10
Demi
The Coven meets every Monday at eight in the morning.
And by “The Coven”, I mean me, Blue, and the aunts.
Kitty and Mickey have referred to the four of us as such since Blue and I were little.
We spent a lot of time at their house and the Apothecary when we were young.
Our mom worked a lot, and our dad left shortly after I was born.
The aunts were our daytime, and sometimes nighttime, caretakers.
Walking into the Apothecary always feels like a great, deep breath.
It’s an ample space with wood floors that creak when you walk across them, and it’s filled just about as full as a space can be without being considered a fire hazard.
Dried flowers hang upside down from the rafters, so many that the ceiling is impossible to see.
The walls are lined with dark, unfinished wood shelves packed with wares.
Essential oils, candles, jars filled with dried herbs, brightly colored powders, and sacred dirt.
Books, tarot cards, crystals, and charms.
At the back of the shop, behind a red velvet rope, is a small sitting area with a couch and two chairs upholstered in vintage sun-and-moon fabric.
There’s a locked cabinet in which the aunts keep their more volatile items: ancient spell books that shouldn’t be pawed at by curious tourists, poisonous plant extracts, graveyard dirt, and vials of blood.
There’s a strict “no touching” rule for the things in that cabinet.
In fact, there’s a wooden sign in front of its doors declaring, in black, gothic letters, just that.
Behind a black lace curtain, in a small alcove, sits the aunts’ altar, where they create charms and spells for the folks of Ivy Hollow and the people who visit us here. The locals believe in it a little more than the outlanders do, but it’s a draw to both sides, nonetheless.
Kitty and Mickey sit on the couch together, while Blue and I take the chairs.
On the coffee table in front of us is a plate of fresh pastries from Juniper’s and a beautiful pot of tea, brewed with orange peels, apples, blackberry leaves, and garden mint.
Sunflower petals float along the surface.
The aunts brew their tea with moon water and sprinkle in clove for protection and star anise for luck.
“Juniper Junior had to kick the Pams out of the diner this morning,” Kitty declares, sipping her tea with a wicked little smirk.
“Again?” Blue asks. “What did they do this time?”
“Ordered one piece of pie to share, then tried to get Juniper to give it to them for free, claiming they didn’t like it even though they ate every last crumb,” Kitty says.
Mickey laughs, adding, “When JJ said no, they started throwing a fit. Shit-stirring, raising their voices.”
“So, Juniper Junior told them that eating in the diner unattended is a grown-up privilege and until they can behave like grown-ups, or get a babysitter, they’re banned,” Kitty says .
I nod, impressed. “Hell yeah. I’m gonna use that the next time they come into the shop and start complaining about my prices.”
“Have they ever bought anything from you?” Blue asks.
“Of course not. They just like to come in, touch everything, say something bitchy, and then leave.”
“Someone should put a hex on them,” Blue says, giving the aunts an arch, pointed glare.
“Blue St. James, you know the rules,” Mickey chides.
“Harm none,” Kitty recites with a wink, “But take no shit.”
“Blessed be,” Blue and I say together in unison.
I guess you can say it’s a bit of a family mantra.
“How’s your haunted mansion, Demi?” Blue asks, curling her legs beneath her and holding her cup of tea with both hands.
If I told the three of them about Tristan, I’m sure they would believe me.
We’re not exactly opposed to a bit of mysticism around here, obviously, but for a reason I can’t quite name, I find that I don’t want to tell them about my ghostly housemate.
It’s not that I’m trying to hide things from my family, but it’s more so that the moments I’ve shared with Tristan are mine, and I want to keep them just for me.
My encounters with him feel like secrets that only he and I share.
There’s something thrilling about that.
“Well, it’s September, so it’s officially spooky season. Thinking about decorating soon,” I say truthfully.
Blue chuckles. “Your house is ? ?a Halloween decoration.”
“True story,” I reply, taking a sip of my tea. It’s hot and layered, with flavors ranging from sweet to spicy to earthy. It tastes like home: the aunts have been making it the same way since before I was born.
“Blue says Owen keeps calling you,” Mickey says gently.
I glare at my sister, and she meets my annoyance with a raised eyebrow, as if daring me to challenge her by denying it.
I know better than to try to go toe-to-toe with Blue St. James.
“It’s not a big deal. I never answer. He’s just having a hard time with the breakup,” I sigh.
“That’s what you said three weeks ago,” Blue fires back, and it hits just like she wanted it to.
“Demi!’ Mickey gasps.
“This has been going on for three ? ? ? weeks ?” Kitty asks gravely.
“You’re supposed to be on my side, here,” I mutter under my breath to my sister.
“I’m on the side of keeping you from getting axe-murdered by your angry ex-boyfriend, sister.”
Here’s the thing: I’m a well-rounded, successful woman. I’m educated, I own a thriving business, and now I own a home. I’m not prone to risky behavior, and overall, I very much have my shit together. But when it comes to The Coven, I’ll always be the baby.
My aunts live their lives in perpetual suspicion, and my sister is more comfortable being angry than she is experiencing any other emotion.
I’m not one to give in to dramatics. Nothing has ever been as serious as they make it seem.
In a family of strong women, we each find our strength in different ways.
Blue’s strength comes from the sheer force of her will.
Mine comes from the ability to zoom out and see the big picture of any given situation, and, from my perspective, nothing is ever worth as much negativity as most people are willing to put up with.
I don’t have the desire to spend my energy that way.
Just because I’m not reactionary doesn’t mean I’m naive.
“Look, I know this thing with Owen is problematic. But I also lived with him for a year and dated him for two before that. I know him. He’s not a violent man.”
“It doesn’t have to be violent for it to be bad,” Blue says.
“I get that. But Owen is doing this for attention. The best thing I can do is not give it to him.”
Blue opens her mouth to respond, but Kitty gives her a look and shakes her head.
My sister sighs and holds her palms up in surrender.
The ease with which Blue backs off makes me think she and the aunts have discussed this when I haven’t been around.
It doesn’t really matter, as long as I’m given the space to handle my own issues like an adult.
Mickey pats my leg. “I’ll send you home with some black salt. Scatter it along your doorways and windows to keep the bad energy out.”
Witches have a solution to everything.
~
Gold Dust Woman ? ? ? is slow today. Ivy Hollow is in that lull between the summer tourist season and the leaf- peeping tourist season. I have four employees, but I usually work solo on Mondays since it’s the slowest day of the week.
I spend my day playing records loudly over the shop speakers, cleaning, and hunting down rare books and vinyl online. Around midday, the courier arrives with a shipment of contemporary books. I unbox them and start organizing them in my “new” section.
Smoothing my fingers over the covers, down the spines, I can’t help but smile.
I’m relatively picky when it comes to the books and records I curate for my shop, and the items I don’t get second-hand are always a reflection of my personal interests, or what I know will sell to tourists looking for a cozy vacation read.
My appetite for reading is somewhat insatiable; it always has been.
When we were young, the aunts would take Blue and me to the library at least once a week after school while our mom was at work.
We’d fill up canvas tote bags of plastic-covered hardbacks that crinkled when you opened them, and dog-eared paperbacks with yellowed edges.
Blue has always loved horror, particularly vampires, and my favorite has always been fantasy.
We meet in the middle with an affinity for romance.
As I put away the shipment of books, breathing in the scent of their fresh, new pages, I set aside a stack to bring home for Tristan. Crackles of anticipation warm me from within when I think about sharing these books with him and what he might think.
Naturally, I’ve picked the top four most spicy romance novels I’ve ever read.
That ghost isn’t going to know what hit him .
The bell over my door chimes, and I turn to greet my guest.
“Hi, there! Welcome in–”
My welcoming salutation starts off bright, but falls apart when I see who is standing next to the checkout counter. Owen. I feel tension tighten my muscles and a little bit of anxious heat–not the good kind– rise to my cheeks.
He leans against the counter with his arms crossed at his chest and a weird little smile on his lips.
I don’t like the look of him, here in my space without invitation.
He’s wearing too-tight skinny jeans that are about eight years out of style and a gray V-neck T-shirt.
Owen peaked in high school as one of those cool “I’m in a band” guys, playing coffeeshops around the tri-state area on the weekends, and his fashion has never quite moved on from looking like a 2009 American Apparel ad.
The tattoos, haphazardly placed up his arms, are a strange, inexplicable combination of tribal and nautical art.
His blond hair is cut short, and there’s a dusting of mustache over his upper lip.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever been less attracted to someone in my life.
“Hi, Demi,” he says.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
His brows pinch. “You haven’t been answering my texts and calls.”
I shake my head and go back to unpacking books. “That’s typically an indication that someone doesn’t want to talk to you.”
Even without looking, I know he takes a few steps in my direction. I can feel it. The energy around him is a gray static, like on an old television screen, buzzing at a frequency that makes my brain itch.
“I need to talk to you, babe. I think you owe me that much,” he says.
“First of all, I don’t actually owe ?you anything,” I reply quickly, cutting him a glance. “Second of all, what is there to talk about?”
A long, low table runs the length of the store, lined with cedar crates filled with records for shoppers to flip through. It separates us: Owen on one side, and me on the other. My back is to him, and I can hear him idly flipping through the vinyl behind me.
“I want you back, Demi,” he says.
My stomach drops, and I slowly turn to face him, holding a stack of books in my arms and hugging them to my body.
“What?” I ask. “You can’t be serious.”
Owen’s expression is sincere enough, sad, even. He tongues the piercing in his bottom lip, and I recoil internally. “I know I fucked up. I was drunk, and I said some shit I didn’t mean. But I can change. I will ?change.”
We’d been fighting about the fact that he was let go from yet another in a long line of failed jobs.
This time, he was fired for trying to make a move on two underage girls at the bar by serving them alcohol.
For obvious reasons, I found this offensive, and when I told him as much, he said: No wonder your dad left, you nagging bitch.
Which, in hindsight, is one of the most empirically inaccurate things that has ever been said. Informing him of his disrespect wasn’t nagging. Plus, my dad left when I was a baby, so he barely knew who I was .
It didn’t hurt my feelings. It just made me realize how ugly Owen is, so I put in an offer on Beaumont, and the minute it was accepted, I packed up and moved in with Blue until closing was complete.
I shake my head. “You don’t get a second chance with me, Owen. That’s never been an option.”
His fingers clench a little on the corner of the record he’s holding, and I grit my teeth, hoping he’s not bending the edge.
“Please, babe. I’ll quit drinking, I’ll do anything,” he begs. Owen releases the record from his grip, and I almost sigh with relief, until I realize he’s circling the end of the table and stepping into my personal space. “I’m sorry. I’ll do anything if you just come home.”
I look him right in the eyes–his eyes are brown, and a little bloodshot–so that there can be no confusion about what I say next, so he knows I mean it.
“I’m not your babe, and your house is not my home. Not anymore.”
The sharp edge of hurt flashes across his face, followed by an expression that makes me take a step back from him on instinct. It’s not anger, exactly; it’s more like a dark determination. The way someone might look when they’re given a challenge.
I don’t like it.
Owen opens his mouth to say something else, but the bell over my door chimes and the Pams walk in.
Never in my life have I been happy to see those three women, but thank-fucking-god they’re here now.
“Owen Parker, those jeans are too small on you. Get some real pants for chrissakes,” one of the Pams grumbles, while the other two huff their agreement .
My ex-boyfriend’s ears are bright red as he mutters a goodbye to me and leaves. And, hell must have frozen over, because I swear the Pams wink ?at me once he’s gone.