Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(3)
The thought spurred me into taking a breath, stiffening my spine a little, and leaning away from Jessa as if she weren’t, in fact, my load-bearing support column. Trying to act as though I at least remembered who I was supposed to be.
“I don’t think heartbreak’s an exact science, sweetie. Though I will concur that maybe we’ve been going about this the wrong way,” Jess concluded thoughtfully, nibbling on her lip. “You know what, why don’t we ditch this and grab some drinks instead? Rethink our strategy?”
“But what about your . . .” I gestured vaguely toward the abandoned snarl on her work tray. “Fetishwear-in-progress? It had such promise.”
She chuckled through her nose, not bothering to deny it. “I can always take it home. It was going to be for Steven, anyway . . . Ooh, maybe I can make him finish it for me, before he gets to wear it! You know, like a meta-kink moment. Foreplay for the foreplay.”
I stared at her for a second, equally confounded by the rigorous intellectual component her most recent bedroom exploits apparently called for, and the fact that her flavor of the week had already earned himself an actual name. By Jessa’s standards, that was unusually rapid progress. Most of her conquests went by evocative nicknames the likes of “Lacrosse Jesus” or “Emo Clark Kent” until they dropped out of the rotation; maybe she actually liked this guy.
“I do not claim to understand your ways, Jessamyn Singer, but I respect them,” I finally said.
“Just the way I like it.” She slid the jewelry into a little ziplock, grinning to herself. “So, where do you want to go? Dive bar? Nice bar? Weird bar?”
“Nice bar,” I said automatically, suppressing a sniffle. My spirits rose a little at the idea of delicious craft cocktails and low lighting, the utter relief of not having to funnel any more energy into forcibly enjoying, or pretending to enjoy, yet another form of alleged entertainment.
“See, there you are,” she said warmly, reaching out to give me another squeeze. “Knew my favorite fancy bitch was in there somewhere.”
2
Whimsical Bitches and Trickster Gods
Ten minutes later, Jessa and I wedged ourselves into an empty booth at Whistler’s Fireside, a waft of cold still clinging to us as we shed our layers and stamped our snow-crusted boots under the table, wind-lashed cheeks both numb and glowing.
Whistler’s majestic black walnut booths, with their intricately carved backs and must-and-varnish smell, looked like they’d begun their lives as pews in some medieval abbey. Bare Edison bulbs cupping twists of glowing filament swung above each table, and to our right, the bar top gleamed copper from the vintage pennies preserved under its glass slab, fat pillar candles flickering along its length. Even the cool blue cast of early-winter dusk drifting through the Victorian windows couldn’t chill the aura of warmth. There was no actual hearth to be seen, despite the name—probably the owner’s idea of an ironic joke—but the whole ethos of the bar did feel like sitting at a fireside.
I loved it here. It reminded me of my favorite New York speakeasies, the ones that had brazenly ridiculous thousand-dollar concoctions tucked into the drink menus like dirty capitalist secrets, and all but demanded a password and secret handshake to get in, even though everyone and their mother knew where to find them. I couldn’t help but enjoy that little thrill, the sense of being part of an exclusive club—especially when it wasn’t real elitism, but just for fun, the way it was at Whistler’s.
“What are you thinking?” Jessa asked, once the server had dropped off menus and a complimentary bowl of honey-and-harissa popcorn. Truly, this place was the bomb. “They have the spiked hot chocolate today, and oooh, a new buttered rum hot toddy. Shit, but does that even sound good, in reality? Or are they counting on the butter to gaslight us into believing it must be delicious?”
“Hmm, as yet unclear.”
I gave the happy hour specials a cursory skim even though I already knew what I wanted, wondering whether I should at least try to be more adventurous. As sometimes happened at moments like this, the Ghost of Sydney Past materialized by my shoulder to whisper in my ear. (Though not, to be clear, her literal spirit, as Sydney had been alive and aggravatingly well in Chicago last I’d checked. And in any case, ghost whispering was more the kind of ghastly trick you’d expect to find in the Avramovs’ repertoire than the magic my family preferred to practice.)
Why do you always have to order the exact same thing, the memory of her voice sniped at me in that coldly exasperated tone that always used to make my shoulders hunch. Why not just try something new for once, so we can share?
But I happened to like the mulled wine here. And furthermore, I liked the tried-and-true reliability, the comfort of an order that you knew for a fact would make you happy. That was one of Syd’s and my most well-worn fights—her desire for spontaneity, set against my craving for structure and routine. The core disparity between us that had seemed like a charming opposites-attract deal at first, her the fluttering kite and me the grounded ballast. Us together, a rare alchemical balance that would elevate our relationship beyond the sum of its parts and into something golden and enviable.
No such elevation had, in fact, transpired. In hindsight, as happy as much of our relationship had made me, Syd and I had been the definition of fool’s gold.