Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(47)
“Oh, sure, I’m plenty awesome,” I replied wryly, “if you love rules and structure and a quasi-pathological need for stability. Along with an endless stream of nerdy references. To be fair, Sydney—that’s my ex-fiancée—she and I did have other things in common. She liked having and enjoying beautiful things, like I do; we shared a certain aesthetic. And she wanted to be part of a family like mine. You know, the prestige by association.”
“A gold-digging star fucker!” Morty exclaimed, in such a singsong, upbeat tone that I burst out laughing. “Oh, yeah. She sounds straight-up spectacular. Fucking catch of the year right there.”
“My best friend, Jessa, would really be enjoying this conversation,” I noted. “She was, likewise, not a fan. Especially when Sydney changed her mind about marrying me, fairly last minute. Very apropos of her spontaneous approach to much of life—including, apparently, major commitments. She decided basically overnight that I was too suffocating to live with. And she . . .”
I ducked my head and nibbled at my lips, my insides quaking. I hadn’t told anyone the full extent of what Sydney had said about me; most of the time, I didn’t even let myself remember it. And I had been far from mentally prepared to admit it today—much less to Morty, of all people.
“You don’t have to say it,” he said gently, skimming his thumb over my knuckles. “Not if you don’t want to.”
“I do,” I said, more fiercely than I expected, my gaze flicking up to his. Beneath all that sadness, there was a rage I’d never fully faced, a livid fury I’d been too afraid to give space to grow—and now it reared up inside me, fully ablaze. Because I wasn’t just feeling devastated and empty and unmoored. I was fucking pissed, and had been for a long time now, deep down in that dark oubliette where I stored my most ungovernable feelings. “She said that I was like some kind of robotic protocol. A human algorithm. Joyless and predictable and . . . boring.”
I felt a flare of answering anger in Morty, entwining protectively around mine like a shower of sparks.
“Idiot,” he said simply, as if he couldn’t be bothered to spare more creative invective for Sydney. “You couldn’t be boring if you tried. Having rules and boundaries doesn’t make you dull, Nina. From the sound of it, it’s what’s helped you survive the kind of family you have. And even if it hadn’t, there’s nothing wrong with governing yourself. Setting rules for what you will and won’t accept.”
“You sure thought there was when we first met,” I pointed out, flicking up an eyebrow. “Case in point, I’ve never felt so judged for having strong opinions about not running outside in winter.”
“Well, I was pretty intentionally being a dick that time,” he admitted, holding my gaze easily, eyes clear as water. “Even before the whole Blackmoore thing came out, I misjudged you, thought you were only what you looked like. A basic chick looking for a little fling, a run on the wild side with someone like me before you settled down with somebody . . . respectable. Normally, I might not have reacted quite that rudely, but I’d been having a rough time myself. And the idea of being someone for you to play with . . . let’s say it brought out the not-inconsiderable jackass in me.”
“A basic chick,” I repeated, grimacing a little. “Okay, ouch, I felt that one.”
“A beautiful basic chick,” he amended, with a tiny smirk. “Absolutely hot as shit. Any better?”
“Not completely, but I’ll own it. Self-delusion not being one of my things.” I glanced down wryly at the high gloss of my Moncler parka, my maroon Fairfax & Favor boots. “Not like I can claim to be any kind of alternative.”
“What about the rest of it?” he challenged. “You’re gonna tell me you weren’t looking for a joyride with me?”
I opened my mouth to deny it before remembering that, in fact, this had been Jessa’s precise plan.
“I was,” I admitted, a little guiltily. “It’s complicated. It had been a year since my breakup, and my best friend was just trying to help get me unstuck. Dating after Sydney was some fresh hell, and you seemed, maybe, like someone who wouldn’t psych me out too much—because we were so different, and it seemed so clear we wouldn’t be a match. But I . . . I’m sorry. You’re a person, not some edgy toy, obviously. I never intended for you to feel that way.”
He tugged me close, for a quick, soft kiss on the cheek. I loved being kissed on the cheek, the casual, easy affection of it; it wasn’t something Sydney had ever done with me, or a habit my family subscribed to. Of course.
“Nah, it’s okay. You weren’t doing it on purpose—that reaction was on me. How were you supposed to know that was a sore spot?” He paused for a moment, eyes distant, as if mulling what he wanted to tell me.
Then he gave a little nod to himself, meeting my gaze head-on again.
“The thing is, I’ve played around plenty, right?” he said. “Been poly with a million partners, been open with one, run the whole gamut of relationship anarchy. And don’t get me wrong, I’m probably never going to be down for anything totally conventional. But turns out, I do want one steady partner who also wants me. Someone who’s always there; someone who knows all of me. Who’s rock-solid, not going anywhere. I need that kind of stability. Maybe I always did, but especially now.”