Breaking Her (Love is War #2)(28)

Also, I'd been treating my body like hell lately and it couldn't hurt to start remedying that. Baby steps back to being a normal human again.

As we drank, Moonbliss (she opened up and admitted her parents had actually named her that—poor girl had never had a chance) walked us through her day to day eating. It sounded very time-consuming and confusing to me, and I liked cooking.

Oh, but wait, she didn't cook. I guess I just wasn't that into preparing.

"When do you find time to manifest your heart's purpose?" I broke in cheekily at one point just to let her catch her breath.

She didn't skip a beat. I was kind of impressed. "Oh, that's easy. I never miss my hour of Kundalini meditation first thing in the morning. It's crucial to the progressive cultivation of my soul. Crucial."

She was a bit of an acquired taste, much like her green shake. One thing I could say about her, though: she loved Amos. A lot. She couldn't keep her hands off him after she finished her shake, rolling around on the ground with him, rubbing his tummy how he loved. Amos, as always, couldn't get enough affection, and I had a soft spot in my heart for anyone that could love our homely, adopted mongrel.

"I think your dog is my spirit animal," she said at one point.

I just about choked on my shake, but recovered quickly. "Mine is that half-empty, Costco-sized bottle of Patrón on the counter."

Moonbliss gave me an odd look, but let me have it. "What about you, Demi?"

"Yeah, what about you, Demi?" I repeated.

"I never thought about it. Maybe a purple unicorn? A baby one."

I smiled at her. Damn, I liked her. We had grown particularly close lately. I chalked it up to her tender heart, especially when it came to wounded creatures.

She had a way with us all.

Moonbliss couldn't stay long. She had a lot of world wound healing still to do for her soul mission before the sun set, but she was thoughtful enough to write down some recipes that would energize my chakras before she left. She handed the piece of paper to me with a flourish, as though it were a prescription. "Always, for you, add spirit dust; you need all the help you can get for the path to inner peace."

Fair enough. No one had ever accused me of being peaceful.

I studied the list.

"And if you're having a craving for sweets, dose yourself with a bit of bee pollen. It's divine."

"Is bee pollen vegan?" I asked, just for the hell of it.

"My soul feels untroubled by it," she said by way of an answer.

Doesn't that make your chakra sticky? I almost asked, but held back, if only barely.

"Buckwheat soba noodle salad. Roasted kabocha soup. Denuded feldspar. All of these should be staple meals for you."

"Should they be . . . activated or . . . regular?"

She cocked her head to the side and studied me like I was the weird one.

Or maybe she actually realized that I was messing with her.

"I pray your afternoon is as carefree as a juniper breeze," were her parting words.

"Buh-bye," I said back

"See you tomorrow," Demi replied.

"You don't like her, do you?" she asked me when we were alone.

I was surprised she'd gotten that impression. "I do, actually. And I like having her around. She puts my improv training to good use."

I'd had a good laugh, but it did get me thinking. I had not been taking care of myself lately. Usually I tried to practice a good balance of exercise and eating healthy, with a dash of alcohol on party nights.

I needed to start taking care of myself again.

Because I needed to start caring about myself again.

"Is she for real?" I asked Demi. "Did you set that up just to mess with me?"

"I found her looking hopeless in the produce section. Her boyfriend dumped her for a younger woman, and she's feeling lost. All of her energy is going into finding something, real or fake, that makes her feel better. She can be . . . opinionated and eccentric but she is a nice person, and I want to help her. You know me. . . I just like to help. It gives me purpose."

Well, hell. Schooled by a twenty-two-year-old with a pure heart. You'd think it'd be demoralizing, but it was actually kind of enlightening. It never felt bad to just be nice to people.

In my case, I knew I needed to start with myself.

"Are you going to try one of those recipes for us tonight?" I asked her.

She flashed a dimple at me with her smile.

"If you do, just please, for me, be sure that the buckwheat has been de-hulled by an Amazon Chieftain during flood season on a blood moon. It's very important." I couldn't help it. Being a smartass was part of my DNA.

We both lost it, laughing until tears were running down our faces.

"Got it," she gasped. "And you don't have to worry about the feldspar, either. I'll make sure myself that it's denuded by a virgin during flood season and pointing west, of course."

I wasn't the only one who'd had improv training.

"That sounds like something that will boost my blood irony levels," I said in parting, feeling something akin to carefree for the first time in I didn't even know how long.

I'd been planning to spend the day marathoning Vanderpump Rules so I could feel better about me and worse about humanity, but I felt a renewed sense of purpose (that I refused to blame on the green shake), so I went for a long, satisfying run instead.