My search generates forty-six million results. I click on the first link.
Tip 1: Make a list of all the reasons why it wasn’t meant to be.
My list isn’t long: loss of livelihood.
Tip 2: Remove all traces of him from your life.
Also easy, since I won’t be attending SGHS for much longer.
Tip 3: Practice thought stopping.
Every time I think about him, I should say, out loud,stop. Are they kidding?
I try calling Mother again. The line is still busy.
I wipe my sweating palms on my apron and rummage through the cabinets to find the lavender to calm myself. Even if I can’t smell it as well as I used to, it still works, in the same way loud music can damage your hearing even if you’re not listening.
My twitchy hands fumble the bottle, and with a clunk, it shimmers across the floorboards.
I pick up the bottle, managing to save a few last drops. The spill quickly transforms into a wet spot on the floor. I don’t notice I’m crying until I feel the sting of the salt water on my cheeks.
My knees scrape against the hard floor. I’m drowning in a sea of plant debris, staring at a stain that looks suspiciously like a surfboard. But unlike yesterday, there will be no rescue for me here. If only Mother and I weren’t the only love witches on the planet.
Wait a minute. Aunt Bryony.
Though she can’t use her nose anymore, my aunt was a love witch. Maybe she knows how to fall out of love. At the least, maybe she’ll give me a place to stay when Mother disowns me.
I go to the People Finder website. How many Bryonys could there be in Hawaii? I hope she didn’t move. How many Bryonys could there be in the United States? The world?
A man’s voice calls out, and even though it’s faint, I jump.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
I freeze as I remember. Dr. Lipinsky. I’m scheduled to do his intake, though I can hardly do that now with this bare excuse of a nose. For a moment, I’m tempted to hide out here in the workshop. But the poor man drove all the way from Santa Barbara.
“Coming!” I call back.
A stooped figure stands midway down the path of stones. I hurry to him.
Mother said Dr. Lipinsky was in his seventies. But this man before me couldn’t be more than fifty. When he sees me,he straightens his slim posture. He’s fit and neatly put together, with combed hair parted straight down the middle. His pressed pants break neatly over his shined shoes.
“I’m sorry, the gate was open.” He gestures behind him. “I’m Dr. Lipinsky.”
I paste on a smile. “That’s okay, we were expecting you. I’m Mim.” Welcome to my house of horrors.
“Nice to meet you.” He reaches out his hand, but I don’t shake it.
“I’m sorry, we’re not supposed to shake people’s hands. Contamination.”
An eyebrow lifts.
“How was your drive?” I quickly ask. Maybe I can convince him to give up his shirt, and then Mother can scent it out later. Or even a sock. He’d probably prefer driving home with a bare foot over a bare chest.
“My drive? Er, fine.”
He’ll think I’m crazy.Hello, nice to meet you, now could you take off your sock?My knuckles crack as I crunch a fist.
He straightens his bow tie. “See, the thing is—”
