Chapter Nineteen
Beau fluttered about the sunroom, ignoring Marshall’s requests for him to sit down already.
He’d set out of the freshly acquired dinner on the table: a large helping of pork fried rice, eggrolls, and sesame chicken.
And now, Beau paced around with the bong, before he found the lighter on a worktable and swished the droopy sleeves of his brightly colored, vintage sixties caftan around until he sat down.
“Family,” he announced, “Tis time!”
With his flamboyant southern-lady movements, he lit the bong, taking a large hit before exhaling with a little cough and launching into a tirade about the day.
Schuyler worked with him, so the grievances of the day were already well known. Still, he was grateful for the grounding normality of a Wednesday night with his family. He had spent the days after the Dev/Issac affair locked away in his room.
Affair, makes it sound tawdry and cheap.
I was there, narrating it; it was.
Just continue the story.
The events of the past few days had taken their toll, and Schuyler needed a healthy dose of solitude to recalibrate body and soul. Dev gave him space, going off to explore all the facets of the afterlife he anxiously awaited, with promises he’d pop up in dreams soon; a promise he kept.
Schuyler took the bong and a hit as Beau finished up and Marshall shared his day; as usual, his was chill and drama free.
He had remained at home, working on products for the shop.
He shared, instead, the things within his day that made him grateful: Estelle, having all the tools he needed to do what he loved, food in the fridge, his family around him, and Schuyler being home. What else did he need?
Marshall’s outlook always made Schuyler appreciate the small things—a considerable feat for a brain wired by genetics to steer everything toward the overdramatic.
A humorous coincidence as at that exact moment Beau flared his caftan out like a true diva, before diving into his plate of sesame chicken.
Schuyler chuckled to himself as he took another hit and secretly prayed to the Goddesses to please not let him become Beau when he got older.
“Don’t be selfish, homo,” Beau sassed, holding his hand outstretched, demanding the bong back. “And it’s your turn.”
Reluctantly, Schuyler handed the pipe back and settled into the couch, his eggroll on a plate on his lap, waiting for the cannabis to kick in and make the meal taste even more amazing.
Today was the first he had spent in the shop since before Dev’s brief resurrection—a nice break from the past few in his room.
He opened his share with the story of the frantic woman who’d come barging into the shop in the afternoon, dragging her husband behind her. “So, she’s moving in a line right for me and when she approached the counter, all she said, and quite loudly, was, ‘You gotta fix his dick!’”
Schuyler laughed as he recounted the event. How the woman relayed their desperate need for her husband’s cock to be as hard as possible. “She said it’s like a taffy pull and she has arthritis.
“Then she went into how she needed it and heard from a friend we could fix it. Poor guy looked humiliated, but once I gave him a cleansing, dude nearly tap-danced out of there. Bet they didn’t even make it home.”
That wasn’t what Beau and Marhsall wanted to hear about though. This was their first check-in since the cemetery—since Issac. Schuyler had shared the Dev part of the story, to some degree, but remained quiet about the rest.
“Cal came into the store today, too.” That tidbit got their attention, not the morsel they wanted, but a decent appetizer. “You were on the phone fighting with Dolores,” he explained to Beau’s shocked and quizzical face.
“That cow whore!”
Marshall set his plate down and cleared his throat twice. “And?” he asked.
Sky knew he wanted to hear about him knocking Cal out on his ass or something equally thrilling. “He apologized again, profusely and sincerely. Told me the incident ushered him into finally getting some therapy.”
Beau threw some side-eye. “Ain’t enough therapy to help that one.”
“I’m happy he recognized he needed some help.”
“You did that though,” Beau stated firmly, pointing at him, nodding his head. “You healed enough of him to clear his mind to get to that realization. That was you.”
“I doubt it. I slammed him against a wall and left him a crying mess.”
“Assistance arrives in many forms, and sometimes that’s an ass whoopin’,” Marshall added with a strong and sassily uncharacteristic mmhmm at the end.
Schuyler appreciated the validation. Cal had asked if it would be possible for them to try being friends again.
While nothing happened—or would have, even if he had drunk the spiked cocktail—the breach of trust had cracked their friendship to the foundation; Schuyler was unsure if he wanted to try to rebuild.
“I told him once he’s had some more therapy, we can see. ”
He had more visitors he didn’t mention; old friends popped in throughout his day, introducing their partners, confirming contact info, dates planned.
His entry back into his former circle of friends appeared set.
Despite the ups and downs of the past few days, Schuyler felt better than he had in a long time, even while still mourning.
“And Issac?” Marshall asked, handing him the bong. Beau sat up as well.
The real topic they wanted to talk about. Schuyler almost wished Issac had been erased instead.
No need for all these awkward conversations.
He recounted the events which led to Issac’s passing.
“And,” he added, taking a large hit, “I’ve spent a few days mourning him, like fully mourning, and decided that was enough.
I cared for him, we had a great time, but he lied about so much and had all this rage.
I wish it had gone a different way, that he was here sitting with us right now, but it didn’t. And I won’t stay focused on that.”
Schuyler had taken Issac’s wand into the woods the day after the cemetery.
Holding it in his hands, he gave the young man a small eulogy, knowing Issac might never receive a proper burial.
Sky wanted there to be something done for his spirit, wherever he was.
Dev planned to try to make amends with his ancestors once in the afterlife—there they could help bring his sister some peace over what happened with her son.
When finished, Sky snapped the wand, cracking the inlaid opals and the twisted, braided wood.
The stolen magic was released in a wispy cloud of energy, which swept itself up into the wind to find its way back to the witch it belonged to.
He buried the broken wand at the far edge of the clearing he visited often, placing a small rock over the spot as a marker and declaring that would be the last time he shed a tear for Issac Carrow.
“However,” Schuyler added, “like was suggested earlier,” he smiled at Marshall, “I’m grateful for the experience with him. I mean that was some banger sex if nothing else. And he rekindled my love of magic.
“Maybe he even rekindled my love for myself.
“And he brought Dev back to me, and that allowed me to find some closure. This all sucked, of course; would not recommend, but I do feel better for having gone through it.”
He picked up his eggroll, finally ready to enjoy the crunchy delight. Neither Beau nor Marshall required any more on the subject, and the name Issac Carrow was never raised again.
“Any dates on the horizon?” Marshall asked.
“Hell no,” Schuyler exclaimed. “And I’m okay with that. I do want someone to spend this life with, but for now, I’m very happy with it just being me.”
“Get on with your sassy self, Carrie Bradshaw.”
“I’m serious though,” he chided Beau. “I want someone, sure, but I don’t need anyone, and I’ll focus on other things in my life, and let whatever happens in that area, happen.”
“I think that’s the best idea, son,” Marshall added.
“Feels like a happy ending to me,” Schuyler said, focusing on the stars out the window, realizing for the first time in a long time, he was content. A too rare feeling.
“Happy ending,” Beau scoffed, taking another hit. “It ain’t the good kind.”
Schuyler lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Occasionally, he glanced out the windows to see the town he’d been so ashamed to show his face in when he returned, and now couldn’t imagine ever leaving again.
There were good things on the horizon, even if he couldn’t see them clearly at the present.
There were friends to get reacquainted with, new lovers to find pleasure with, old lovers he could go another round with.
The mojo he felt abandoned him had returned.
He wanted to get on the apps and see if his velvet mouth friend was available when another idea hit him.
Schuyler sat up, feeling a pull he’d not felt in months. His fingers twitched.
I could write about Sex Magic. A lost Angelique Spicer book found in some dusty closet, one she’d hidden away. Something very different. Maybe I could even do a glamour and make videos as her, ones found in the same dusty closet.
The fact that he hadn’t written about Sex Magic yet boggled his mind, but now he realized he needed to remedy that.
He jumped out of bed, and for the first time since he’d come home, sat down at his desk. He pushed away the clutter that had accumulated and grabbed a notebook and enchanted a pen to take dictation as his mind raced with a bevy of thoughts and fresh ideas.
And here endeth our story.
Excuse me homo—I’m the narrator and the one who says when the story has reached its conclusion.
You know, I’m really tired of your attitude, Mister Narrator.
Oh really? Well, the story’s over now, so you don’t have to worry about it anymore, do you? I mean unless you’re a petty witch-bitch who needs to get the last word in.
The End.
Oh, you should know by now that I am.
Annnd now, it’s The End.