Page 84 of Love Spells: And Other Non-Refundable Magic

“You make jewelry?”

“Sometimes.”

“What kind?”

And because she asks like she actually wants the answer, I show her.

She moves to the chair next to me instead of taking my phone, her shoulder settling against mine as I scroll through photos of things I’ve done recently. I show her bracelets I’ve sold for the shop and a few pieces I’ve kept, explaining some of the stones when she asks. She stops on one picture longer than the others, enlarging it with two fingers.

“Oh, Flora. These are beautiful.”

The compliment shouldn’t make me as self-conscious as it does. I’ve sold jewelry to thousands of strangers in the past three years. I’ve made custom pieces and generic ones, all with the purpose of helping said strangers achieve something for themselves.

But Merry’s words…

“Thanks.”

“No, really.” She looks at me. “You’re good at this. You have a really good eye.”

I lock my phone and set it beside my plate before she can see how much I like hearing that from her.

From there, the conversation wanders.

I tell her about Fausto because I’d recently made a bracelet for his girlfriend. Merry tells me more about Rose, and we discover we’re both eldest daughters, that she bought her house two years ago and the list of things she wants to do to it gets longer by the day. I tell her how Mamá gardens with more optimism than skill and that Fausto is in a fraternity I pretend not to judge him for.

None of it is particularly important.

That’s what I like about it.

There isn’t a single moment where I think, This is when I learn something significant and earth-shattering about Merry.

I just keep learning things.

The way she picks the mushrooms out of one side of her risotto but insists she doesn’t dislike mushrooms enough to have mentioned them alongside the olives or to even order something that is not, perhaps, a mushroom dish. The fact that she asks me questions and remembers my answers. That when I tell her a story about Fausto, she doesn’t immediately use it as an opening to tell one of her own. She listens first.

And somewhere along the way, I stop noticing how long we’ve been sitting there.

Our plates disappear. Then the glasses are refilled. When the server asks whether we’d like dessert, Merry looks at me before she answers, and I know immediately what she’s asking.