Chapter 14 Explain
EXPLAIN
ALICE
Waves crash into my shins. Foamy white bubbles pop against my skin and spray salty droplets up my thighs.
The ocean has always been a place of solace for me in the same way art has. It quiets my mind until there’s no anxiety left—until only the whooshing tide of emotion rolling in and out remains.
Sea grass sways in the breeze behind me; the rustling blades are a comforting whisper. I follow suit, gently rocking. An inch to the left. An inch to the right. Like the wind. Like the tide. It lulls me into tranquility.
I gaze out into the deep blue until my toes are pruned—long enough that the quicksand has swallowed me to my calves, anchoring me to the earth.
Seagulls’ shadows glide across the water as they circle overhead. Their piercing caw breaks me from my trance.
Is there one specific way that you’re supposed to react to learning of magic? Of another world? Of a man who can shift into a beast?
How am I supposed to move on from this, now that I know? Am I wrong to be angry at the lack of information, rather than terrified of what little I do have implies?
I’m always so angry, underneath. I can only ever admit that to myself. It’s stuck beneath layers of sinew and flesh, fortifying my bones, flowing through my veins. It poisons my breath, tightens my throat.
You’d think anger would make you hot. Ill-tempered. Brash. But it just makes me numb. The riptide of my bitter rage hides beneath a sparkling surface, and it lies in wait to drown me.
I’ve swam against the current for two years, and now I’m seriously questioning if this is what will finally pull me under.
Arcadia. Magic. Shifters. An old woman with ominous words, proclaiming I’m some destined hero for her kingdom. A man with white hair who makes me want to paint again. A woman who pulls a flush to my cheeks. A beast who boils my blood.
I cannot deny the fact that I feel around them.
I’ve given myself twenty-four hours to process my visit to Arcadia, but processing isn’t helpful when you don’t have all the information.
I drag myself from the water, dig myself out of the sand.
My journal lies open on my towel, today’s page bearing a single line scribbled above a simple rendition of a wave in black ink. I close it and toss it into my bag. The pen follows, as does my hand, diving into the tote. The latter emerges with my phone.
My fingers are quick to type out my message. They hit send, pause, and add another.
Can I swing by after closing? I want an explanation.
Also, can it be just us? I don’t want to see Harley yet.
It only takes Jessa a few seconds to reply.
Door’s always open for you, Trouble.
JESSA
Jessa’s behind the counter, a dishwasher crate balanced between one arm and her hip, as she places mugs onto the backbar.
The bell above the door has her split-dyed ponytail whipping through the air, her gaze finding mine.
I shouldn’t be able to see her golden eyes from this far away, but they glint in the low light.
“Hey,” she says with a soft smile.
“Hi,” I whisper, lingering in the doorway.
She jerks her head towards my regular table. “Go sit. I’ll be done in a second.”
Jessa takes her time finishing her task, pouring us twin cappuccinos in the process. The air grows thick in the café as I wait, though it doesn’t make me tense. Her lack of panic at my presence disarms me; her casual confidence piques my curiosity.
Does she not feel any shame for holding so many secrets?
The mugs clink on their saucers as she places them on the table.
“That was more than a second,” I say.
She barks a laugh, flopping down into the seat across from me. “Fuck, Alice. You and Harley really do have the same sense of humor.”
“I couldn’t not take the opportunity.”
“I know. I should know better.” Jessa grabs my coffee and takes a sip. An imprint of her lips, mauve pink, remains on the white ceramic. Her expression twitches with teasing mirth as she puts it down, then takes a sip of her own, making a matching set. “In case you think I drugged it.”
Annoyance tickles the back of my neck. “I think that was a fair thing for me to assume given the circumstances.”
“I’m not judging you,” Jessa says, and it sounds genuine. She cups her mug with both hands and relaxes in her seat. “You have questions. I’ve got answers. Throw ‘em at me.”
My lips purse, and I stare down at my fingers, woven tightly on the table. There are a thousand ways I can start this conversation, but there’s one question that’s bugged me the most.
“Harley asked if I remembered him.” I swallow the forming lump in my throat. “Have I met you guys before I moved here?”
Jessa adopts a strained smile. “Right to the killer ones, huh?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say.
“True.” Her feline eyes flick over me, assessing. “We’ve met before.”
“When we were kids?”
“Yes.”
“But it wasn’t… here.”
“No.”
“It was in Arcadia,” I say. A statement, not a question. “Which is another… realm?”
“Yes.”
I nod, and my fingers unlace. I hook the saucer between my pointer and thumb and drag it closer. “Why don’t I remember?”
Jessa’s jaw ticks. “I don’t know.”
“The old woman I met said it’s because I was away too long?” I half ask, half state.
Her entire body tenses as she leans forward. “What do you mean, old woman?”
I divert my gaze, following the curved edge of the pastry display case. My stomach churns, a mixture of dread, confusion, and frustration curdling. All the events I swallowed at the beach come up, word vomit spewing between us.
“I had a dream about it, but maybe it was a memory? I don’t know.
I went to the park to clear my head and then I was in Arcadia again, in the same spot I was with Harley after the gala.
I wandered for a while, and then I smelt smoke.
There was this old woman and she offered me drugs—which I didn’t take—and she said some weird fucking shit that only confused me more.
I mean, it was crazy talk of princes and tourneys, Jessa.
And who the hell is this queen everyone is scared of?
Is she evil?” I suck in a breath, desperate for air.
“And then I stumbled upon a fucking dragon. Did you know that Ori’s a dragon?
Is that why he’s such an ass? Are there more of them? Are they all that growly?”
Jessa blinks, mouth parted in shock. I wait for her to respond, but it seems I’ve broken her.
Then, a conniving smile cuts her cheek as she lifts her coffee to her lips and mutters, “No wonder he’s been in such a foul mood.”
“Jessa, I need you to explain. Now.”
“Sorry,” she says, placing her mug down and scrubbing a hand over her cheek.
“Let me start at the beginning.” I lean forward, hanging on every word.
“Arcadia’s a realm where magic is real but doesn’t always make sense.
The flora and fauna are wild and wonderful, as are the people who reside there.
And those people…” Her attention drifts off as she describes her home; awe and sadness buff the bronze of her irises.
“We’re all shifters, Alice. Everyone in Arcadia—at least, the folks who are born there—has a second form. ”
I nod, slowly letting her confession settle in my brain. “So, Ori is a dragon.”
Jessa huffs. “Yeah. But that’s not why he can be a dick. His parents were actually super sweet people. His Memaw too. That’s who you must have met—old bat has camped out in the Woods ever since her Champion passed.”
I almost miss her use of past tense for Ori’s parents, and I tuck away the nugget for later.
“What are you, then?” I ask.
“A cat,” she says.
“A cat?” I repeat.
Jessa smirks. “Yeah, but a big cat.”
“So, a tiger?”
“Of sorts. Our beasts don’t always align with creatures from your world.” She shrugs and takes another sip of her coffee. “We can’t shift here, which is a bummer. Otherwise, I’d show you.”
“That’s okay,” I say, unsure if I want to see her other form. Ori’s dragon was unnerving enough. “What about Harley?”
“He’s a white rabbit.”
I snort, and her smile only grows.
“Fitting for him, right?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
We fall into a passive silence, and I take the opportunity to sip my drink. Jessa watches, gaze darkening as I latch my mouth over her lipstick stain. The bold espresso hits my tongue, and I swallow it back, letting it warm my throat.
Jessa continues her explanation, “Humans will occasionally fall into Arcadia. Sometimes they spend an hour there, sometimes a week. Sometimes they come back and only a minute has passed. Time doesn’t always transfer over the same. Usually, it’s no big deal.”
“Okay…” Another gulp of coffee slides down my throat.
“You were with us for months, Alice.”
I choke, coughing. My mug clanks as I set it down. “I’m sorry, I thought I heard you say months.”
“Arcadia calls to some more than others, wants them to stay. We call those people Champions,” she presses on. “You are one of those people.”
“No, that’s impossible,” I argue. “I would have known if I was gone for months. Especially as a child.”
“I just told you the magic we’re dealing with here doesn’t make sense.
Are you telling me there was never a day when you spaced out in a daydream and time seemed to stop?
Or a day your parents swore you weren’t in your room, but suddenly you were there, sitting in the middle of the carpet as if they weren’t just screaming for you in a panic?
” Jessa asks, her voice taking on a note of frustration.
I shake my head, but I immediately think of my dream. Of that summer day I fell asleep under the big tree...
“You’re shaking your head, but you still believe me,” Jessa says.
I stare into the foamy cap of my coffee. “I can’t not believe you.”
“I hate double negatives. They make my head spin.”
“Sometimes they’re more accurate,” I say. “I can’t believe you so easily. But I also can’t deny the truths that are staring me in the face.”
An ominous beat passes between us.
“You said I’m a Champion,” I whisper. “The old woman said that too.”
Jessa nods. “Arcadia has royalty. But the way they transfer power is different than a simple, ‘hey kid, you’re next in line, here you go’. The family always has twins. And when those twins turn thirty, they fight for the crown in a tourney.”
“Like to the death?” I balk.
“No, no. Not normally,” she says, though the consolation doesn’t quell my panic. “Heirs don’t fight alone.”
“Okay.”
“They have Champions that are chosen by the realm to help them in the tourney.”
“Jessa, I thought you weren’t the type to play games. Stop drawing this out as if it’s a CW drama,” I say, though I’ve consumed enough fantasy media to see where this is going. “Are you telling me that I’m the chosen one?”
Jessa’s darkly feminine laugh fills the room. “Yeah, Trouble, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“But how do you know?” I ask.
“Because you fell into Arcadia. And you stayed for a long time. And you and Ori have the same birthday. Champions always do. It’s a marker of your bond.”
“And how do you know that?” I ask, exasperated.
“Because you told us. And we had a party the second day you were with us. August twenty-seventh,” Jessa says, lips curving around the rim of her mug.
“I don’t remember doing that.”
“As we have established.”
I close my eyes, pressing my fingers into the pressure points under my brow. “So, Ori is… the prince. Of Arcadia.”
“One of them, yes.”
I suck in a stuttered breath, hold it for a second, and then let it whoosh out of me. “I’m going to leave this conversation with more questions than I came in with, aren’t I?”
Jessa’s expression softens with patience. “It’s a lot to take in. That’s why Harley wanted to talk in person. We’re upending your life with this information.”
“You’re only upending my life if you’re asking me to help.” I swallow around the rising panic in my throat. “I assume that you want me to participate in this tourney? Was this all a ruse to get me to trust you all so I’d say yes?”
“I’d be lying if I said no,” Jessa says, cautiously. “But I don’t think it’s productive to slam you with anything more than this right now. Take a few days. Let it soak in. Text me more questions as they pop into your head.”
I down the rest of my drink. It’s lukewarm now, the worst temperature.
Coffee only tastes good hot or cold, not in the in-between.
The mug clinks as I place it back on its saucer, and the sound strikes fear into me.
My teeth bite into my lower lip, chewing on the skin until metal blooms on my tongue.
“I think what I’m the most upset about is how you—” I cut myself off with a sigh. My voice lowers to a whisper. “I thought you both genuinely liked me.”
Jessa’s hand slides over mine. Her palm is rougher than it should be, small callouses dotting the flesh beneath her fingers. One firm squeeze makes my heart skip a beat.
“We do,” she says. “Wanting you to help and wanting you are not mutually exclusive desires.”
Oddly enough, I believe her.