“It’s almost always immediate.”
“Well then, I guess I’m still waiting.”
His words send a trill of happiness through me. For a nanosecond, a vision of us strolling hand in hand through a golden meadow teases me. But then a thick and thorny vine entangles us, and all the flowers of ancestors past like the ones on Aunt Bryony’s quilt look on, quietly censuring me with their gaze.
A branch pokes me in the thigh, jarring me back to the present. It’s possible the BBG hasn’t taken effect yet. Or a breeze might have blown it away, though that’s never happened before.“I definitely should remist you.”
“What if the guy doesn’t want those feelings taken away? Doesn’t he get a say?”
My tongue stalls. This is where it gets messy. Mother warned me that men are just as emotional as women when they feel rejected.
“Yes, you get a say. But, love witches can’t like peoplethatway.” The trouty odor of my doubt makes me wince. “So it’s in your best interest for you to, er, not be interested.” That is probably the oddest thing anyone has ever said to him. Seeing the good-natured face he puts on drives a cactus spine into my tender spots. I focus on a smudge of dirt on his cheek as my train of thought veers offtrack.
“So you’re saying I can never take you out to smell dinner.”
I sink my heels deeper into the bark-covered ground, wishing it would compost me. If you only knew I would trade an arm for a date with you.
But not my nose.
“I’m sorry.” His eyes, probing mine, flicker, but don’t lose their intensity. My knees begin to buckle, though I don’t know if it’s from standing so long inside these tree branches or standing so long next to Court.
His chest deflates and he gives the tiniest shrug. “Well then. Spray away.”
Before he changes his mind, before I changemine, I spritz near his breathing space. I try to pump twice, just to be extrasure, but the lever catches at the end, meaning now I’m all out.
Mist shimmers between us like a rainbow veil. “Breathe in, please.” I can’t even meet his eyes. “Just to be sure.”
He lets out a cough of tart disbelief. But after a last look at me, he closes his eyes and deeply inhales, a simple reflex that somehow devastates me.
His eyes flutter open, and an unseen ocean of blue notes fill the space between us. The bump on his throat hitches as he swallows. “Let’s get out of here.”
As we leave the garden, Court stuffs two crisp Benjamins into the donation box. “Hope that covers it.”
SIXTEEN
“IF WE ARE THE MAGICIANS, LOVE IS THE MAGIC,
WITHOUT WHICH WE COULD PULL NO RABBITS,
WE COULD CONJURE NO COIN.”
—Poppy, Aromateur, 1819
ON THE RIDEhome, we stick to neutral subjects like math and soccer.
Court fiddles with the radio. “Whit’s a better player than me. He should’ve been the one on Sports Illustrated cover. Cassandra says they chose me because I look more all-American.”
Cassandra, the school songstress with the corkscrew hair. My toes clench.
“She told me not to get any tattoos or it’d ruin my image.”
“Is she your”—I stop myself in time—“publicist?” It’s none of my business if Cassandra is his girlfriend.
He chuckles. “She thinks she is. She set up a website for me, too.” With his gaze still fixed on the UPS truck ahead of us, he adds, “Cass is just a friend, you know. I mean”—he releases the steering wheel with one hand and gestures with it—“obviously.”
What’s obvious? I don’t ask in case it leads to tricky topics,like feelings. I have to keep things professional for his benefit and mine. Or at least neutral. “I like this music.”
“Los Solitarios.” He turns up the radio. The rich, rhythmic sounds of the Spanish guitar fill the void between us.
