“With the Potatoes?” I thought of the two potato-look-alike mice running through the walls. They were the opposite of calming to talk with Ryan about the other night. They could be anywhere. How did anyone sleep in that house? “No, thanks.”
“For some reason, I never thought you’d be afraid of a little mouse.”
“You thought wrong. We can go to my dorm. Come on, big guy.” I hauled him further against me.
“I’m notthatbig.”
“Big enough,” I said before I paused. A flush crept up the back of my neck—and not from the strenuous lifting.
* * *
I pushed openthe door of my residence hall, and Ryan walked inside behind me, one slow, pained step at a time. It was especially taxing to watch as we made our way up the twenty raised steps to the second floor.
“I didn’t realize how tight my leg had gotten after babying it so much,” said Ryan by the time we made it to the top.
I inexpertly hid my amusement. Ryan raised his eyebrows as I pushed open the door to my room and waved him inside.
He shrugged. “My fault really.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It is. I haven’t been stretching like I was told to. But really, who does?” asked Ryan.
He made his way inside my room. His eyes roamed around the square box, cleaner but also darker than his room across campus.
“I thought you had a roommate,” Ryan commented.
“She has a council meeting tonight.”
“You mean, the one where they decide if you can get funding and permission for your Sam-am party on campus?” He asked.
I didn’t bother to correct his pronunciation.
He seemed to perk up at my confirmation. “That’s good. I didn’t know how long they were going to make you wait.”
“I know it’s a lost cause.”
“Nothing is a lost cause until it’s over,” he said. “Unless you want it to be?”
I honestly had no idea anymore. I’d poured myself into that project, but over the past week, it’d simply felt less important.
It felt like years had passed since I’d tried to distract myself with a witch-approved Halloween party.
“I don’t know. Maybe?” I admit.
“Sometimes, it’s easier for someone else to stop you from going after something you want than for you to stop yourself.” Another point and a sage remark from him.
He wandered past the window, where a tree arched over and often scraped whenever it rained. Pausing at my desk, he looked over my notebooks and book of shadows, careful not to touch.
He wasn’t so modest when he lifted the old perfume bottles I’d filled, lifting each to his nose and taking a short whiff. “Your tonics.”
I turned on another lamp to brighten up the space. Already, the sun fell fast outside.
Ryan paused at the homemade candles with clipped wicks and pots of beeswax salves. “You really make all these?”
“With help,” I confirmed.
All the girls at the coven usually got brought into the business of making small, everyday spells, like mason jar candles and sachets of pungent herbs, sold when spring and summer came around. Few ever realized we weren’t only a part of the artisanal soap craze.
