Chapter 12
When I finally get home from Adam’s, Amá Sonya is long gone. She left one last text, You can’t hide forever, once again giving me the feeling that my grandmother is a creepy criminal rather than a snobby, luxe designer–wearing busybody.
I feel a mix between energized and unsettled after spending the entire evening with Adam.
We’d gone inside and kept more of a distance from one another as we chatted more about the specific beginning he’d first wanted of me—when I was born, what my childhood was like, how it was growing up with Nadia, Sage, and Teal in Cranberry.
But I feel like a part of me is still somehow hiding with him under the curved, white-blooming elderberry bushes—too close to him and yet not close enough.
It’s the “not close enough” that’s bothering me.
Why would I want to be closer to him than that—a step away from basically being pressed against his long, lean body?
And yet the idea of it makes my body hum as though Teal decided to toss a lightning bolt right into my spine.
What I do know is that these thoughts are dangerous. They are the strange-shaped, glittery footprints in the woods that seem intriguing but lead nowhere good. I need to cut it out and distract myself, fast.
I pull up Matchmakr and frown when I see there are no new messages from @tryingsomethingnew. I’ve gotten some new messages, in general—more of the usual perverted bullshit, but none from him.
“Well,” I tell myself. “He can’t start all the conversations, can he?”
I sit back on my bed and try to think of an opener that’s both philosophical and mind-blowing.
But none of the questions that come to me are either of these things.
The most “mind-blowing” one is Have you ever eaten ass before?
Which I am legitimately curious about! But I don’t think either of us is ready for that kind of a conversation.
Or at least I’m not. I jumped the gun with sexting with Grayson Baker on the local dating app, and look where that got me.
Finally, I type Have you ever been in love?
As soon as I hit the send button, I regret it immediately.
When I ask questions, it’s because I want to know the answers.
But I’ve discovered that many people think questions have all kinds of hidden meanings and agendas.
My mind goes through every possibility I can think of, as far as his interpreting this question.
The worst suggestion that arrives is that I sound like a lovestruck teenager, hoping he’ll confess that he’s realized he’s in love with me.
I’m so horrified, I wonder frantically if I can unsend it and ask him about eating ass instead.
I toss my phone on the bed, stand, and rush to the bathroom.
I brush my teeth. I smooth sunshine-colored serums and grape-scented moisturizer on my face.
I slip on a ruby-red satin nightgown Teal left behind when she moved in with her husband, Carter.
It’s the softest article of clothing I own, which means it’s quite high in value with regard to my whole wardrobe.
Sure, I own a Chanel suit, and a vintage Hermès pencil skirt, but softness is currency for me, as far as materials that must be held against my skin.
I’m constantly removing hanging tags, and sometimes have smooth liners put in dresses by a tailor Amá Sonya frequents, all so they can be wearable.
It’s a treasure when a piece of clothing is perfectly silky as is, no adjustments needed.
I get in bed, brace myself, and pick up the phone again. Dammit, there’s a new notification from @tryingsomethingnew.
I wince, tapping the app open. But his response isn’t at all what I had feared.
@tryingsomethingnew: I really want you to like me, so I want to say yes. But I’m afraid not. I’ve had a lot of flings, to be honest, nothing serious or long enough to develop those kinds of feelings.
@salt&seagirl: Oh. Well, I’d rather you be honest with me than tell me what you think I want to hear, anyway. I’ve never been in love, either. Um…do you ever want to be in love? You think?
@tryingsomethingnew: Hmm. I used to think not, based on my parents’ really fucked-up relationship. But after spending a lot of time with my grandparents, I think that if I could have what they had…yeah, falling in love sounds like it could be really amazing. You?
I sink into the bed even deeper, wondering if I should be honest with him. I don’t want to scare him off. But it would be hypocritical of me to say I appreciate his truthfulness and then refrain from it myself. I take a deep breath and begin typing.
@salt&seagirl: My sisters have recently met and married the loves of their lives, and I’ve been wanting the same for myself. Their partners like…support them. Laugh at their jokes. They really *see* them for who they are, you know? I would love that.
@tryingsomethingnew: Yeah, seeing a relationship work in the way it’s meant to. It definitely makes you long for something that’s always felt out of reach for one reason or another.
@salt&seagirl: Yes!! That is the perfect way to describe it!
It feels out of reach, especially considering—I swallow and make another commitment to the truth—you know, that my life has been really strange, and that’s ultimately made *me* really strange, and all of that mixed with my imperfections and faults…
imagining someone not just accepting all of that but also *loving* it, because it’s a part of me? *faints* lol
@tryingsomethingnew: That is definitely the important part. Being loved fully, even the strangest parts, the pieces of you that no one else seems to understand. Too often relationships begin with an idealized version of the other, not the truth of who they are, you know?
@salt&seagirl: What makes you strange? If you don’t mind my asking?
@tryingsomethingnew: Oh…let’s see. Hmm. Sometimes I watch people and participate in poor man’s prophecy.
I don’t know if you’ve heard of that before, but I listen for whatever snippets of conversation I can hear, then I try and interpret them as fortune-telling.
I don’t know anyone else who does that, tbh. What about you, what makes you strange?
@salt&seagirl: I DO THAT TOO OMG
@salt&seagirl: I read about it in an old book at my work!
Ancient Greeks used to practice this form of fortune-telling!
I knew my sister was pregnant because a lady at the store was clutching a bunch of herbs (that share my sister’s name) and joking about them all having babies (because they were harvested with a bunch of sprouts!)
@tryingsomethingnew: That’s amazing. I’ve never heard anything quite that accurate and specific before.
@tryingsomethingnew: Still, this is quite the coincidence. Seems like we’re strange peas in a pod then, you and me.
@salt&seagirl:
A few days later, after going through what felt like an endless pile of books for categorizing for the Codex Restoration Project at work, I decide, as a little treat, to get some Oreos and a too-sweet hazelnut coffee from the vending machines in the main building, and then settle back into my dungeon, opening my super secret desk drawer filled with evidence that Cranberry has hosted and may still very well host some type of cult.
I pull out my scrapbook and look over the materials with a pen in hand. I spent so long gathering them that I really haven’t allowed myself to figure out what I’m looking at, exactly. So now I begin making a list of patterns:
Potential evidence of Cranberry Witch(?) Cult
Woman-centered
The number thirteen (as far as women in cult)
Meeting in woods and other natural spots
Nudity (?)
Some type of connection to St. Theresa’s
I tap my pen and read more, trying to pull out something, anything else, from my collection of scattered newspaper clippings, but nothing pops through for me, even after going over the articles multiple times.
Only two newspaper pieces mention that there were thirteen women discovered doing some type of witchy shenanigans.
A couple say that they were in the woods, but about three more reference the church.
One bystander in one article claims the women were “nude,” which, maybe, but probably it was wishful thinking on his part is my guess.
I pull out my phone and open the Matchmakr app. @tryingsomethingnew and I have chatted literally every day, and dare I say, he’s beginning to actually feel like a friend now. I haven’t had a sincere, nonrelated friend since before I fell, to be honest.
I thought my sisters and I were friends again…
and if we were, I’d be texting them about my new love interest to see what they thought of him.
Hell, I’d be texting them to get their ideas on what this cult business is all about.
But they’re busy with their super grown-up lives and probably wouldn’t want to hear about it, anyway.
So instead I type to this anonymous man, who I still know could actually be someone’s great-grandfather, chatting me up between bingo games. You ever heard of a cult being discovered, or even, like, referred to here in town?
He responds almost immediately. Umm…not that I can recall. Why? What’s up, you just got recruited or something?
I laugh and then type out a short summary of what I’ve been looking at.
Hmm. I know the church has a kind of weird history. I remember doing some research on it, back in the day, for a project related to an old job.
Oh, I hope this is as promising as it sounds. I feel giddy as I type back. Yeah? What kind of history?
I’m trying to remember. It’s been like a decade, lol…
I wait very impatiently as he collects his thoughts, tapping my pointy boot against the corner of my desk leg.
So the weirdest thing I remember is something about its architecture that doesn’t add up.
Stairs that go nowhere…a couple of doors in weird spots that won’t open.
I contacted the diocese at one point, and they pretty much attributed it to confused builders from when it was built. It was kind of a dead end.
Holy crap, this is seriously amazing! Your dead end could be my new lead. Thanks for telling me that.
You’re welcome, my friend
Even though I was just literally so excited to think of this guy as my friend…
him calling me “friend” feels a bit like lead’s been plopped right into my belly.
Does that make sense or what? I’m glad he’s my friend, but I don’t want him to think of me as just a friend, either.
He’s an elderly man, possibly, I remind myself.
He’s probably married with, like, twelve great-grandchildren.
I swallow and wonder way too hard on what to write back—I’m glad we’re friends.
Are you a great-granddaddy, perchance?—when my phone pings with a text. It’s Adam.
I frown when my stomach fills with a thousand pale blue-winged moths.
“Stop it,” I hiss to my midsection. The way my body responds to Adam keeps troubling me.
Butterflies should be for @tryingsomethingnew, not the man who thought I was trying to scam his grandfather out of house and home.
Sure, he’s apologized, and he has been lovely since, but he hasn’t once acted particularly interested in me.
Except when he stared at your lips the other day, my mind helpfully supplies, as though he wanted to kiss you.
I throw my head back, suppress a shriek of frustration, close my eyes, count to ten, and look down to open up Adam’s text.
What are you doing tomorrow?
What does he mean, what am I doing tomorrow? It’s Friday. I’m bringing food to your place for William. You can have some if you want.
Let’s hang out before then. I’ll pick you up?
Oh no. My stomach betrays me immediately. The little blue moths have multiplied by about one hundred billion now, making me feel like they are able to lift me in flight from in there.
I pull up my group chat with my sisters.
They would know what to tell me. I’m sure Sage, ever the romantic, would encourage me to flirt with Adam and tell him about the effect he’s having on me in some noncreepy manner.
Teal would have the best advice, though, which would guide me on how to immediately drop all these sensations that indicate I might (still) have a crush on him.
But they haven’t written in a good long while, which I should be happy about. It’s what I wanted. I did a whole spell and everything! And yet seeing the lack of updates makes me want to suppress yet another shriek of frustration.
I close out the group chat and pull up Adam’s text again. Sure. What time should I be ready?