Wild is the Witch (42)

“My vision is admittedly terrible without my glasses, but it looks an awful lot like you were watching me sleep.” His voice is groggy and low, sleep still thick in his throat. Heat flares in my stomach, and I look at the roof of the tent, the zipper on the door, my shoes on the ground. Anywhere but his face.

“That’s a gross misrepresentation of what was happening.”

“Is it?” he asks, reaching over his head for his glasses. He puts them on and watches me, his vulnerability fading away with the dawn.

“It is. How embarrassing for you.”

Pike laughs and rolls onto his back, then stretches his arms up and over his head. He arches into the stretch, and I feel like I’m intruding, seeing him like this. It’s a common thing, waking up, but it’s something he normally does alone. There probably aren’t many people who have seen Pike Alder wake up, and it’s odd, knowing that I have.

“I don’t get embarrassed often,” he says, looking back at me.

“That’s one of your personality flaws,” I say casually, even though my mind is racing, fully unprepared for this version of Pike.

“You’re feisty in the morning.” He sits up, and I want to tell him he’s wrong, that I’m not feisty. I’m trying to act normal, trying to make sure he doesn’t feel the shift that’s happening, doesn’t notice the way I’m relearning him.

Last night, my panic took over everything, forced me into the woods in the middle of the storm because that’s all I could think of to do. And Pike didn’t shy away from it or ignore it or try to stop it. Instead, he stood in it with me, trudged through the darkness and high winds and pouring rain so I wouldn’t be alone.

Even though he was angry. Even though he didn’t understand.

He stayed next to me when that was the toughest place to be, and I want to forget it. I want to forget because it was so heartbreakingly kind, because for a single second, it made me wonder what it might be like to be fully accepted. Fully known.

But I’m not sure there even is such a thing as being fully accepted, and if there is, it certainly wouldn’t come from Pike. I embody the magic he hates.

Pike scoots out from under the blanket, but I catch his arm before he leaves.

“Thank you,” I say. “For last night.”

“You’re welcome.” His eyes stay on mine for one, two, three breaths, then he unzips the tent and walks out.

As soon as he’s gone, I find my magic and reach for the owl. I exhale when I feel the curse strong and steady in his chest, pulsing in time with his heart. Now that it’s morning, I realize how irrational it was of me to worry, terrified that the owl couldn’t survive a storm. These owls have lived in forests for hundreds of years—they know how to handle the weather.

But that’s the thing about anxiety, it doesn’t care if something is rational or not. It takes hold of your mind and squeezes tighter and tighter until it can’t be ignored, demanding your undivided attention. It turns from insignificant to all-consuming in the span of a breath, a fog so thick it’s impossible to see through, and no amount of breathing or counting or visualizing undoes it.

I went after the owl last night, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. And even though it seems senseless in the light of the morning, I don’t fault myself for it.

I change into warmer clothes, then grab Sarah’s granola and put on my shoes before slipping outside. The cool morning air greets me, and I breathe deep. Everything feels vibrant and fresh after the storm. New. The campsite is littered with branches and pine cones, and the river is surging, swollen with rainwater.

Pike hasn’t lit a fire and instead goes through his pack, checking off items on a list.

“Have some breakfast,” I say, handing him the bag of Sarah’s granola.

He takes it and checks one more thing off his list before pausing to eat. Once we’ve gotten our fill, I tightly seal the bag and put it back in the tent. I’m about to go over our plan for the day when a high-pitched moan comes from somewhere in the distance.

“Bear?” I ask.

“Sounds like it. A very unhappy one.” Pike stands and puts on his pack. We both listen, but the morning is quiet again. “I have bear spray with me, just in case. Is MacGuffin in the same location as last night?”

“Yep. I checked when I got up.”

“Good. Let’s go then.”

We both start out of the campsite at the same time, neither relinquishing our hold as the leader. Pike sighs, heavy and loud, making sure I hear it. Then he begrudgingly puts his hand out in front of him and says, “After you.”

“Thank you.” I walk in front of him, feeling some of my tension dissolve the closer we get to the owl.

If I don’t get MacGuffin home today, curse-free, Cassandra will come looking for him herself. And if she finds him, she’ll sense the curse as clearly as if it’s a river in the desert, impossible to ignore.

“Are you still mad about last night?” I ask Pike as we get deeper into the woods, wanting to distract myself.

“Grudges are a lot to carry—I try to be discerning in the ones I hold.”

I expect him to make a joke or recount the evening back to me, highlighting all the ways in which I acted poorly, but his response is genuine. It’s real.

“And my running through a storm at midnight isn’t worth the weight?” I ask.