"Absolutely. This market is hot, and your property has charm and character. Trust me, Mr. Mercer, this house will sell." She slides the contract across the table. "Sign here, and we'll get started."
I stare at the dotted line.
This is it.
Gramps' house will belong to someone else. Some family with kids who'll swing on that rope and chase fireflies in the backyard and make their own memories in these rooms.
And I'll be gone. New York. Drakesmere. A fresh start in a city where no one knows me.
If Rika doesn't want me, there's no reason to stay.
I pick up the pen. The scratch of ink on paper is loud in the quiet kitchen.
Missy beams, pleased. "Excellent. I'll be in touch early next week with staging recommendations and showing schedules. In the meantime, I'd suggest starting to clear out personal items. The more neutral we can make the space, the easier it is for buyers to envision themselves here."
She gathers her things, shakes my hand again with that same confident grip, and leaves in a swirl of expensive perfume and clicking heels.
The Mercedes pulls out of the driveway with a purr.
I stand alone in the kitchen, the signed contract on the table, the late morning sun slanting through the window and illuminating dust motes floating in the still air.
The ache in my chest is physical, sharp and relentless.
I love Rika.
I'm in love with her in a way that feels permanent, like it's written into my bones, into the very structure of who I am.
But she doesn't feel the same. Or she does, and she's too scared to admit it, which somehow hurts worse.
Either way, the outcome is the same: it's over.
I repeat it to myself like a mantra, like if I say it enough times it will stop feeling like my chest is being crushed.
I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I'll move to New York; I'll teach at Drakesmere; I'll build a new life.
It doesn't feel true.
But it's all I have.
Chapter 19
Rika
I'mdrowninginmyown bed, face down in my pillow, when ice-cold water hits the back of my head like a slap from the universe itself.
I jolt upright, sputtering and gasping, my pale-blue hair plastered to my face, my t-shirt soaked through and clinging to my skin. My wings snap open reflexively, flinging droplets across my bedroom like a sprinkler system gone rogue.
My mother stands beside my bed, holding an empty glass, her expression somewhere between furious and triumphant. Belinda Everdeen is dressed in her usual flowing tunic, this one a swirl of purple and orange that hurts to look at this early in the morning. Her turquoise eyes are blazing with fury like I just took away all her crystals.
"What the hell, Mom?" I manage, wiping water from my eyes.
"Good morning to you too, sunshine." Mom sets the glass down on my nightstand with a decisive clink. "I refuse to let you stay in bed drowning in regret and self-pity. You're about to ruin your best chance at happiness, and I'm not having it."
She crosses her arms and just stares at me. I'll admit that Belinda Everdeen can be a scary woman, even if she's barely five feet tall.
That's when I notice them.
Zoe and Matthew are standing in the doorway, both watching the scene unfold. Zoe has her arms crossed, her expression part concern, part exasperation. Matthew clutches Mr. Gears to his chest, his purple eyes wide and worried.
