12. Lonely Beauty
Lonely Beauty
If I had to guess, I’d say this book weighs exactly three million pounds.
The Women of The Pruitt Line. A comprehensive family tree with biographies of the Pruitt line all the way back to Salem.
The leather cover is decorated in flowers and embossed cursive text. It screams old, but considering these women were born four-hundred-plus years ago . . . Yeah, it’s old.
The scent of magic—smoke, bonfire, and almost burned marshmallows—washes over me as I open it. The rightness of the moment settles heavily on me. Maybe magic is as much mine as it is Hazel’s and Grandma’s.
I flip through the pages. Of course, the witches aren’t actually organized by anything other than timeline, so I’m looking for a fiery needle in a haystack. It may take some time.
Hazel has read a little bit so the pages don’t stick, but they are stiff. This book deserves more love than it gets. Deserves to be seen, learned from. Read.
Frustration blooms in my chest. I would’ve been reading this as a fucking bedtime story if my magic hadn’t been kept from me.
Is this how Hazel felt when she started learning her magic? I remember her being so angry, and I can’t help feeling like I understand her a bit more.
My eyes lazily scan for the words ‘fire’ and ‘flame,’ but I’m not seeing much. Other than Elizabeth, the start of our line, being burned at the fucking stake.
Talk about yikes.
My thoughts stray to Ash, as they usually do when I’m not otherwise occupied. To his face when I told him I didn’t want him. To his determination to respect my boundaries even though he doesn’t understand them.
To how lonely he must feel with his dad being sick. My heart aches at the thought.
Without much control over my actions, I pull out my phone.
Laura: Are you okay?
I’m not sure what makes me ask it, but I need to know that he’s not alone in his home thinking about how he doesn’t have anyone to talk to. Which is ridiculous. I finally got exactly what I wanted—space from my soulmate so I can keep him safe. And now I’m undoing all that hard work.
Ugh, can I unsend that?
My phone buzzes. I take a beat to prepare for whatever he’s going to say, to deep breathe. To meditate like Grandma taught me.
Fuck this.
Hulking Brute: Dad had a bad day today.
I hold the phone to my chest, trying to alleviate the ache. I don’t even know Ash’s dad, but I hate hearing that he had a bad day. I hate knowing Ash has to deal with this.
All I want is to find him and hug him.
How am I supposed to navigate this? How am I supposed to know what the right thing to do is?
I’m trying to protect him, I’m trying to give him the chance to find a life that isn’t as dangerous as the one I unfortunately live. I’m trying to give him what he deserves.
Why does it seem like the more I get to know him, the more I don’t know what I’m doing after all?
Laura: Meet at our spot just before sunrise?
Good God, we have a spot.
Hulking Brute: Thanks, Goldilocks. I’ll see you then.
I just hope I don’t regret it.
Winter may be my favorite season. Lord knows why, though, considering it’s fucking cold as a witch’s tit out here.
But I can’t deny the almost lonely beauty of a blanket of snow over a world undisturbed. The trees wait helplessly for the cold to fade away so they can bloom once more, while we all huddle inside in our warm blankets and body heat.
I pull up to the parking lot in my pink Prius—not the Pink Puke Mobile as Hazel calls it—to find Ash’s behemoth of a truck already waiting. I’m not surprised, honestly, he seems the punctual type.
At my approach, he hops out of the car and my heart leaps similarly into my throat. He’s beautiful, as usual, all wrapped up in layers of jackets that only highlight how broad he is.
But it isn’t his beauty that captures my attention, it’s his face. The sadness there. It’s the sadness that pulls me out of my car and into his space.
We don’t speak, but I can see the tension in his shoulders and the stress in the furrow of his brow. His smile in greeting is weak, it doesn’t reach his eyes. Doesn’t hold the same teasing lightness it usually does.
My body aches from the pain he’s radiating. It’s heartbreaking.
I follow him through the trees to our spot in the clearing with the view of the impending sunrise. It hasn’t begun yet, but light tickles the tops of the trees.
I breathe deeply. “Is he okay?”
He nods, eyes trained ahead. “He’s okay. Sometimes I swear the chemo makes him sicker than anything the cancer was doing to him.”
“It must be hard watching him go through that.”
A twinge of color dances above the tree line now. It won’t be long until the sunrise.
“It’s the worst thing I’ve ever been through.” His voice trembles. “And there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. I can’t help him. The only thing that’s helping him makes him sick as a dog and there’s nothing I can do.”
Every cell in my body screams at me to touch him. To hold his hand. To comfort him in some way.
Still, I hesitate.
“You’re there for him. That’s more than a lot of people do.”
He chuckles, hollow and humorless. “He’s my dad, of course I’m there for him.”
“Not everyone feels that way about family. You’re lucky you’re so close.” I finally give in, sliding my hand into his. Electric sparks skitter up my skin and down my spine. “Despite how much it hurts.”
He squeezes my fingers, eyes dipping down to see the contact. As if he can’t believe I actually touched him.
I can’t believe I did either.
“Love is always worth the pain,” he says softly, just as the sun breaks the tree line. His face is awash in pinks, reds, yellows, oranges, and blues. I’ll remember his face in this moment for the rest of my fucking life.
The moment he gave the go-ahead.
The moment I dropped his hand.
I turn to the sunrise, trying to push down the swelling emotion. My eyes burn, but I refuse to close them. My heart beats so heavily, I swear it’ll rip right out of my chest.
“It’s freezing,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “Should we head back?”
I’m probably giving him whiplash at this point.
He frowns, disappointment highlighting the lines beside his eyes.
The world hangs around us, practically stopping as he studies me. With one last nod, his shoulders sag. “All right, Goldilocks. Wouldn’t want you freezing your dainty little legs off.”
And just like that, we’re back to our slightly antagonistic banter. I’m so much safer here, in my comfort zone. The softer side of him threatens to undo all my careful work.