7. Monday Always Comes Too Soon
Chapter 7
Monday Always Comes Too Soon
Noah: Thinking about you this morning. When can I see you again?
A text from Noah wakes me up better on a Monday than coffee ever could. It’s a butterfly-esque fluttering in my lower belly that has me betting I could float through the rest of the day. Caffeine just doesn’t do the same thing.
I take a sip of the rich, over-creamed liquid I brought in a mug from upstairs. I’m sorry coffee, my love. I didn’t mean it.
I wipe off the glass countertop, clearing some of the dust that settled over the weekend. I was literally just in here last night and there’s already dust.
Hazel: I’m pretty flexible. When are you free?
That’s a lie. I can’t even do the splits without wanting to cry. Laura, on the other hand, did gymnastics for years and can still do a jump-up-in-the-air-and-do-some-twirls-or-something handspring.
Noah: Can I see you tonight? I have a favorite bookstore I’d love to take you to.
A favorite bookstore? He may be actual sunshine in human form. Granted, he’s a writer, so I’m not surprised his kink is books, but I can absolutely get on board.
Hazel: That sounds perfect. Send me the address and we can meet after work.
Speaking of books. Is there anything in one of these books about the electric current between Noah and I? Or about my dreams? Dreaming about moments that didn’t happen surrounding my father’s death sounds pretty witchy woo-woo to me.
I’m too chickenshit to ask Grandma. I want to know about the dreams, but I don’t want to know. My throat closes up at the thought of actually verbalizing it, not to mention what Grandma would think.
As far as Noah goes, I’m scared partially because I’m convinced she’d know exactly what it is, and partially because I know for a fact she’d have questions about Noah. And I’m enjoying keeping his existence to myself for now.
Laura will sniff him out sooner than later anyway. Hell, she was there when I met him. I’m surprised she hasn’t sniffed him out already. She’s like a bloodhound when it comes to men.
My eyes flit over the books on the shelf. What am I even looking for? Electric Currents Between Random People ? I’m sure there’s a book with that title. Definitely.
Ugh.
Rosie jumps up on the shelf in front of me and knocks a book toward me.
The Women of The Pruitt Line . Well, hello there. Who are you?
I scratch behind her ears until she purrs, pull the book off the shelf, and examine the back. A comprehensive family tree with biographies of the Pruitt line all the way to Salem.
We came from Salem?
How do I know nothing about my family history? Rage boils in my chest, threatening to burn up my throat and into my mouth.
A breeze rustles my auburn hair as I stand there attempting to control my breathing. Breathe in, breathe out.
Traitor. Liar. Controlling bitch.
“That’s something every Pruitt woman should read,” Grandma says, interrupting my thoughts. “We have a very interesting story.”
“Do we? I had no idea.” Venom drips from every word as I clutch the book to my chest as if it were my very life in my hands.
She sighs, putting her hand on my arm. Her bangles jangle with the motion. “You have every right to be angry. You have every right to feel the way you do. Just remember not to let the anger eat at you. Anger can turn us into someone we no longer recognize.”
I nod, walking back to the counter. Do I want anger to eat at me and twist me into something evil and bitter? No. But damn is it an uphill battle right now.
The book makes a thunk as I drop it on the counter next to the cash register. It’s heavy and imposing, the leather cover decorated with flowers and embossed cursive text.
The pages slightly stick together as I open the book. It’s been a while since anyone has read it. With delicate motions, I turn to the first real page.
Elizabeth Pruitt, 1672–1692
That now almost familiar scent of a fresh rainstorm washes over me as I look at the name. Magic. As if her very essence has been shared with me through these pages.
The official beginning of our line, or at least the first record of it. It all starts with Elizabeth.
Is Grandma named after her? I always thought my middle name came from Grandma, but does it come from this woman?
I settle on my bar stool and prepare myself for the story of Elizabeth Pruitt, first of her name.