"The Enchanted Quill." I straighten, pride warming my chest despite my nerves. "It's a bookstore, but also . . . well, it's a bit different."
"Different how?"
Here it comes. The moment where I either downplay the witchy side of my shop, or embrace it, and risk the weird looks. But Mark's still smiling, and the sincerity in it pushes me to be honest.
"We specialize in mystical items, too. Crystals, tarot cards, that sort of thing. Plus custom tea blends and ritual kits. "It might sound a little out there—"
"No, that's cool!" He leans forward. "My ex was really into crystals. She had this whole collection, used to talk about moon phases and manifesting."
My body locks up. Not because he mentioned an ex—that's normal, right? But there's a shift in his voice, a softening that makes my intuition ping like a warning bell.
"Oh?" I say, aiming for casual as our desserts arrive. "That's . . . interesting."
"Yeah, Harper was passionate about it. She even did these full moon ceremonies . . ." His voice trails off, andohno. Those are not regular memories in his eyes. Those areI'm-still-in-lovememories.
I should change the subject. Any sane person would. But then he adds, "We actually broke up three weeks ago," his voice cracking and, just like that, I'm tumbling headfirst into someone else's heartache.
"That must be hard," I say, watching myself shift from potential date to the role I know too well—keeper of broken hearts, collector of other people's almosts. "Heartbreak like that . . . it reshapes everything."
Mark's eyes turn glassy. "You ever have that moment where you're just going along, thinking everything's fine and then it hits you? You've been taking someone for granted."
I do know. I also know I have no business being in this conversation.
But I'm already nodding, watching our sorbet melt as Mark dives into a saga about Harper, their cosmic connection, and the way he never appreciated her morning meditations—until she left him for a guy named Gunter who, apparently, owns a kombucha brewery.
"She always said timing was everything," he says, staring into his drink like it's scrying water. "You seem so wise about this stuff. Do you think sometimes the universe brings people back together when they're ready?"
Walk away, my intuition whispers.This isn't your story to heal.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Sometimes people need space to become who they're meant tobe for each other."
Mark's eyes light up like I've handed him spiritual validation on a silver platter. "That's exactly what Harper would say! She was always talking about divine timing and . . ." He pulls out his phone, and now there's no mistaking the tears gathering. "Look, this was us at the Renaissance Faire last summer. She made her own fairy wings."
I stare at the photo of a pretty brunette in handmade costume, but my mind drifts to my own phone's camera roll, still full of stupid selfies Caleb took when I wasn't looking. Him wearing my crystal crown backwards. Making faces at Salem. Another where he's holding Ducky like a football.
The server keeps circling our table with increasingly concerned glances, probably wondering why I'm nodding along while my date shows me his relationship highlight reel.
"And this was at the crystal shop where she worked," Mark continues, emotion threading every syllable. "Before she left to become a yoga instructor. I told her it wasn't realistic. Can you believe that? Me? Doubting someone else's dreams?"
"Sometimes we push away the things we're afraid to want," I say, because apparently, I can't stop myself from dispensing wisdom like some sort of spiritual vending machine. "We look at something beautiful and terrifying and convince ourselves it's safer to stay in the shallow end."
"That's what I did!" He looks at me. "I was scared of how much I needed her spiritual side in my life, so I pushed her away. Do you think . . . I mean, should I tell her that?"
The correct answer isabsolutely not, you're on a date with someone else. But I'm already too deep into this heart-healing session to maintain any pretense of romantic potential.
"What would you say to her?"
Mark's lip trembles. "That I was wrong. That I miss how she'd sage the apartment every Sunday. That I kept the crystal she gaveme for abundance." He pulls a small citrine from his pocket, and I nearly laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Because isn't that just perfect? Here I am, supposedly moving on, and the universe sends me a man still carrying around pieces of his ex.
By the time we leave the restaurant, I've helped Mark draft a text to Harper, suggested three books on spiritual awakening, and convinced him to try meditation. He hugs me in the parking lot, all expensive cologne and grateful tears.
"This was . . . really healing," he says, wiping his eyes. "You're incredible, Ivy."
"Just doing what feels right," I say, already backing toward my car. "Good luck with everything!"
I sit behind the wheel for a long moment, key in the ignition but not turning it. The neon signs from Miso Pretty cast long shadows across the dashboard, and I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. Mascara smudged, lipstick faded, and looking exactly how I feel—a placeholder for someone else's second chance.
