“Shit.”
Bridget bolted to her feet, the chair behind her screeching in protest as she nearly knocked it over. Without looking back, she sprinted out of the reading room and down the marble hallway, her boots echoing off the polished floors. She burst into the late afternoon air, breath frosting in the chill. Fumbling with her phone, she scanned the screen. Three missed calls and a calendar reminder glared up at her, all time stamped from over an hour ago. Had she really been so engrossed in reading she hadn’t noticed her phone shaking with notifications? Bridget ground her teeth together and barely resisted the urge to smash her phone into the ground. She couldn’t believe she’d missed an event.Again.
Bridget shoved her phone into her coat pocket and turned toward home. If she beat Nylah back, maybe she could come up with a good excuse why she wasn’t at her choir concert. She was sick or detained at the doctor orsomethingthat made sense to a twelve-year-old who still miraculously believed her when she made promises.
When Bridget arrived at their rental house, one a little on the smaller side compared to the two-storied colonial pieces on the rest of the street, she spent at least five minutes undoing all the locks. The bottom three were her own addition, much to the suspicion of the neighbors. But she didn’t care. The locks were the only reason she got more than an hour of sleep.
Inside, the hum of the dishwasher was the only sound that greeted her. The open kitchen and living room were still swathed in a kind of late-day gloom, the velvet furniture and rose-patterned wallpaper faded by winter light. It wasn’t much. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and it had been a last minute find when she’d decided to bolt from the hospital in Connecticut.
Bridget dropped her purse onto the granite island with a thud. A lopsided stack of worksheets sat beside it. Nylah’s homework, probably. She ran a hand over her face. Behind her, a toilet flushed.
Bridget’s stomach dropped. There would be no time for excuses. Moments later, Archer wandered out of the bathroom. He raised a brow at her haggard appearance.
“Ah, so you’re not ghosting me. You know, a little emoji of acknowledgement every now and then would be helpful.”
Bridget flinched.Ghost. The word of the day, it seemed. Even now, his presence was a reminder of the past.
Archer frowned. “Why the face? Did you run into one of those haunted tour groups that usually ruin your day with their slow walking?”
“Of my own life,” Bridget muttered.
Silence stretched between them. The kind that used to be awkward, but now carried a quiet understanding. She knew it was Archer’s way of giving her the chance to elaborate. With the amount of time they’d spent together over the last few months, she’d gotten to know him and his quirks very well.
Apparently sensing she wasn’t quite ready, Archer slid a vial across the island to her. “If it’s infected, this should help.”
Bridget stared at it. The thick liquid inside was tinged green, flecked with crushed herbs. It looked just like the ones from his makeshift healing tent back in Elyria. Softening, she put the vial in her pocket. “How did you know?”
“Location,” Archer replied, holding up his phone. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think that’s grape juice on your shirt.”
Bridget half-heartedly glared. “That’s supposed to be for emergencies.”
“It’s fun watching your little bubble when I’m bored.” He eyed her again, and then reached for a bottle of tequila hidden above the microwave. “I think you might need this too.”
Without arguing, she poured herself a shot. Bridget hoped it would help erase the nurse’s words about her time in the hospital and the image of Cade’s car from her mind. Along with the notion that Cassia had been wandering around the Boston Public Library. Bridget downed the alcohol in one gulp. The burn helped steady her nerves. “I thought we agreed on no magic in the house.”
“I thought we agreed to stop obsessing over what’s happening in Elyria.”
Touché. She guessed they both weren’t keeping their promises, which wasn’t much of a surprise, the more she thought about it. Shehadcaught him using a spell to help Nylah with her homework last week. Bridget craned her neck to peek down the hall at Nylah’s bedroom. The door was closed, and she couldn’t hear anyone else in the house. A lick of panic shot up her spine. “Where is she?”
“She’s out getting hot chocolate with a friend,” Archer said, and then he held up his hands. “And before you jump down my throat, don’t worry, I thoroughly vetted the mom.”
After a moment, Bridget quietly asked, “How mad is she?”
“She’s not mad.” Archer sighed. “She’s…”
If there was one thing she’d learned about Archer in the five months they’d shared a roof, it was that he loved to talk. Constantly. He filled every silence, even when she ignored him. He talked about music, about Elyria, about why toaster ovens were superior to regular ovens. Watching him struggle for words made Bridget’s stomach twist. “She’s what?”
“She misses you.”
“I’m right here,” Bridget said, backing away from him.
He’d said something similar a month before, and she’d shut him down then. She knew him and Nylah had bonded while she was in the hospital, it was one of the reasons she let Archer stay with them during their move to Boston. “Why didn’t you say anything this morning? I could have used the reminder.”
Bridget pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to swallow down the regret that wanted to drown her. She’d also missed the fall one, too busy obsessing and watching the gate to notice the time. How had she let it happen again?
“I did,” Archer said, taking his own swig from the tequila bottle. “If I remember correctly, you said you were running a few errands and would be back in plenty of time. I don’t remember you mentioning another visit to the library.”
“I just want answers. You know that,” Bridget said, the words flat from overuse.
