Wild is the Witch (33)

We’re quiet for several minutes, then I reach into my backpack and grab what’s inside, holding it out for Pike to see.

“Iris Gray, are you offering me one of your precious KIND bars?”

“I am,” I say solemnly, handing it to him with care. “An olive branch, of sorts.”

“I’m touched, truly.” He reaches out to take it, and his fingertips brush my hand as he does. My breath catches in my throat, and I don’t move, suddenly more aware of my hand than I’ve ever been before.

This was supposed to be a silly gesture, a joke, but he looks at me with a seriousness that makes the space deep in my core churn with something I don’t recognize. My hand is still, frozen in the air, Pike’s fingertips resting gently on my skin. There’s enough firelight to see the way his gaze changes and finds my mouth, the way he looks at me with a question instead of an answer.

He swallows, and I watch his throat move with the effort. Slowly, he takes the KIND bar and pulls his fingers from my hand, the cold night air invading the space.

“It’s getting late,” he says, standing.

I blink a few times, coming back to myself. Pike offers me his hand, but after the moment we just had, I don’t trust myself to take it. I stand on my own and grab my blanket from the tarp.

Pike cleans up our garbage, then douses the fire. He turns on a flashlight and walks me to my tent, illuminating the way for us.

“Thank you again,” I say, not quite meeting his eyes. “For coming back for me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Good night,” I say, unzipping my tent and ducking inside.

I slip into my sleeping bag and pull my blanket up and over my body, remembering how just moments ago Pike and I were underneath it, staring up at the stars. I listen as he unzips his tent and shuffles around, getting ready for bed. Then the night gets quiet, the only sounds those of the animals who live here.

Still, I strain to hear him, wondering if he falls asleep quickly or if he lies in bed thinking, the way I do. I’ve never been able to quiet my mind on the best of days, let alone the days that leave me replaying every little detail until I want to scream.

Pike says there’s complete silence in space, that sound can’t travel, and I wonder if that could extend to my thoughts. I wonder if I could float up and up and up, and at some great height my mind would just…still.

I close my eyes and try to sink into the vision, imagining myself rising toward the heavens, the world getting quieter and quieter until suddenly there is nothing.

A rustling noise comes from Pike’s tent, and I wonder if he’s still awake or just turning as he dreams, fast asleep. Then I hear the unmistakable sound of a package opening, and my hand flies to my mouth to stop the laugh rising up my throat.

Pike Alder is eating the KIND bar I gave him.

And for some reason, it makes me inexplicably happy.





Thirteen


I wake to the sound of Pike walking around the campsite, humming to himself. I rub my eyes and yawn, then remember the owl flying off and immediately send myself into a panic. I reach for the bird, an urgent assembly of magic, needing to know that he’s still close.

The image in my mind gets more and more defined as the magic tracks him down, and finally it’s clear as crystal, confirming his location. I breathe out, long and heavy.

He’s in the same place he was yesterday when I first sought him out after he flew away, and something tells me he’ll stay there. Waiting for me.

I slip out of my sleeping bag and pull my hair into a bun. I’m sure I’m a mess, my curly hair wild and my eyes showing how tired I am. But I’ve never cared to impress Pike Alder, and I won’t start now.

When I step out of my tent, Pike is already taking his down. Most of his stuff is piled up neatly to the side as he pulls out his tent poles and tosses them onto the ground.

“Morning,” he says, turning to look at me.

It takes all of my self-control not to ask him how his midnight snack was, but I resist. “Morning,” I say, grabbing the bag of Sarah’s granola and shoving a handful into my mouth.

“What’s that you’re eating?” Pike asks, throwing me a glance over his shoulder. His eyes linger on the bag, and I almost laugh.

“Homemade granola,” I say, handing it to him. “You’re welcome to have some. Sarah gave me enough to last a year.”

Pike eagerly grabs the bag and dumps a pile into his hand before giving it back to me. He’s well-acquainted with Sarah’s baking, since she often sends Mom and me to work with the recipes she tests at home.

“God bless her,” Pike says after he finishes his handful. I give the bag back to him, and he takes more.

“She really is wonderful,” I say, and I’m instantly hit with the memory of her engagement to my mom, and a joy so strong fills me up that I can physically feel it. “My mom and Sarah got engaged,” I blurt out, wanting to share it with someone.

“Whoa,” Pike says, finishing more granola. “That’s awesome. They’re great together.”

“I think so, too,” I say.

Their relationship has always seemed so natural, and I wonder how long Mom and Sarah were together before they knew they were together. Maybe they just one day realized they never wanted to say good night to the other person again, the way the darkness makes you see the stars—they’ve always been there, but it takes a cloudless sky away from the lights of the city to notice.