CHAPTER 3
Astrid
My alarm is ringing in the background, but it’s fairly redundant at this point.
I’m awake. I’ve been awake, staring at my ceiling for the past…
hour? Who knows. I can’t sleep. My bed is too big, too cold.
I never had trouble sleeping when Anise lived with me.
She would wrap me in her arms, petting my hair as I drifted off.
But she’s gone, probably moved on months ago. How could she be fine when I’m the one who broke up with her? I would laugh at the irony, but I’d probably cry instead.
That night is all I can think about. Every time I close my eyes, I’m back on that beach.
She’s on her knees, desperately pleading for me to listen, to give her another chance.
But I can’t even look at her. Saltwater drips from my hair as I cave to my agony, my bitterness, my grief. I just… walked away.
I know I had to break up with her. I know that she was bad for me, that she was deceitful and a liar. If we didn’t break up, she would just hurt me again. I know this, but yet I wish I didn’t.
I wish she was here to hold me as I slept. I wish she was here to kiss my forehead. I wish she was here to tell me that I’d be okay. I wish she was here.
But she’s not here, and I’m not okay.
I fumble with the alarm clock, trying to quiet its piercing cry. Dragging myself from my rumbled sheets, I stumble into the kitchen, pouring water into a kettle.I adjust the temperature to boiling with a wave of my hand.
As the owner of a coffee shop, I have no shortage of mugs. Tall mugs. Short mugs. Mugs with funny sayings. Mugs in the shape of cute animals. The cabinet above my sink is solely mugs. I probably have enough to use a new mug every day for a month, but I always use the same one.
Strands of crimson and scarlet weave together. Every so often a thread of silver glints in the background. I painted this mug for Anise, inspired by the vibrancy of her hair. She used to drink her hot cocoa from it every morning.
There’s a second mug on the counter, one she painted for me at the same time.
Splotches of blues and greens are layered over each other behind specks of white foam.
Water, she said. She claimed it was based on a conversation we had, but looking back, I don’t know how I didn’t see it earlier.
God, there were so many signs. She was always out at odd hours.
She would come home with cuts and bruises.
She knew who I was the whole time, but I didn’t piece it together until it was too late.
How did I not notice? Some detective I am.
I nurse my coffee as I replay my memories, searching for details I missed. With a sigh, I set down my cup. This isn't healthy. I can’t keep doing this. There’s only one person I can turn to for help – Mimi.
Several hours later, I pull into the driveway of my childhood home.
I grew up in a sleepy town called West Haven, Pennsylvania.
I haven’t been home since Christmas, hoping to avoid questions about my breakup.
Of course, I call my family every few days, so they already know, but it’s different seeing the look on their faces.
My family loved Anise, especially my brother Liam.
However, being around noon on a weekday, only Mimi should be home.
I fish the secret key from its hiding spot and unlock the door.
“Hellooo!” I call out. “It’s Astrid. Anyone home?”
“Astrid, what a wonderful surprise!” My grandmother comes around the corner and squeezes me in a hug. “It is a surprise, yes? Did I miss your call?”
“No, Mimi.” I return her embrace. “I didn’t call. I just really needed your help.”
“I see.” Mimi steps away, much more serious. Mimi is the spiritual matriarch of our family, and she knows it must be important if I am singling out her advice. “Please, let’s sit down.”
We curl up on the couch and it’s not long before I break down, recounting the story to Mimi.
The lies, the breakup, the heartache, her moving on and leaving me in the past. Mimi doesn’t push when I skirt around certain details – namely my vigilantism and Anise’s involvement with the mob.
She just tuts and rubs my back, passing me a tissue to dry my tears.
“There, there,” she coos as my sobs turn into hiccups. “How can I help? Do you need a sleeping draught?”
“No,” I sniffle. “I just want to forget she was ever a part of my life.”
“Oh dearie.” Mimi pulls me into another hug. “Are you sure this is what you need? Sometimes pain is a message to unravel, not to sweep under the rug.”
“Please, Mimi,” I beg. “I’m tired. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.”
“Okay.” She holds my gaze and nods. “It sounds like you need a cord cutting ritual.”
“Will it fix me?” Please, please, please.
“You don’t need fixing, granddaughter.” She strokes my hair. “You aren’t broken, just hurting. Come into my room and we shall prepare the ritual.”
After a final dab with the tissue, we both retreat to the back bedroom.
A large altar lines the back wall. It puts my small altar to shame, complete with delicate vials of moonwater, crystal beads, and pouches of herbs.
Mimi scans the collection before pulling out two red candles.
She carefully carves my name in one, and Anise’s in the other, along with some runes.
Once satisfied, she stands them on top of some herbs and ties a piece of twine between the wicks.
“Astrid, please listen carefully as I explain the ritual.” Mimi clears her throat before continuing.
“A cord cutting ritual is very serious and should not be done without significant introspection to be sure you are committed to cutting the spiritual ties between you and the other person. If it is truly time to split ways, this can bring much needed peace to the both of you. When you are ready, light both candles and allow them to burn fully. The wicks should light the cord and allow your connection to be cut. Do you have any questions?”
“No, Mimi.” I shake my head.
“Please take a moment to explore your spiritual intentions, and if you deem the time is right, there are matches in the top drawer.” With that, she walks out, leaving me alone with the candles.
I take a deep breath. Finally, I can be free.
I run my finger against the side of her candle.
This is it. This is really it. Our relationship wasn’t long, just a few months full of intensity and passion, but it’s finally time for it to end.
I wipe away a stray tear from my cheek and brush off my clothes. It’s time.
The matchbook feels heavy in my hands, despite there only being three matches inside. I pluck the first one from the row and scrape it on the starter. A bright flame ignites, clean and strong. Here it goes.
I lean forward and hold the match over Anise’s candle. It goes out before it can touch the wick.
Huh.
Bum match.
I place the spent match in a stone bowl and pick up the next one. The strike pad sets it ablaze. A flickering light, bold and brash. Let’s do this.
I go to light the candle. The flame disappears in a wisp of smoke.
What?
No way.
Frustrated, I grab the last match. I hold the matchbook right above the candle. Surely, I can move a lit match one centimeter without it going out, right? This is ridiculous. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself and focus on my intentions.
I strike the match.
It snaps in two, unlit.
Oh, come on!
I throw the empty matchbook on the ground in a fit of exasperation.
An empty shoebox on the floor catches my eye.
I sweep the candles and twine into the box and shut the lid.
If it won’t work here, I’ll do it at home.
I’ll even grab a butane lighter if it makes the wicks catch.
I tuck the box under my shoulder and find Mimi in the kitchen, sipping a glass of iced tea.
She raises an eyebrow at my shoebox of shame.
“I think I need to do this at home, at my own altar.” Only partially a lie.
“Yes, your energy will be more in tune there.” Mimi nods approvingly. “Very wise choice.”
“I need to start the drive back if I want to be home before dark.” Bold lie, but I want to do this ritual as soon as I can. “Thank you for your wisdom, Mimi.”
“Please be careful, granddaughter.” She pulls me into another embrace. “I worry about you.”
“I’ll be okay, promise.” I hold up my pinky finger and Mimi wraps hers around mine. After another hug, I am shooed out of the house, shoebox in hand.
Seatbelt buckled, mirrors checked, keys in the ignition. I head out of town, but a strange feeling takes hold of me. Up ahead is the back road I used to take as a shortcut to my favorite childhood hangout. I can’t tell you why, but I take the road. A short jaunt later, I arrive at the lake.
It’s not a big lake. As far as I know, it doesn’t even have an official name.
I’ve never seen it mentioned on any hiking or wilderness brochures of the area, but my friends have been coming here for ages.
It’s the perfect size for a small group to play and feel like they own the world.
The water is always cool, staving off the sharp heat of the summer sun.
Of course, it’s hardly swimming weather – it being April – but the cold has never really bothered me.
I shimmy out of my shorts and lay my t-shirt on the hood of my car.
I watch my step, navigating sticks and small stones as I tiptoe through the dirt shore into the chilly water.
Each step disturbs the silt, creating clouds where I walk.
I push off from the ground, diving into the lake.
The water parts easily, glinting in the sun as my hands cut through.
I could use my powers for a million things right now – to keep myself dry, to warm the lake, to propel me to where I’m going. But now, I just want to swim.