22. Chapter 22 - Minnie
I lie on my new bedroom’s floor. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, trying to suck in air. Ten minutes. An hour. Forever. I need to go downstairs to get Formula M, but I can’t.
I picture the fuchsia vial. The diamond-shaped lid. The smooth surface grazing my fingertips when I reach inside my Birkin. The exact spot I left my bag on the counter, in the middle of the kitchen.
The sound of squealing tires plays on repeat in my mind. Damien driving away. Natty jumping off the sidewalk, in front of a moving car. It’s all my fault. Everything is my fault!
I can’t even get up off the goddess-forsaken floor. If Damien were to come back and see me like this, he’d think I’m pathetic. If Zachariah saw me like this, he’d take Natty away.
I should just tell the truth—about squatting at the bakery, about him almost getting hit by a car, about everything. Natty’s better off without me. I don’t deserve to be happy.
A sob slips past my lips. Damien left me. My parents left me. Zachariah and Natty are going to leave me. Snow’s perfectly happy staying at Zoe’s. I bet even Tiptoe’s better off at Amber’s than with me.
I’m all alone.
Soon I won’t even have sort-of-friends. We’ll break in to save the fuzzies and get arrested. Amber, Zoe, and Violet will blame me for running out during my library speech. For refusing to post videos on Screech. For not finding another way.
I let out a keening sound, like a wounded animal, and struggle to suck in air. All I have is this stupid house. I should just lock myself in it forever. Resign myself to a life on the bedroom floor.
Another wave of panic hits, and I drown in it. Each breath is a struggle, my lungs burning and chest aching as I try to break free. The overwhelm is suffocating. It swirls around me for an eternity before I finally suck in air.
This is all Damien Starr’s fault!
And I can’t let that jerk break me for a second time.
The panic gets replaced by rage. I won’t let him win. I won’t let him hurt me again.
I push myself up off the floor and stumble toward the door on shaking legs. Somehow, I make my way downstairs. The house is quiet—aside from my heavy breathing—which echoes around me.
It reminds me of my childhood. Of the Montgomery mansion, with its piercing silence and empty halls. I can’t stand it, and throw open every downstairs window—letting in the animal chatter from outside—before heading into the kitchen.
My Birkin is sitting on the counter, right where I left it. I pull out the Formula M vial. The liquid inside sparkles under the light, and I watch it for several long moments.
But I can’t take it. Not now. Not today.
Not until I switch to Formula M 2.0, and I’m sure I can keep Natty safe.
I love that little boy with all my life. I can’t let anything happen to him. I can’t let Zachariah take him away.
If he gets out of prison and sees the house like this, he’ll never believe it’s our home. There’s no food in the kitchen. No signs of life.
I need to buy groceries and scatter our things from the bakery in each room to make this place look lived in.
But how am I ever going to pull that off?
I can use the envelope of cash to get groceries delivered, but what about our stuff?
I can’t just send a crew to the bakery. People will ask questions.
And if I get caught, I could still lose Natty.
Maybe even go to jail for squatting on someone else’s property.
But what other choice do I have? Invisibility dust and Natty’s wagon? I’ll be at it all night!
I square my shoulders, grab my purse, and fix my puffy eyes and other imperfections with a makeover potion before putting on my hated heels. If this is what I have to do to keep Natty in my life, then it’s what I’m going to do.
I walk down the street, enjoying the sound of laughter echoing from the nearby playground.
Birds call hello, flying overhead and hiding among the trees.
A dog pulls her owner toward me, wagging her tail and talking non-stop about the food waiting for her at home.
I keep walking, pretending I don’t understand—last thing I need is for my new neighbors to see me flap my arms like wings and then drop on all fours, butt wiggling.
Not unless I want to be dubbed the weirdo from house 111.
I try to forget about Damien, but don’t succeed until I reach Main Street. The moment I spot the firetruck parked in front of Jewels Cafe, the only thing I can think about is Natty.
Without Formula M in my system, nothing stops me from wobble-running to the cafe and bursting through the front door. The place isn’t charred and doesn’t smell like smoke. No one is sobbing, and I don’t hear panicked screams.
Thank the goddess!
Two tall, broad-shouldered firefighters wearing heavy protective gear stand in the middle of the cafe, to-go cups in hand.
They’re both handsome men. There’s also no pink fated hate magic connecting us, which is definitely a bonus. I bet they’re nice guys—unlike a certain rock star—and yet I have zero desire to kiss either of them.
“Minnie! Finally!” Amber cries when she sees me. “Don’t you ever check your phone?”
The panic returns, tenfold, and I feel the weight of a rock drop into my gut as my stomach plummets. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Firefighters in Silver Springs are first responders, which means it could be any number of emergencies, including medical calls. “Did someone get hurt? Is it Natty?”
Did Natty jump off the sidewalk again? Did he get hit by a car?
A sob lodges in my throat and every inch of my body feels as if it has been engulfed in flames. Flames no firefighter can put out. Only Formula M can do that, and I don’t know how to handle the rising panic on my own.
If anything happened to Natty, I don’t think I could keep going.
My chest feels like it’s going to explode when Amber’s words penetrate the haze. “Natty’s fine.”
Natty’s fine. Natty’s fine!
“Is it the babies?”
“No one’s hurt, Minnie.”
I suck in one long breath. No one’s hurt?
“Harkin,” Amber says, pointing at the red-haired firefighter, “and Jett,” she points at his dark-haired colleague, “just stopped by to chat. Hey, did you know Chett Steele, Not a Vampire’s guitarist, has a son named Jet?”
Jett chuckles. “You don’t say?”
Amber nods. “I still can’t believe the band’s breaking up.”
Jett scratches his beard. “It’s a shame.”
I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that everything’s fine when Jett turns to me.
“The reason we’re here is because we have a chipmunk problem.”
A chipmunk problem?
His words echo in my head for several long moments as I try to make sense of them.
When I don’t reply, Jett adds, “We need your help.”