Eva #2
I purse my lips and glare at her. I hate it when she asks that question.
Unbothered, she smiles back. Her long, waist-length hair is tied back in her signature loose braid, a cream peasant top tucked into a flowing linen skirt with bare feet peeking out from under the hem.
The same three silver bracelets she’s worn forever.
They’re dented and chipped in places, dirt clinging to the filigree carved into one of them. Well-loved.
Tucked into the corner of the kitchen counter, her coffee machine gurgles away, making us a fresh pot.
“My magick is fine. I just got distracted in the garden.” I preempt the questions I sense are coming. Any new pull toward one type? Any dreams about a new power or ability?
Always the same answer. No.
Our specialized magick is mysterious. It usually manifests subconsciously around fifteen or sixteen years old as an inherent pull, dream, or a new ability spouting off. None of that has ever happened for me and has been cause for concern ever since.
I fiddle with the placemat in front of me, taking my frustrations out on the woven fabric.
“I’m not trying to pry, Eva. We live in strange times.” She goes to the coffeepot and fills two oversized cups, a splash of cream and a teaspoon of sugar in both.
“Did Paige say anything about the new novices?” The second time I’ve avoided a difficult conversation by changing the topic tonight. I’m also curious if my aunt was more forthcoming with her sister about the potential witches in the group.
“They all come from a long line of powerful witches, but nothing more than a spark. By now they should be conjuring and summoning, at least some divination.” Her voice sounds worried.
I take my coffee from her and warm both hands on the mug. “Thanks.”
“I don’t expect necromancy, but sheesh, even a tinge would put the coven at ease.”
Ten years ago, I woke up on my thirteenth birthday, my hands tingling and my hair spread out with static. Like I had been electrocuted in my sleep. Anything not bolted down in my bedroom was floating in the air a few inches off the ground.
“Mom? Aunt Paige?” I called from my bedroom, afraid to move. They both burst in at the same time and shrieked with joy when they saw I had finally awakened. I was a witch!
But there hasn’t been another awakening since.
“I wish I had made some progress by now with the leylines,” I mutter, my words full of disappointment.
Nobody else in the coven is disappointed in me.
They’ve moved past that to not having any expectations of me whatsoever.
Now they just treat me like a novice. But I know the magick is in there somewhere.
I can feel it deep down, just out of reach.
“Evie, we can handle this. Don’t worry. You focus on finding your specialization. We’ll figure out how to get some fresh blood in the coven. Us old witches still have a few good years left in us.” She makes her voice sound old and feeble to lighten the mood.
I snort into my mug. At fifty, my mom still has more life ahead of her than behind. A combination of witchcraft and genetics will give her an unnaturally long life.
“Besides, Paige thinks it’s just a matter of time.” She’s not convinced. I can see the concern behind her eyes. Real concern. It’s never been this long between awakenings.
Determination edges out my frustration at our current situation. My own magickal inclinations might not be evident, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying to figure out how to open the leylines.
“Where is Paige, by the way?” I look around for my aunt. She and my mom have always lived together. Without her here, the energy feels off.
“She’s walking the leylines with some of the other witches.”
That’s not surprising. What does surprise me is that my mom isn’t with them. She loves walking the lines of Earth’s magick through the woods outside of town. She’ll come home, pockets full of morel mushrooms and fresh herbs she foraged along the way, inspired to create art.
“Why didn’t you go?” I ask.
“I twisted my ankle the other day on a rock. Didn’t want to hold them up.”
Suspicious. I didn’t see a hint of a limp as she moved around the kitchen mere minutes ago.
“Want to stay for dinner? I’m making—”
“Dinner! Shit! I forgot all about dinner!” I grab my little cauldron and my keys, bolting out the door.
Poor Grant. I forgot him, again.
The truck swings wide into the parking lot, and I spot Grant’s black BMW parked neatly between two SUVs. Thank the goddess, he’s still here. I chewed on my lip the entire way, worried that he gave up on me and left.
I pull into the last open parking spot and hurry through the drizzling rain to the restaurant. I’m out of breath by the time the hostess seats me across the table from my boyfriend.
“Grant, I am so sorry. It’s been a day.”
“Don’t worry. If I wanted someone who was always on time, I’d just date my secretary!” He says with a joking grin.
Joke or not, it still felt slimy. “Ew, Grant. Not funny.” I bop him over the head with the menu before looking over the options. My eyes go straight to my favorite thing here, tagliatelle with braised short rib ragu.
“I ordered for you already,” Grant says and pours me a glass of red wine from the open bottle on the table.
“Oh, thanks!” I can’t wait to dig into the pasta. It was the first thing I thought of when I woke up with the sunrise.
“Do we have plans for this Saturday?” Grant asks.
“Not that I know of.”
“The guys from work invited me to golf. It'll probably take all day, so I wanted to check with you first.”
“Go for it. Sounds like fun!” Deep down, I’m relieved he’ll be busy on Saturday. It’ll give me a chance to do some spell work. Grant and magick don’t mix. It’s become a sort of ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ situation.
“I'll be at the driving range tomorrow after work, too. I need the practice.” He takes a sip of his wine.
“Is it that serious? Wouldn’t you be better off learning how to fish balls out of the water?”
Grant laughs at my joke, “It’s just an excuse to drink all day and network. But I still don’t want to embarrass myself.”
I muster up a smile, but it never fully shows up. These guys hang out all day, everyday, and then when they aren’t at the office, they are at this ridiculous country club, avoiding their wives.
The waiter approaches the table with our food, and I unfold my napkin with flourish. A giant plate piled high with lettuce and chopped vegetables—with dressing on the side—is placed in front of me.
“I thought you might like that. Brad said his wife loves the salad here. Did I tell you she’s been vegan for almost a year?
Brad says it’s a game changer,” he says with a wink and swirls a giant forkful of pasta, my favorite pasta.
I swallow down my irritation. Old Grant would know I’ve been looking forward to this meal all day.
“Thanks,” I reply, hesitantly, and take a big bite. It’s tasty, in that specific ‘Italian-place-that-specializes-in homemade-pasta’ kind of way.
Grant’s face drops, realizing my lack of enthusiasm, “What? Did I order the wrong thing?”
I look down at his plate with the meal I wanted. I have a decision to make: tell him that I was looking forward to the pasta and that ordering a salad for a woman could earn him a butter knife to the carotid, or… I go along with it and eat the salad.
I stab a chunk of lettuce and shove it in my mouth before I start a fight. It tastes how I feel—bitter. I drop the fork and it clangs loudly on the plate. With a deep breath, I muster all my courage and swallow down the bite that was not chewed nearly enough.
“Actually, I’ve been craving that pasta all day.” Nerves vibrate on high alert while I wonder if I hurt his feelings. This is worse than when a restaurant messes up your order, but you eat it instead of sending it back.
“Evie, I’m so sorry. Here take mine.” He shoves his plate toward me with an apologetic smile.
Shit. Now I feel guilty. An idea pops into my head. “Let’s split it.”
Grant smiles and hails the waiter for two extra plates. Crisis averted, but I’m still going to miss those leftovers that could have been mine.
I’m so busy feeling sorry for myself, I completely miss what Grant is talking about.
“Then I told Bill, if you want the Q4 KPI to meet expectations, we need to leverage our core competencies across all vertices!” He laughs hysterically, slapping the table, like he just told the funniest joke of all time.
I chuckle along and wipe at the corner of my mouth, completely oblivious to what any of that means. I take a big gulp of the harsh red wine and another crunchy bite of the salad, drowning out the rest of Grant’s story. He doesn’t seem to notice my polite nodding along.
It’s times like these, I have to really work to remember all the good times with Grant. He wasn’t always like this, and I keep waiting, hoping we’ll get back to how we were.
He’s still talking about work, and I can't help but wonder if his coworkers’ partners are just as bored by corporate jargon as me.