Her heart ground to dust as she watched him. Plastic smile. Practiced laugh. Never once glancing in her direction.
She’d let himin. Let herself believe. Just this once, she thought it might be real. And now the whole day felt like a carefully edited campaign ad.
Just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, there was a flash nearby. It captured, no doubt, her heartbreak.
She whipped away and broke into a run.
She had no phone, no money, no cards, no way to get back to the city.
Once she was sure she was alone, she dove into the water, swimming as hard and fast as she could, making her way back toward Manhattan, where she pulled herself out of the water.
Her cover-up was drenched, almost completely see-through, as she sat there for a few moments, hand pressed to the aching hole in her chest.
It was the laugh from the walkway nearby that had her fighting back her tears.
The last thing she needed was someone snapping a picture of her in her heartbreak.
So as soon as her tail dried and her legs appeared, she pulled herself off the ground and walked over toward a modesty box.
Iris took one of the many pairs of well-worn flip-flops and a large red-and-white flannel that was comically oversized on her.
But she felt a little less exposed as she ducked her head and made her way through the city.
She couldn’t go back to Finn’s penthouse. She wasn’t ready to hear his excuses.
She wanted Monty, but there was no telling where he was or who he might be with. The last thing she needed was more eyes on her.
She felt raw from Selene’s cynicism, but she made her way toward the bookstore, knocking wildly on the door until Selene emerged from her attached apartment.
She stumbled toward the door, her wild purple hair pulled up in pigtails, a massively oversized pink sweater swallowing her up.
Selene’s hand rose, making the locks disengage before she yanked the door open.
Her gaze scanned her friend.
Then she sighed.
“Well. You look like a woman who accidentally trusted a man. Come on in. I’ve got tea, tequila, and hex books. Pick your poison.”
Iris followed Selene through the darkened bookstore, wishing to feel the usual comfort she did at the scent of paper, ink, and glue binding, but finding nothing but deeper wells of sadness.
“Not now, Gerty,” Selene grumbled as a book flew across the store. “Don’t you know a heartbroken woman when you see one?”
Selene’s apartment was a studio that Iris wasn’t sure was real or enchanted. Judging by the small square footage,though, Iris was inclined to believe it was good, old-fashioned Manhattan real estate.
Her friend had fully made the space her own, though. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined one wall, soaked in a bright, happy yellow and weighed down with thousands of the romance novels she pretended not to love.
The floors were scattered with various colorful rugs, and the couch and bed were equally mismatched and cozy.
The kitchen was small and tidy, with purple cabinets and dried herbs hanging.
At the furthest end of the space was Selene’s altar, featuring storage for spell books, candles, incense, herbs, oils, and salt.
It seemed as though Iris had interrupted some sort of ritual. Supplies were spread across the altar: black crystals, a black candle, a quill pen, and a piece of paper with some writing on it.
Selene moved over toward the kitchen, flicking on the electric kettle, then reaching for two mismatched mugs before turning back to Iris.
“You smell like salt water and disappointment.” She waved Iris over toward a small two-chair dining set, the top a mosaic of Moroccan tiles. “Do you want to talk about it, or help me look for a spell to give him an itch he can never quite scratch? Upper back. Just out of reach forever. Or enchant his tie collection to aggressively tighten anytime he is being disingenuous. Or we could keep it simple and make every seagull in the tri-state area see his face as a bull’s-eye, if you know what I mean.”
