase?”
My heart fumbles. I haven’t confided in Kenna about Chase. Not entirely. Not about my dark thoughts, my seesawing emotions. The growing connection between us. “What about him?” I wonder, voice shaking.
“He’s a lot like you. Works long hours, struggles to get by, uses music as an outlet. The difference is he sees opportunity as a tangible thing. Something within reach. For you, it’s still this far-off dream.” Her smile saddens. “Unattainable.”
I look away. Fold my arms.
Keep those barriers sky-high.
Shoulders drooping, Kenna turns away and scans the shelves, plopping stones into mesh baggies.
“Well, I can see my invaluable advice is going in one ear and out the other. And that’s okay.
But maybe some deep reflection and moonstone can help.
It brings dreams and new beginnings into focus.
” She reaches for a chunk of moonstone, adding it to her haul.
We leave the store a few minutes later with magic stones, bamboo and jade, and a deep-blue pillar candle, supposedly good for initiating change and helping with healing and inspiration.
When Kenna drops me off in front of my condo, she shoves the bags at me. “I can send over more plants if you want.”
“Thanks.” I chuckle. “But I’m good for now.”
“Listen, this stuff takes time. It doesn’t happen overnight,” she says.
“Be patient. Open-minded. And most importantly, focus on what you really want. Listen to that voice inside your head. She’s always been there, and she won’t steer you wrong.
” She reaches over and wraps me in a warm hug. “I love you, girlie. And I’m here.”
I squeeze her back, emotion sticking in my throat. “I love you too. Thank you for everything.”
Collecting my bags, I hop out of the car and wave goodbye.
I’m left with a fissure in my chest.
Afternoon bleeds into evening, and the little chasm cracks wider with every passing hour. Alex gets home from work around seven. He cooks; I clean.
We hardly speak.
The voice inside my head—the one Kenna begged me to listen to—howls at me. I’ve never really researched manifestation before, passing most of it off as overpriced candles, glittery jewels, and good marketing, all wrapped in moon phases and cliché quotes.
But I’m ready. I’m ready to try anything.
Come midnight, Alex is asleep in the bedroom, and I’m on the balcony, cross-legged in an old hoodie, a cup of tea growing cold beside me. A crackle of thunder rumbles in the distance.
Kenna’s starter kit is strewn across the wrought iron table like spilled thoughts: a rose quartz heart, moonstone, black tourmaline, and an indigo candle that smells like cinnamon and courage.
I light it with trembling hands.
My mother used to tell me that writing poems and singing songs weren’t a phase or a hobby.
They weren’t something I needed to shelve when real life showed up.
But I’ve let other voices get louder. The ones that tell me to be responsible and quiet.
And somewhere in all that static, I convinced myself that my dreams had an expiration date.
Now, the big question looms in the back of my mind.
What are my dreams? Those burning, heart-bursting dreams?
What do you want, Annalise?
What. Do. I. Want.
My eyes water as I tip my face to the sky, and a few raindrops sprinkle down to earth.
“I want to stop being afraid,” I whisper as the slim crescent moon glows faintly through the cloud cover. I feel stupid. I feel scared. I feel free. “I want to stop apologizing for the things that set my soul on fire.”
I inhale a deep breath, pressing a hand to my heart.
Tiny raindrops dapple the stones. I don’t even know what half of them are supposed to do, but I don’t move them. I just stare.
At them. At the candle. At the sliver of honey moon floating in the sky.
I focus on the voice I’ve spent years turning the volume down on like a haunting old song.
But she’s not whispering tonight.
She’s roaring.
And her voice doesn’t sound like some mystical thing—it sounds like me.
My truest self. The girl who used to write lyrics on math worksheets and stayed up until 3:00 a.m. watching bootleg concert videos.
The girl who used to believe that if she worked hard enough, poured enough of herself into a poem or a chorus, the world might listen.
And God, I miss her.
The answers don’t hit me like a thunderbolt. They seep inside like a chord progression, a melody that’s been humming in my bones since I was a pigtailed grade-schooler.
I want the music. I want the mess and the noise and the risk of it all. I want to be in the room where songs are born and mistakes are made and something real happens.
I don’t want to keep living this muted version of my life just because it’s safe.
I want that secret chord.
Blowing out the candle, I watch the smoke rise in a twisting trail.
Kenna was right; these things take time.
But the truth is, I already knew what I wanted. I just needed to listen.
“I want this,” I say, my voice louder, laced with years-worth of buried conviction. “I want this so much.”
Tears rush to my eyes.
And then I’m on my feet, racing out of the condo, forgoing an umbrella. The rain grows heavier with every step, pummeling down in unyielding sheets.
The sky applauds me. The night smiles. My heartbeat ricochets.
I run fast, down the street, past honking cars and rain-glazed porch lights. My sneakers slap against wet pavement, socks soaked through in seconds. I run for miles, my breathing ragged, my tears mingling with rainfall. I run until I reach Tag’s house, nearly buckling in the grass.
Chase is there. Stepping out of his car with a guitar in hand.
He does a double take, watching as I hunch over, hands to my knees, my drenched hair smacking me in the face.
“Annie?”
I hear him call out to me moments before thunder strikes and lightning zips through the sky in white-hot veins.
Winded, I glance up, my lungs on fire, my heart beating a hundred miles a minute. “Chase.”
He lets go of the guitar case. Tosses it into the grass.
I race over to him, and we meet in the center of the lawn. No hesitation, no falter. I leap, winding my arms around his neck and burying my sobbing face against his shoulder.
“Jesus,” he whispers, his hug quieter, less sure. He holds me loosely, two soft palms splaying across my back. “What happened?”
A dizzying wave of laughter breaks through the tears. I inch back until we’re face-to-face. “Honey Moons.”
He stares at me, blinking. “What?”
“The band name,” I say, laughing again, practically singing. “Honey Moons.”
A twinkle lights his gaze. Brightens the hazel of his eyes to golden torches.
Everything clicks.
And just like that, he smiles. “You’re in?”
I nod frantically as another downpour escapes the sky. “I’m in. I’m so fucking in.”
His smile grows wings.
This time he reaches for me, scooping me into his arms, his face sinking to the arch of my neck, breath warm against my cold, wet skin.
I shiver. Close my eyes.
Just be.
“I’m done being scared.” I cling to him, holding on to him like a tether, a lifeline. His arms grip me tighter, keeping me together. It’s the final note I need to make the song complete. A coda. “No more half measures.”