Steadfast(21)

What the hell is happening to you? That wasn’t like him. Had never been like him. Simon had always thought guys who dated women much younger than themselves looked a little pathetic; he’d rolled his eyes when one of the other partners at his old firm brought a twenty-two-year-old date to the Christmas party. But at least twenty-two was legal, for God’s sake.

She was his daughter’s age! He’d never imagined he was even the kind of guy who could find that attractive, much less the kind who actually would. The more Simon thought about that moment upstairs, the weirder it seemed to him. Normally he’d never have let anyone in Nadia’s room without her permission, even a friend. And when he’d found himself attracted to Elizabeth, it was almost as though some kind of . . . trance had come over him, as crazy as that sounded.

The fact is, it’s been way too long since your wife left.

Simon thudded his head against the door, disgusted by himself, and sure of only one thing: He was never, ever going to be alone with that girl again.

“It’s just an experiment,” Nadia said as they waited their turn for “suicide” runs across the gym. PE was such a joy.

Verlaine didn’t look convinced. “An experiment on me.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Explain to me again why this is necessary?”

Nadia had known this would be a hard sell, but they had to do it. She needed the experimentee to be someone she knew, somebody who could be questioned thoroughly afterward without it raising too much suspicion. The only other possible candidate was Mateo, and his mind was under enough strain with the burden of the Cabot curse. So she had to get Verlaine on board.

Before she could say another word, though, the coach blew his whistle; their fifth turn was up. So she and Verlaine had to run to the first free throw line, back, half court, back, second free throw line, back—suicide runs sucked.

But as they went, Nadia managed to speak loudly enough for Verlaine to hear her over the thump and squeak of tennis shoes on the court. “I have to—try to make—Elizabeth forget stuff. Right?”

Verlaine nodded; her pale skin was already flushed red.

Panting, Nadia continued, “But I have to make sure—I can pinpoint—the spell. Make her forget first—what I want her—to forget most.”

“And this means—I have to forget something?” Verlaine said between gasps.

“Got to be—one thing—you’d like to forget. Right?”

They were on the last leg, the full-court run, and neither of them spoke until they reached the finish. As they collided with the padded back wall, Nadia scooped her sweaty hair away from her face. Verlaine said, “Could you make me forget the time I messed up at my third-grade piano recital, and the whole room went quiet while I tried to think of what to play next, and in that total silence of that crowded church, I farted louder than anybody else you ever heard in your life?”

Nadia bit her lip so she wouldn’t laugh. “I can try.”

“Then okay. Because that memory is one I could live without.”


They didn’t get a chance to try it until after school. For safety’s sake, Mateo didn’t join them; Verlaine had sensibly drawn the line at maybe forgetting how to breathe. They walked toward Swindoll Park, which was more or less back to normal now that the charred remains of the haunted house had been demolished. Verlaine hugged her 1950s satin bomber jacket more tightly around her as she sat on the steps of the bandstand. Nadia stood about a dozen feet away.

“Come on,” Verlaine called. “Let’s get this show on the road. It’s cold out here.”

“I’m so taking you to Chicago some January so you can see what real cold is,” Nadia called back. In truth, she was hesitating—unsure at the last moment.

The key to focusing a spell is choosing the most specific ingredients, while devoting your mind to precisely what you want erased, Nadia reminded herself. So. Hand on garnet charm, ingredients summoned:

Evidence of absence.

Proof of love’s existence.

Proof of love’s death.



She had to go for simple, precise examples of each one. Brief moments that had pricked her like a knife’s point—

Half of her parents’ closet, empty now that her mother’s stuff was gone.

The time she’d played hide-and-seek with three-year-old Cole and simply didn’t bother seeking him, because she was so desperate for some time alone. And then feeling so bad she’d tricked him—only for him to hug her as tight as ever before they went to bed.

Reading that email from her mother’s lawyer, the one where she’d learned Dad actually begged Mom to see their kids, and Mom ignored him—

The flash was subtle, the sort of thing that could seem like a trick of the autumn sunlight. After a moment, Verlaine blinked. “Did you do something?”

“I think so?” Nadia said. “Do you remember your third-grade piano recital?”

Verlaine frowned. “. . . I guess I must have had one.”

“You don’t remember?” When Verlaine shook her head no, Nadia clapped her hands together. “Yes. Yes! We did it! Oh, wait.” She froze. “Do you remember how to play the piano at all?”

“Nope.”

Oh, no. She’d gone too far, taken too much. Deflated, Nadia slumped against the nearest tree. “Verlaine—I’m sorry.”