Chapter Nine #3
I shrug, unwilling to admit to the five-year estrangement—and all the complicated, messy feelings that come with it—that currently separates Flora and me.
“Our ruse worked until I fell out of a tree in our backyard. The fall broke my arm, and mending bone was beyond Flora’s skills at the time.
Mom was furious when she found out. She refused to heal me.
She wouldn’t even take me to a mundane doctor. ”
Horror flashes across Elle’s face. “How old were you?”
“Twelve. Flora was only eight.”
“How the fuck isn’t that child abuse?”
If only it were that simple. “My mother is a powerful woman. Who exactly was going to report her?”
“I’m so sorry, Pippa.” Elle tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear, her fingers trembling. “What happened with your arm?”
“The school nurse came through for me.” Fond appreciation for the woman who helped me finally shakes off the last of my lingering shame.
“I faked an injury during gym class. The nurse must have known the break was days old, not minutes, but she healed it anyway. My parents were furious, but at least they finally gave up on the idea I’d ever work healing magic. ”
“I’m sorry I brought all this up. Family should be a source of safety.
You deserved better.” Elle reaches out but stops short of touching me, letting me decide whether to close the gap.
As if there’s any chance I’d deny her. Not when every touch is like lightning against my skin.
I take her hand in mine, relishing her warmth.
“And for whatever it’s worth,” she continues, “I’m glad you excel at the magic you do. Alex and I would be screwed if you didn’t.”
“I’m glad, too.” I hold her hand a beat longer, the weight of her gaze inspiring a whole migration of butterflies to stir in my stomach.
The first hint of a smile tugs at Elle’s lips, but then she pulls her hand from mine and hurries to her feet. “I need to get the dough back in the freezer before the butter melts.” After scrubbing her hands in the sink, she carefully wraps and stores her in-progress croissants.
Once the dough is secured, she leans her back against the fridge. “So, Pippa…I need to ask you something, but I don’t want you to think I’m being cold or callous. Especially after what we just talked about.”
“That’s comforting.” I aim for levity that I’m not sure I achieve. I finally take a bite of the apple she gave me, hunger erupting the moment I finally start eating. When her expression twists with hurt, I drop the attempt at humor. “What is it?”
“You’re obviously still recovering, and I don’t want to rush you.” Elle pushes away from the fridge and pulls out a steak, her attention shifting to dinner prep.
“But…” I prompt.
“Halloween is only twenty-three days away.” She reaches into the spice rack, and with her standing in profile, I’m hyperaware of the way her throat constricts as she swallows. “I need to know if you can get back to work soon.”
“Ah.”
“I don’t want you to overexert yourself and get hurt,” she continues in a rush. “And I know this whole thing was my fault, but if you can’t complete the haunting, I’ll need time to find a different witch who can pick up where you left off.”
“Elle, breathe.” I set the apple on the table and join her on the other side of the kitchen. “I won’t be ready to go ghost hunting for a few more days, but I can get back to my research tomorrow. I know you said trust isn’t easy for you, but I promise I can do this.”
One of her rare smiles, colored with relief, blooms across her face. “That would be great. And I’m genuinely glad you’re doing better. I swear I wasn’t trying to be dismissive of what you’ve been through.”
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Assume that I’ll read the worst into whatever you say.
I know our initial meeting was a bit contentious, but I’d like to think we’ve gotten past that.
” But as the words hang between us, I realize it has to be more than that.
At Bellflower Bistro, Elle sat close so I couldn’t accuse her of yelling if she had to raise her voice above the din of the restaurant.
“Is this part of the trust issue thing?”
Elle’s cheeks burn red, but she nods. “My therapist thinks it started with my parents’ divorce and my dad taking off for good, but…
I also dated someone for a long time who always found a way to make me the bad guy.
” She grabs a bowl from one of the cupboards and adds a layer of spices to the bottom.
“I guess I still expect to be misunderstood.”
“Intentionally misunderstood?” I ask, and when she gives a sad, lopsided shrug, my heart aches for her. I wish I could soothe her hurt, but short of pulling her into an embrace and whispering reassurances in her ear—which I clearly cannot do—all I have to offer is a promise.
“Let’s make a deal. We both assume positive intentions. Always. Unless the other person explicitly says they’re trying to be an asshole.”
The laugh that startles out of her is the best thing I’ve heard all day. “Deal.”