“She made her choice,” I say softly. “And I made mine. There’s no reason we need to waste time rehashing it all.”
“Not even if it means patching things up between the two of you?”
“Not even then.” I swirl some sugar from the dish on the table into my cup. “Besides, I’m sure she’s busy with whatever she’s got going on with the coven, and I’m… well. It wouldn’t do either of us any good.”
Mom and dad share a look, then mom sighs.
“I could have sworn I heard Soleil say almost the exact same thing not too long ago.”
“Well, how about that?” I mutter. “Finally, something we can agree on.”
“My practical, pragmatic daughters,” she laments in another sigh.
Dad clucks his tongue. “There’s nothing wrong with pragmatism.”
She arches a brow at him. “There certainly is when it means holding onto grudges and giving each other the silent treatment over a silly teenage misunderstanding.”
“That’s not why Soleil and I haven’t—”
“They’ll figure it out in their own time, I’m sure.”
Dad lays a sympathetic hand over mine where it rests on the table, giving it a brief squeeze before turning back to his newspaper.
I bite back a groan of frustration.
The two of them are next to no help. Despite the fact that they love both their daughters dearly, John and CelestePendergast have never offered much helpful advice when it comes to playing referee between us.
Mom’s an astrologer… and tarot reader, palm reader, rune reader, all-around psychic extraordinaire, who believes the answer to every question I could ever ask is written in the stars.
Dad’s an astronomer who believes that if something can’t be counted, measured, quantified, or solved with good old-fashioned logic, then you’re not trying hard enough.
They met during an eclipse, and by whatever magick the sun and moon held over them that day, ended up falling in love and producing two gifted witch daughters.
I’ve often wondered how the hell it is they’ve managed to stay together so long, let alone how they ever got together in the first place, but they’re weirdly perfect for each other. Mom helps dad believe the world is more magickal and less logical than it seems, and dad helps bring mom’s feet back down to earth when she floats a little too far into the cosmos.
Not that being perfect for each other makes them perfect parents.
Far from it, in fact.
“I’ve gotta go,” I mumble, standing from the table and drawing two concerned looks my way.
I know those looks well. I’ve been subjected to them since the day I left the coven hall for the last time.
They make me itchy.
Itchy to be anywhere but here, in sight of two of the people who love me most in the world, acutely aware that despite their love, they still think I’m a bit of a fuck-up.
Itchy to get the hell away from this place.
Itchy to run.
Again, the question ofwhereis irrelevant.
“Alright,” mom says with one final sigh. “We should be off to bed, anyway.”
“You haven’t slept?”
“Meteor shower,” dad says, then launches into a very detailed explanation of last night’s astrological phenomena and what made it so fascinating.
