Twenty-two
ZACH
Arriving at Dad and Angela's for dinner Sunday, I'm nervous as fuck. I feel like I'm shaking, even though outwardly I don't appear to be. My mind has been spinning round and round about Morgan's text. What could be so "important... Like, really serious" to have Morgan so upset she used punctuation in a text message? For her, that's rattled.
The only thing my mind can come up with is she's pregnant. Which paralyzes me with terror. Not because of Morgan—despite everything, I still love her and am trying to figure out what I want from her. What I want for us.
No, pregnancy would be awful because I do not want kids. At all. No matter how much I love her, I don't want a baby. Ever.
But my mind can't conceive of anything else it could possibly be, so it's been spinning around and around on that since her text came through around midnight. I've done my best not to think about it, to focus on other things. I've done a lot of practicing on my drum pads—I don't keep actual drums in my apartment. I like to be a good neighbor.
I let myself in the front door and head to the kitchen, like I always do. Dad, Angela, and Hazel are all in there. Dad is assembling a salad, Angela is magically pouring wine into several glasses, and Hazel is sitting on a stool, overseeing them.
How did I ever miss things like Angela pouring wine without using her hands? Did I just not see it because I didn't want to?
Even if Morgan and I never work things out—and I realize it's fully on me to make that happen—at least being with her made me see the truth.
"Hey, son," Dad says. "Looking good."
Angela sees me and grins. "Looking very handsome."
I run a hand over my now-short hair. I gave it some thought last night while trying not to think about Morgan's text, and decided I since I was already thinking of cutting it, I’d do it for my dad.
So I went and got it cut this morning. Chopped off almost two feet. The hairdresser is going to donate it to one of the charities that makes wigs for people who've lost their hair. That's a better use for it than it always getting snarled on my head.
"Thanks. Consider it an early wedding gift." I glance at Hazel and find her giving me an assessing look. I don't know what to say to her, so I look away, feeling immensely awkward.
"Morgan's in the library, if you're looking for her," Hazel says, voice dripping with meaning, but I'm not sure about what.
She probably knows we've been hooking up. Morgan's said she's one of the most powerful witches in the world, so it wouldn't be surprising .
"Thanks," I say.
"She'll be interested to see you cut off your hair," she says.
What's that about? Before she can weird me out anymore, I nod at my dad and start backing toward the dining room. "I'll, uh, I'll go find her. Let her know dinner's almost ready?"
"Five minutes," Angela says.
I wave my acknowledgment, hurry through the dining room, where Sirona and Grant are already seated, and head toward the library.
It's truly a library, like you'd find in an old British mansion. Or, I suppose, an old American mansion. Three walls in the large room are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the only gaps those for windows. There's an oak desk on the far side of the room, with three stacks of books on it.
On the near side of the room is a sitting area with a loveseat and two oversized armchairs, plus a coffee table and matching end tables.
Morgan is on the loveseat, concentrating on the book in her hands, bare feet pulled up on the cushion next to her. I pause in the doorway for a moment, watching her.
She's so beautiful; I want to sit down and kiss every adorable freckle on her nose and cheeks. I want to wind her white streak around my finger and kiss her delicious pink lips.
I fucked this up so badly. I still don't know what to think about my mom getting in touch with Morgan, but after some time to think, I know I was a jerk to lash out at her. I was shocked, and hurt. Talking about my mom always hurts. And it felt like it came out of nowhere.
But I believe Morgan. I believe my mom came to her, because what possible reason would she have to lie about that? To say I reacted poorly is a gross understatement.
Now I have to figure out how to fix things. Because the other realization that's come out of all my damn thinking is how hard I've fallen for her. I was wrong when I told her I was falling for her. I've already fallen. All the way.
I'm in love with Morrigan Goode. But I have no clue how to make things right.
She looks up and for a moment, her eyes and mouth start to smile. Then she must remember how I hurt her, and her face snaps to a neutral expression.
"Hey, Zach. Nice haircut."
I can't tell from her tone if she's serious or mocking me. I run my hand over my hair, still not used to the length. "Thanks. Apparently your mom really didn't like my long hair, so this is my wedding present to her."
She nods, not meeting my gaze. We wait in weighted silence for long enough I get antsy.
"So your text?—"
"About my text?—"
I chuckle and she smiles, then we go back to neutral awkwardness. Finally she looks up at me. "My text."
I enter the room and sit in one of the armchairs. I want to sit on the other end of the loveseat, but I'm not sure I'm welcome.
"Yeah. What's so important?"
She puts a bookmark in her book, closes it, and sets it on the coffee table next to her mom's old journal. What did she call it? A Grim something? Instead of picking up the journal, though, she picks up a stack of loose paper next to it.
She holds the pages out to me. "I found them. The missing pages." Her expression is as grim as the name of the journal, her complexion pale.
I reach forward to take them from her but don't start reading yet. I can tell she has more to say.
"My dad, he, uh, he finally came when I summoned him. Last night. He told me where they were." She's still not looking at me, talking to my feet instead .
"Where were they?" It's a silly question. I should ask about the contents of the pages. That's clearly what's got her attention.
And thank every god and goddess Morgan and her family worship, her news isn't that she's pregnant.
"In the attic at Nana's old house, up on the hill."
My memory flashes to the raging storm we had last night. "You went up there last night? By yourself?" I picture her walking through the rain, barefoot in the wet grass, with a protective bubble of magic around her to stay dry.
She shrugs. "I had an umbrella."
"Let me guess, you didn't wear shoes?" I force my tone to sound teasing. I need some levity in this conversation.
A smile flickers across her face, but is gone as quickly as it came. "Of course not."
"OK, so you found the pages. Did you read them?"
"Obviously." There's a duh note in her tone.
"And?"
She glances toward the door, chewing on her bottom lip. A nervous gesture I've never seen her do before. "We should probably talk after dinner. It'll be ready any minute."
"Your mom said five minutes when I left the kitchen, so yeah." Damn. I don't want to sit through a meal and small talk. I want to know what the Grim book pages say.
"I'd rather not talk here anyway. It needs to stay between us for now." She swings her legs off the couch, picks up her messenger bag from where it's sitting on the floor, and tucks the pages, the journal, and the book inside. "You wanna come over to my house after? We can talk then?"
Hope soars up in my chest. "Yes, absolutely." So what if I sound way too eager? I miss her. This is exactly the opening I need to start making amends.
She stands and holds out her arm toward the door. "After you. "
Dinner is torturous. Because the wedding is in just a few days, conversation centers around last minute preparations. Morgan and I have done all the tasks we were assigned, so I eat my food as quickly as possible, answering when asked a direct question but otherwise staying silent.
I almost groan when Bronwen announces she brought dessert, but I mask my irritation. I think. It's another twenty minutes before we're carrying plates to the kitchen. Sirona does a quick cleanup spell, and the dishes disappear. I have no idea if they're in the dishwasher or if they're clean and put away. I'll ask about it at some future dinner.
"I need to get going," I say at the first opportunity.
"Hot date?" Dad asks, winking at me.
It takes everything I have not to glance at Morgan. "No, just stuff to do at home."
"We need to get going too." Bronwen adjusts Sabrina on her hip. "This one needs extra time in the bath before bed."
The toddler is wearing more of her dinner than got in her mouth.
"I'll walk out with you," Morgan says, following her sister out of the room.
Which is my cue to follow. I wave vaguely at the room and head out. It makes more sense to drive to Morgan’s than to leave my car at Dad's and possibly have to explain why I'm still around when I come back in a little while.
I'm waiting in my car in Morgan's driveway when she comes into view on the path. I can feel Bowie watching me and it's unnerving. So I jump eagerly out of the car to meet her, giving me something to focus on other than the supernatural owl.
More than anything, I think the idea that witches can communicate with animals has been the hardest thing for me to wrap my head around. Was Bowie hanging around on Morgan's birthday? Is that why it feels like he's judging me?
"Hey," I say to get my mind off her familiar .
She flashes a smile, but looks at my chest, not my face, when she does so.
"Let's go inside to talk. It's chilly out here." She's barefoot, of course, and wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt in a burgundy color that somehow makes her eyes look more golden than brown. Or maybe that's the twilight.
I follow her into her house and to her reading room. She sits on her reading chair and I take the only other seat in the room, a rolling desk chair at her desk. I roll it toward her, stopping when I'm close enough for comfortable conversation but nowhere near as close as I'd like to be.
She settles back into the oversized chair and rests her head on the cushion, looking up at the ceiling. "It's, uh. It's not great news."
Panic leaps into my chest. "What's not great news?" Is she sick? Was I wrong and she is pregnant?
She looks at me with a harsh glare. "The Grimoire pages."
Relief washes through me that she's OK, followed quickly by a sense of dread about what's on those pages.
And Grimoire. That's the word.
"Do you want me to read them? Or do you want to summarize it for me?"
Tears immediately well up in her eyes and I can't stop myself. I close the space between us, perch on the edge of her chair, and pull her against my chest. "Morgan, what's wrong?"
She doesn't pull away and I'll call that a good sign. One of her arms goes around my waist, the other to my chest, her hand resting over my heart. Which is beating faster than normal. "I don't think I can talk about it."
I'm torn between being thrilled she's letting me hold her and dread at her reaction. Guiding her with me, I lean forward to pick up her bag from where she dropped it on the floor. I feel around until I find the loose pages, and pull them out .
"It's OK, I can read them." I press a kiss to the top of her head, because I can't stop myself.
Her fingers dig into my chest. "Zach," she whispers.
"Yeah?" I pitch my voice low to match hers.
"My mom killed my dad. She’s been lying to us our entire lives."