Eva
I’ve had to catch myself all morning from telling her who is stuck at my house. The secrets I’m keeping from her are stacking up: the demon, the reading, the engagement—it’s all becoming too much. I hold it in because if I speak it out loud then it all becomes real.
Strangely, the Sorren problem is a tiny bit fun. He cracks me up, and his presence at the house doesn’t feel intrusive, it feels comfortable.
Riley immediately knew something was up this morning when I came bounding into the café in a great mood, fully energized. Not dragging my feet like usual.
She pestered me between customers all morning, trying to guess what had me in such a good mood. I kept telling her it was because I got a good night’s sleep, but she wasn’t buying it.
“EVA!” Her shouting reaches a new height of urgency.
“What?!” I yell back. Someone probably ordered an iced blended pumpkin spice latte. Riley hates those. She calls them an abomination to fall. In reality, she just doesn’t want to have to clean the blender.
“Someone’s here for you!” she bellows, annoyed that I didn’t come running the first time.
My first thought goes right to Sorren. How did he figure out how to leave the house?
I run my hand over my braid and tuck back any loose strands on my way to the front. Around the corner waiting for me with a big smile is Grant. A heavy breath rushes out, one I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Hey! What are you doing here?” I give him a hug and a quick kiss. “Is everything okay?”
“I took the morning off work so we could go look at venues!” He sounds so excited.
“Venues for what?” Riley asks, inserting herself into our conversation.
“You didn’t tell her we’re getting married?” Confusion registers on Grant’s face.
Riley blinks dramatically a few times.
Time stands still while she takes in the news. I become hyperaware of every noise around me. The scrape of a fork against a plate while someone eats their pastry, the music; all of it is too loud for me to think straight.
Desperate to cut the tension, I mumble, “It’s been a busy few days.”
It’s a terrible excuse. This is not how I wanted to tell my best friend I’m getting married. It has been busy, but neither of them know why.
“Congratulations, you lucky dog!” Riley says and punches Grant roughly on the shoulder.
He rubs the sore spot. “Let’s go, Eva. We have an appointment at the club in five.”
“Grant, I’m working.” I wave my hand across the nearly empty room. “I can’t just leave.” Two college students sit in the corner hunched over their textbooks, while the guy who commits the unforgivable sin of using cutlery on his pastry sits next to the window, hammering away at his laptop.
“I think Riley can handle it, right?” he asks, looking her way.
“No!” She and I exclaim in unison.
Grant looks back and forth between us with a hint of a frown on his handsome face. “It’s impossible to get a spot at the club for a weekend wedding. We have to lock it down right now if we’re going to get married there.”
The Club. Grant hasn’t stopped talking about it since he got his job. He’s been working on getting his referral paperwork in order to get his membership approved, and apparently there are rounds of interviews and requirements to get in. It’s a beautiful place but not my vibe.
The sad look on his face makes me feel guilty.
Maybe if I can get excited about the wedding then the cold feet will go away.
Before the corporate unravelling of Grant’s personality, the idea of marrying him sounded great.
I fell in love with him and used to easily picture our life together.
But that image doesn’t sparkle like it used to.
“Can you hold down the fort? I promise we’ll make it quick.” I give Riley a pleading look. Literally caught between Grant and my best friend.
“You have thirty minutes,” she says, pointing to her bare wrist where a watch would be.
“I’ll be back in twenty-five.” I hand her my apron on my way out the door behind Grant.
“You know, you’re the boss. You don’t report to Riley,” Grant says, climbing into his car as I walk around to the passenger side.
“It’s not that. We run it together, and it’s stressful when it’s busy.”
“Once we’re married, you should hire a manager. One less thing to worry about, you know?”
His intended-to-be-kind suggestion doesn’t sit right. I know he’s trying to be supportive and helpful, but it’s all based on a misunderstanding of what I want my life to look like. We used to want the same things and understand each other. His goals have changed, but mine haven’t.
I’m sure all relationships go through this at some point.
“I love The Bitter End. I’m not going to hire a manager to do my job.”
“Money won’t be an issue. Especially if I get my promotion.”
I’m really starting to hate the “p” word.
“It’s not about the money.” I try to remind him.
“None of the other wives work,” Grant adds, once again talking about his coworkers.
It feels more and more like he wants to emulate their sterile suburban life.
They’re all nice people, but I have nothing in common with them but the corporation.
I doubt any of the wives are in a coven and trying to tap an ancient powerful magick that’s gone dormant.
Lost in my thoughts, I barely notice the car slowing until Grant’s voice cuts through the tornado in my head. “We’re here, we can discuss it later.” His jaw is clenched tight, and his movements are clipped and jerky. He’s upset. We need to talk about this but not here.
A valet opens my door and my black boots, cutoff jeans lead the presentation of my coffee stained shirt to the posh club. The way the driver looks up and down at my thrown-together outfit is massively judgmental. I return the favor and glare at him from top to bottom.
How do you like it, asshole?
Grant comes around the car and leads us into the foyer. Mr. Sport Coat, the stiff events planner, waits between two enormous white floral arrangements, because goddess forbid anyone try a different color. Grant is smiling ear to ear while they talk and only notices me when I clear my throat.
“As I was saying, Mr. Williams, if you decide to hold your wedding here, we can waive the marriage requirement on the application.”
“What?” I must have missed something important. Marriage requirement for membership, here?
“The club requires all members to be married, Ms. Sutton. This is not a place for single people to prowl for their next casual liaison,” says Mr. Sport Coat, who hasn’t even bothered to introduce himself to me.
I yank Grant’s arm, pulling him away from our tour. “Please tell me this wedding isn’t about you getting a membership to this club.” I try to control my voice, but I see the host's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline out of the corner of my eye.
“Of course not! We’ve been together for almost five years. I love you, you love me. I want to get married.” Grant’s voice is sickeningly sweet.
I swallow down the irritation and self-doubt that are at war in my head. Being here, with Grant, and thinking about a wedding feels wrong.
“Shall we continue?” the stuffy guy asks, getting impatient. “We are already running behind.”
“Of course.” Grant holds my hand tightly and pulls me along.
We walk through the expansive property, and I hardly say a word. Every time Grant looks over at me, I muster a sour smile and pretend to go along with this.
I try to picture the coven descending on this place.
I imagine the looks we would get while the smell of patchouli wrinkles the noses of the members.
It’s customary that witches have bare feet during a joining ceremony, and I don’t look forward to the potential conversation I’d have with my mom and aunt about them needing to wear shoes.
It feels like the tour takes forever, but we finally find ourselves back out front, waiting for the valet to bring the car around.
Grant fills the silence with his excitement about the club and trying to calculate what an open bar would cost. I nod along.
Grant doesn’t seem to notice; he’s on cloud nine.
“What did you think? It’s nice, right?”
“It’s pretty.”
Somehow, I’ll organize my thoughts and figure this out. Right now, the only thing I know for sure, is that none of this feels right. Like a joint out of alignment, I just don’t know which one yet.
“So, how was the club? Did Muffy show you the grounds?” Riley greets me with a haughty voice.
“Ri, I can’t right now.” I push past her and back to the office where I shut the door behind me.
I already feel like shit, I don’t need her stirring it up.
I spin in the desk chair, focusing on my breathing when a light tap at the door interrupts my thoughts.
“Riley, I’ll be out later. I just need a minute,” I say too loudly. I could whisper and she’d hear it through the paper-thin door.
“Eva, you’re needed out here.” The tone in her voice immediately tells me something is wrong. I jump out of the chair and fling the door open.
“What’s going on?”
“That witch is back,” she mumbles, pointing her thumb over her shoulder toward the front counter.
“Dammit.” Not today.
What is she doing here? I tie my apron and grab a wet towel from the red bucket of cleaning solution. I go around the counter and wipe down tables. May as well do a quick, very inconspicuous wipe down while kicking that lady out.
The witch stands awkwardly at an empty table.
I really look at her for the first time.
It’s difficult to tell her age. Her face is unencumbered by wrinkles or other signs of aging.
She would fit in here in Raincrest too, where hippies dominate the population, witchy or not.
Her curly black hair is thick and shiny, almost too perfect, like a fairy princess villain.
“You’re Eva, right?”
“Yeah. Who are you again?”
“Lena. I was hoping to speak with you when your mother wasn’t around.” The kindness in her voice doesn’t feel sincere and warnings go off in my brain to not trust this woman. Over the smell of coffee beans, I note the lingering scent of dead roses.