“Oh, okay. Of course. Let’s go.” Sam grabs my hand and eyes me thoughtfully.
We make our way back to the truck in awkward silence. Sam immediately opens the door for me and ushers me inside while he picks everything up. He hops into the cab to drive me home, leaving the screen up.
“Don’t you need to take that down?” I feel guilty for lying and making him rush out of here. But this is a new development. I don’t know what it means, and I don’t intend to figure it out with him. What would I even say? He doesn’t believe any of this is possible. He’s told me magic isn’t real.
“Nope, it’s more important that I get you home. I can come back to take it down later.” He shifts the truck into gear and starts our trek toward my house. The whole time I can feel my arm tingling and throbbing. I know it’s blossoming with either new or changing tattoos, and my stomach flips at the mere thought of it.
We ride in amicable silence as I peer out the window. This isn’t who I am. I’m not a liar. I don’t open up or make myself vulnerable when it counts, but I also don’t hide. I was taught to address problems head on and with a smile. Guilt is bubbling so thick in my tummy that my lie might not turn out to be one after all.
“Can I stop and get you anything before we get to your house?” Sam asks, a sad, perhaps disappointed, look donning his face.
“No, thank you. I’m so sorry I ruined our night. I was having fun.” I try to give him some solace that this has nothing to do with him. I reach out and give his hand a tight squeeze. Deep in my heart I know he is probably regretting ever taking a chance on me in the first place.
“Olive, stop.” Sam pulls up to park in front of my cottage. “You do not ever need to apologize for not feeling good. Whatever the reason, you do not need to say sorry to me.” He presses a gentle kiss to my cheek, then hops to open the door for me.
“Thanks again. I’m sor—”
I start to apologize again, but he stops me by pressing a kiss to my lips. I guess he isn’t concerned about getting sick. Waves of comfort wash over me for the briefest of seconds. I wish I could just let go and enjoy the date he had planned—I wish I didn’t have this stupid tattoo.
“I told you, no more saying sorry. Now get in there and please feel better. If you need anything, let me know. I will call you in the morning.” With that, I walk toward my porch, climbing the stairs slowly as my anxiety settles in. I unlock my door, slip inside, toe off my boots, then collapse to the floor. I prop myself against the door, hanging my head in my hands over the embarrassment and guilt of leaving. Suddenly there’s a knock followed by Ari yelling, “Olive, let me in.”
I peel myself up off the floor and shake out my shoulders, trying to release the tension that’s built up. Opening the door, I ask, “How did you know to come?”
“I got like a hundred SOS texts from you. I figured it was important, so I ditched my Witches’ Brew and literally ran here.” She’s huffing and puffing, short of breath.
“Sorry, I was with Sam and things started getting weird. I didn’t have service, and I just kept trying to send the message. I didn’t know it would come through a million times.”
“What do you mean weird? Did he do something?” She pushes past me, kicking the door closed on her way to the couch.
“No, no, no, of course not. He was sweet and perfect. He asked me if I would ever get a tattoo—” I sink down into the couch beside her, tucking my feet up under me.
“Wait, why is that weird?” she interrupts before I can finish.
“It’s not that . . . I just didn’t know what to say, so I said I needed to use the bathroom. He took me to his cabin, which by the way I think is adorable. When I was in the bathroom, I took a peek at my arm, and the tattoo wasn’t just growing. It was moving, dancing almost, and when I freaked out, a dark stormcloud appeared. I didn’t know what that meant, so I just said my stomach hurt, and we hauled ass back here.”
“Okay?” She eyes me suspiciously, like this couldn’t possibly be a big enough deal to end a date.
“Ari, this is nuts. How am I supposed to live a normal life with this . . . this thing on me always causing problems? How can I have a normal relationship when a simple question sends me spiraling because I’m afraid he’s going to find out I’m nothing more than a liar?”
Ari shifts toward me, grabbing both of my hands and looking directly in my eyes. “You are not a liar. You have something going on, something that is magical, and frankly, as much as you hate it, kind of cool. There is a simple solution to all of this. You could just tell him.”
I stand abruptly, making my way to the kitchen for water as a lump forms in my throat out of frustration. She doesn’t get it. I could never tell him. It’s not even believable, in the first place, he would think I’m insane. I down a full glass before searching the cupboard for comfort cookies. As I bite into the first bit of chocolate-creme-filled goodness, Ari approaches.
“Look, I know it wouldn’t be easy to tell him, but if you’re actually thinking of giving him a real chance, you should. Howie and I don’t think you’re crazy. Hell, Howie can corroborate your story, and even if Sam doesn’t believe you, he just needs to see the tattoo change once and he’ll know it’s true. I feel like it’s my duty as your best friend to tell you that I think he’s the real deal. I’ve never seen you happy like this, and lying, even if it’s by omission, is clearly tearing you up.” She wraps me in a hug, and I know she means well, but still, she does not understand.
“I’ll think about it. I’m sorry for making you come over. It’s not really an emergency. I think I just want to go to bed.” I need space, time to think.
“Okay, I’ll head out. My day starts early tomorrow anyway. I’m helping with an event up in Salem for the agency.” She hugs me once more then heads toward the door. “Call me if you need me,” she shouts as she exits.
“I will,” I whisper before heading to my bedroom. I only have a little more than three weeks to figure this out until I’m stuck with this thing permanently.
As I lie in bed, my mind keeps racing between what Ari said and what happened with Irina. She’s not wrong. I could show him. But then again, he told me earlier this evening that he wished he had a cheat code to make dating easier—fool proof. Wouldn’t telling him be the same as giving him exactly that? And is this what Irina and the mystery voice meant? Did they want to let me learn the hard way that allowing people to see all parts of you never ends well?
“Wake up, sweetheart. Your father is waiting in the living room.” I toss and turn as the sound of my mother’s voice hangs in the air. Groaning, I shove a pillow over my face. I must be dreaming—my mother is a thousand miles away—but I still don’t want to wake up and take on the day.
The door to my bedroom creaks open, and I swiftly grasp for the covers to pull them over my head. If I’m covered, then the boogeyman can’t see me, right?
“Olivia Bowman, do not hide from me.” My mother’s voice is louder now, demanding. I peer out from under the covers andshoot. She’s here, in my room, and I’m sleeping in a tank top. What in the world is she doing here? Who let her in my home? My mother cannot see my arm under any circumstances.
