Every time I come to the university for my job, I tell myself that I will walk into his office and I will say it. It’s so simple. Itshouldbe so simple. And yet there is a part of me, deep in a damaged corner of my soul, that is terrified of saying those words aloud. Even after all these years, with a great distance from my past, I’m scared of what will be demanded of me once I speak them.
The sorcerer might have kept me captive, but someone else broke parts of me before I ever met that evil man.
Emotional scars from my childhood remain.
And so, if I cannot speak my thanks, then I will find another way to show my gratitude to the group of mythics who ended my most recent torment.
Gifts.
I enjoy the idea of handing something special to each person to show them, even if it’s through a small act, that I understand what they did for me.
“Happy hour.”
I blink myself away from haunted memories and refocus on the witch in front of me. He blurted the two words, and I adore how the redness, having nowhere left on his face to stain, creeps up to his ears. A daring part of me wants to lean further forward and press my lips to the heated skin to feel if it scorches like my internal fire.
But I keep my mouth to myself and only ask, “Happy hour?”
Broderick picks up a pen from his desk, tapping it in an anxious rhythm. And because I am currently working against about of anxiety too—a state I am never far from—I somehow find the repetitive noise soothing.
“This Friday, if you’re free, you could join my family for happy hour. We have it on the dock behind the library now that the weather is nice. If you have any gifts that you want to give to people, that might be a good time to find them in an easy mood. And I’ll be there.” Broderick, seeming to realize his pen tapping has grown a touch frantic, tosses the writing utensil on his desk. “Not that that’s a selling point. But I thought I might mention it.”
Happy hour.
Spending time with peers.
Making friends.
All things I have never gotten a chance to do. And I want to so badly.
But will my mind let me relax enough to engage?
After six months of being free, I still feel like life is on the thinnest knife edge, cutting me when I wobble. But I’m used to pain. And pain in pursuit of happiness seems worth it.
“I’ll think about it.”
He smiles, and my heart rate quickens. I stand from my chair abruptly, feeling the shaking in my fingers that lets me know I need time to myself. Time to breathe. Time to remind my soul that I won’t be trapped again.
But before I leave, I want to give the babbling witch something that I believe he might consider to be a gift.
“Just so you know, for me, youarea selling point.”
BRODERICK
I wait until Ophelia is gone before I collapse back in my chairand let out a groan of embarrassment. The sound arises from deep in my chest, carrying with it every mortifying thing I said back up to my brain to replay on a loop. A self-torture I don’t know how to escape from.
“Broderick?”
I snap upright, trying to fling my body into a not-embarrassing position as I realize that Ophelia is at my office door. Again. Staring at me.
The firebird definitely heard my self-pity groan.
“Are you okay?” she asks, both of her golden brows raised in concern.
“Ah, yes. Good. Very good.”
Oh gods.Now, she’s going to think it was a good groan instead of an embarrassed one. Her imagination will start filling in all thevery goodthings I could have been doing right after she left to make me feel like that.
So, I panic.
