Eva
The restaurant becomes unbearably loud. Every voice and clank of silverware hammers against my head. Cold sweat breaks out over my body, and suddenly the room feels too small, too bright, too much—and I need to get out.
Grant thinks we are engaged.
Engaged.
To Grant.
My thoughts are a cosmic swirl of emotions.
Confusion. Dread. Excitement? I think it’s the idea of planning a wedding that makes the last one a question.
I’m still trying to get my bearings by the time we finish our drinks when Grant informs me that he has to get back to the office. I follow him out on wobbly legs.
“This is going to be great! How do you feel about Dallas for the honeymoon? We could combine it with the company’s corporate retreat!”
I shake my head trying to make sense of that last part. “Grant, I don’t want a honeymoon while you’re working.” I’m numb and hardly know what is happening right now, but I’m clear-headed enough to nip that in the bud.
“Oh yeah, of course. That wouldn’t work. Bad idea,” he says with an embarrassed smile.
He leans down for a kiss. I dodge it and cover my hand with my mouth.
“The crab,” I remind him. Even something as simple as a kiss after he eats shellfish would result in an EpiPen to the thigh for me.
“Sorry, babe, totally forgot.”
At one point in our relationship, I wouldn’t have had to remind Grant about my deadly allergy. It’s really hard not to take that one personally.
Grant’s car unlocks with a beep while I jam my key into the lock. The chirp from his key fob feels like punctuation on where we stand with each other. He kicks at the tires on my truck before getting in his car. “After we get married,” he says, “I think we should look at minivans.”
I spin around so fast that gravel goes flying.
“Or not! It was just an idea.” He throws his hands up in self-defense. “Oh shoot, I’m totally late. Love you!” He blows me a kiss as he jumps in his car.
“Love you too,” I say a little too late; he’s already looping around the parking lot.
As Grant drives past he calls out the window, “Better get started! You have a lot of work to do!”
My brain switches to autopilot, and the next thing I know, I’m stepping into my house.
I drop my keys and purse on the ground and stand there, stunned.
The room spins around me. My heart is racing, and my throat is dry.
Every nerve in my skin fires off all at once.
Is this cold feet? Is this how everyone feels when they get engaged?
Panic is a normal response. It has to be.
I was never the little girl who dreamed about a big white wedding. I always pictured my wedding in a meadow or a clearing in a forest, with flowers in everyone’s hair and everyone dancing around barefoot.
I go to the kitchen and splash cold water on my face. Then fill up a glass and take it outside, sitting on the top step staring out into nothing.
Grant thinks we are engaged. Are we engaged?
The word engaged keeps washing over me, like an elevator ride from hell.
A new emotion creeps in. Guilt. I should be happy.
Grant and I’ve been together for almost five years.
We’ve had a lot of great times together, but this last year has been hard.
Once we get past this rough patch, things will be okay again.
Right?
Catrick Swayze creeps out of the shadows, rubbing his body and tail across every surface, moving as gracefully as his namesake. I scratch the concrete step next to me to get his attention, drawing a sharp look from the skittish cat.
Slowly, I get to my feet and back away. Right inside the back door is a can of tuna waiting for the feral cat. I peel back the top and put the open can on the bottom step a few feet in front of me.
He lets out a quiet mew and continues his meandering path through the yard toward his dinner.
“Still playing coy?” I ask him.
He ignores me and takes a few tentative licks of the fish before devouring it. After the last bit is licked up, he bats the empty can off the edge of the stair. It clatters. Fur up and claws out, he bolts into the shadows.
It’s progress, slow as it might be. Just last week, he didn’t even eat until I went back inside and closed the door.
Empty can in hand, I head inside, feeling slightly better. Catrick Swayze temporarily took my mind off the newest crisis.
Grant.
What am I going to do about him?
I plunk down into the nearest chair at the kitchen table. Right in front of me, next to the Mabon box, sits an old tome I’ve never seen before.
I swipe away a layer of dust on the cover to reveal a simple gold leaf pentagram.
Curious. The book isn’t familiar to me. I turn it over in my hands and inspect the rich brown leather spine and back cover for a title.
Nothing. Wind rushes through the open windows, sending a cold shiver down my spine.
I drop the book on the kitchen table, and as it falls open, blank pages flip wildly before stopping on a page with shifting calligraphic writing. The letters are so ornate that I can’t make out the name of the spell.
I lean in, squinting to make out the words. A feeling I can’t quite identify sits heavy on my chest while the words slowly take shape. Another cold wind blows through my house, billowing the curtains.
Nope. Nuh-uh . Not playing with that shit tonight.
I slam the book closed and go upstairs. What I need is a good night’s sleep.
I’ll figure everything out tomorrow. I climb the curved staircase up to the two tiny bedrooms and Jack-and-Jill bathroom.
Teeth brushed and clothes on the floor, I fall into bed, bury myself in blankets, and will myself to fall asleep.