Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE WITCHCRAFT CONSULTANT
“ G ood thing Davis is leaving for a few days, or else you’d have trouble walking,” Hope teases from the passenger’s seat.
Not only did Hope schedule the appointment with the witchcraft consultant, but she insisted on coming. I’m not sure I’d visit a witch without her. In our two-decade-plus long friendship, there are very few moments—big or small—we haven’t shared. That includes my second date escapades with Davis.
“Thank goodness Rem and I were having lunch on the back patio or else your vagina would need life support.” She waggles her eyebrows.
Thanks to my brother and bestie catching us on our way to my apartment, me giggling about being hoisted over Davis’s shoulder, no sex was had. Within moments, Hope dragged me away to dish, leaving our fellas to play with Wentworth in the backyard.
Our fellas. Giddiness flutters in my chest with that.
“Before we left, Rem told me that he likes Davis. Like, he really likes him.” Hope grins, her dimples popping.
“Rem and I share that feeling,” I say, turning onto the street where Four Corners Spiritual and Witchcraft Center is located.
“In fact, he mentioned he’s going to meet Davis for pickleball next Sunday.”
“I know.” My cheeks lift with a giant grin.
Not that I need either of my brothers’ approval, but it’s nice that they both like him.
As much as the brotherly judgment frustrates me, contentment relaxes through me.
Not to use a Star Wars reference, but all’s right in the force now.
Even if I still have this pesky ‘fictional men come to life’ situation to deal with, things seem right.
Hope clears her throat. “Have you heard from Lena since you emailed?”
“Yeah,” I draw out the word.
“And?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Okay.”
“Okay?” She gestures wildly.
“That’s all she said.”
“You email your cousin—a woman that was like a sister to you until she cheated with your boyfriend, then scooped him up, and is now marrying the jerk—to tell her you’re not attending their wedding a week before their nuptials and her response is… okay,” she says, her tone is high-pitched.
“Those are the facts,” I say, pulling into the parking lot.
“How are you so chill about this? Is this a delayed reaction, emotional bomb situation like the time Trent Ott broke up with you two days before senior prom?”
“I really have had the worst dating history.” Lip pursed, I shake my head. “No, this isn’t like that. I’m really okay with it.”
The truth is, I am. This isn’t a brave front. Even Lena’s name in my inbox didn’t trigger dread. Pulling up her message, I just shrugged. Perhaps the reason I didn’t rush to tell Hope is that it doesn’t matter anymore.
“You don’t think she owes you more? I mean, at least, an ‘I totally understand and I’m the scum of the earth and beg your forgiveness’ in her email would be nice.” Hope’s face puckers into an annoyed pout.
Laughter vibrates in my chest. Hope is the queen of sweet, but she also goes scorched earth for the people she loves.
After the invites came, she refused to attend with Rem until I told her I was going.
She said yes, but bought a white dress to stick it to that B-word , as she cooed with a devious curl of her mouth at the boutique where we bought our dresses for the wedding.
It’s something I adore about my bestie. She loves fiercely, which is why my brother’s heart and all future Lane offspring are in good hands.
“I love you.” Smiling, I park and then turn off the car and lean back in the seat.
“Love you, too.” She reaches over and takes my hand. “Are you sure you’re okay with her response?”
“There was a time I wanted her to show contrition or beg for forgiveness or… I don’t know…
” I sigh. “But all I felt when her response came was nothing, and I think that means that I’m finally past all this.
My choice not to go to the wedding is truly about me and not about getting revenge.
The fact that I had no expectations of any sort of response and am indifferent to the one I got is a good thing.
They hurt me, but I’m not hurt anymore.”
“Wow, Davis must have some powerful peen.”
A chortle erupts out of me. “This isn’t about getting dicked down. As much as I’m enjoying Davis and whatever this will turn into, this isn’t about him. It’s about me finally getting myself unstuck from everything that held me back.”
The hurt. The expectations. The disappointment. Each emotion had been a shackle holding me back from moving forward over the last five years.
“For the first time in, probably forever, I’m free to just live my life.”
“I’m so proud of you.” She squeezes my hand. “But I’m still wearing that white satin dress with the crown on Saturday.”
“Scorched earth,” I chuckle.
We hop out and head toward Four Corners.
The idea of a witchcraft consultant conjures images of a spooky Victorian mansion with a black cat on the front porch, not a storefront in a commercial strip mall.
Four Corners Spiritual Healing and Witchcraft Center is between a frozen yogurt shop and a tuxedo rental place.
“Oh, fro-yo.” Hope points to the Yu-Go Gurl Yogurt Shoppe sign next to Four Corners. “Do you think they have sugar-free vanilla?”
“After.” I laugh, redirecting her to Four Corners’ front door.
“Awesome.” She claps her hands together. “No trip to ye ol’ local witch is complete without fro-yo.”
Head shaking, I open the door for her. The bell above the door chimes as we enter.
The sweet scent of lavender fills my nostrils, and soft Celtic instrumental music drifts around the space.
Books about magic and metaphysical practice, tarot card decks, crystals, essential oil products, and a hodgepodge of trinkets fill the shelves.
Mini faux birch trees, piled high with gemstone, bead, and Celtic jewelry, bookend the register – almost eclipsing a young female employee in an I’m That Witch tank top.
“How can I help you?” she greets, her bright smile warm.
“We have an appointment under Georgia Lane with Glinda,” Hope says.
“Let me go check that she’s ready,” she says, rounding the counter and skipping toward a purple curtain separating the store from the back.
“Seriously? Glinda?” I gape.
“It was either her or Ursula. At least we know she’ll be a good witch.” Hope nudges my side with her elbow.
“These are unfortunate names to have to go into the witchcraft profession with,” I deadpan.
The staff member returns and leads us back to Glinda.
An elderly woman rises to greet us. Her bluish gray hair is swept up in a top knot, and tiny spectacles connected to a chain dangle from her neck.
The consultation room is painted in a lovely shade of desert rose, the pinkish walls making the small space cozy and inviting.
A plush white sofa sits opposite a matching chair and a glass coffee table between both has a small tea service on it.
Glinda O’Brien introduces herself, explaining that she is a tenth-generation Cailleach, or wise woman. Her family, which immigrated to the US from Ireland in the early twentieth century, has a long history as healers, midwives, and women with other “special skills”.
“I come from a long line of women who knew how to get shit done, dear,” she says in a thick southern twang, mischief twinkles in her blue eyes.
After pouring each of us a cup of herbal tea, Glinda goes over the intake form with a series of questions. Her mix of sassiness and grandmotherly vibes eases me into sharing everything. The fountain. The wish. My book boyfriends. Even Davis.
“You have some visitors,” she muses, clapping her hands. “My nan once had a woman time travel from the Bronze Age, desperate to get back to the man she left behind, but this is the first time I’ve heard of people coming from other realms.”
“Other realms?”
“Now, dear, let’s not be self-centered and think we’re the only realm out there. There are infinite realms or realities, however you put it. This isn’t the only plane of existence.”
“But there from stories that I wrote. That I made up.” I gesture to myself.
“They could just be that or more.” Mouth slanted into a nonchalant grin, she shrugs. “Though, that’s not the issue. Where the stories come from are not what brings you here. It’s your wish and how to possibly get these three men back to their worlds, correct?”
“Yes.” I nod, my fingers wrapped tight around the teacup.
“Finish your tea, dear, and we’ll proceed.” She smirks over her teacup.
Hope and I have a silent conversation over our cups. My comfort with Glinda aside, the way she says, “Drink your tea, dear,” is suss.
“It’s not a potion.” Glinda rolls her eyes, seeming to sense our hesitation. “It’s loose leaf. I’m going to read the leaves to help me in my assessment of your issue. I swear there is more propaganda against witches. I blame Disney. They’ve done more harm to the witch community than the Puritans.”
“They did have The Witches of Waverly Place. That was good rep,” Hope offers with a smile before sipping her tea.
Only Hope. With a snort, I drink my tea.
Placing the now drained teacup in front of Glinda, she brings the cup close to her face and examines it.
“Just as I thought—” She frowns. “The wish has been granted. Once given, it cannot be taken back.”
I scoot to the edge of the couch. “What about a wish undoing spell? I read about them online.”
“They’re more complicated than the internet would have you believe. This wish wasn’t from a spell, so the magic is different. Harder to undo and, sometimes, comes at great cost.”
“Great cost?” Hope clutches my hand.
“Yes. It also may require a witch far stronger than me. One with a proclivity for blood or dark magic,” Glinda says.
“Oh, I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Me either.” I rub my temples. “Is there anything else that could undo it?”