Wild is the Witch (48)

I look at him, firelight bouncing off his glasses, casting a warm orange glow over his features. I have an overwhelming desire to tell him about the curse, to lay it all out there and see how he’ll pick up the pieces. He has surprised me a lot over the past few days, and it makes me hope that maybe he can surprise me again. Maybe I can tell him exactly who I am, and maybe he’ll accept it. Accept me.

Mom could be right. His jokes and comments could be empty, with no real weight to them. But then I think back to that day in the office, to the tone of his voice and the intensity in his eyes, to the cruel words he spoke about Amy, and I know deep down that he’s carrying something that has unquestionably shaped his view of witches. And it isn’t good.

“One of these days, I’d like to get lost with you,” he says, and I laugh.

“Trust me, you really don’t.”

Pike hands me a small twig, my whole body responding when his fingers brush mine. “Here, this might help.”

“What’s it for?” I ask.

“A wish. My brother made it up on one of our camping trips, and it kind of stuck. Just as the fire is about to die, you make a wish on the twig and toss it into the flames. The wish will burn, half of it drifting away on the wind, the other half turned into ash for the soil.”

It reminds me so much of what my grandma taught me, of my own ritual to give things to the earth, and it makes me want to cry. He makes wishes and I craft spells—are the two really that different?

“I love that,” I say quietly.

“Yeah, me too. Maybe it will help with whatever’s on your mind.”

“Maybe,” I say, the word getting caught in my throat, barely audible.

Pike holds his twig out in front of him. “Okay, close your eyes and make a wish.”

And I do. I squeeze my eyes shut and clutch the twig in my hand. I wish for a successful morning where I find the owl and unbind the curse before anyone gets hurt, eliminating the risk to Pike and this region that I love so much. I want so badly for it to happen that the twig shakes in my hand.

I open my eyes, and Pike is watching me. “Ready?” He asks.

I nod, and Pike counts to three. Then we throw our twigs into the fire, watching our wishes turn to smoke and ash. It’s not as therapeutic as casting a spell, but it’s nice. Calming in a similar way.

I lean toward the fire and hold my hands to the weakening flames, gathering the last of their heat. Then the final flame dies out, and all that’s left are glowing embers filled with wishes.

“We have an early day tomorrow. Should we get some sleep?” Pike asks.

Smoke rises between us, and I watch as it twists and curves in front of his face until it’s gone. Then I stand.

“I can sleep outside tonight if you’d rather,” he says, pouring water over the hot embers.

“No, I’m comfortable with it if you are,” I say, even though my stomach twists tighter and tighter the closer we get to the tent. Pike leads the way with a flashlight and holds the flap open for me to crawl in. He follows and turns on the lantern to the dimmest setting, and somehow, the tent feels even smaller tonight.

We stick to the same routine, facing away from each other as we change out of our damp clothes, then Pike holds up the corner of the sleeping bag for me and I slip under. When I can finally bring myself to look at him, I’m disappointed to see he’s in sweats instead of his pajamas.

“Why aren’t you wearing your pajamas?” I ask, partly because it’s fun but mainly because I find them devastatingly cute.

“They sadly didn’t survive the fall,” he laments. “Thin fabric.”

“Ah,” I say, keeping myself from laughing as I remember him falling face-first out of his tent. “You should get another pair.”

“Way ahead of you. I placed an online order while we were at the general store.”

“Of course you did,” I say.

Pike turns off the lantern, and I burrow into the sleeping bag, thinking of how calming it is to be under the cover of the trees. Or how calming it would be, if Pike Alder wasn’t right next to me. Every part of me is aware of how close we are, of how easy it would be to move my hand and brush his fingers with my own. Each of his inhales makes the sleeping bag rise just slightly, and each of his exhales fills the space between us, waiting for me to breathe it in. Breathe him in.

And I do.

I breathe him in.

“Do you miss your dad?” Pike asks, catching me off guard.

Something about being in total darkness with him, about the way he can’t see my face or read my expression, makes me want to say the things I wouldn’t normally say. Maybe that’s what this last night is for, to say whatever we want, to wrap our words in darkness and give them to the other person.

“Yes. I wish I didn’t though.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think he deserves to be missed after what he put us through.”

Pike shifts, the sleeping bag sliding over me as he moves. I remain perfectly still, as if taking too deep a breath could put me on top of him.

“That’s fair,” he says, his voice quiet and thoughtful. “But the missing part. That isn’t really for him. It’s for you.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Missing someone is just a form of grief. Grieving that they’re gone, grieving that they’re too far away, grieving that you’ll never see them again. Whatever kind of grief it is, the missing is just a symptom of it.”