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“I completely understand, Bellamy. You do not have a husband to lie with anymore, and the widower should not have to deny himself the simple pleasures of a pinnacle from time to time, do you not agree?”

“First off, he’s not dead, so I’m not a widower.” Although, if I ever come across his ghost, I’ll figure out a way to send him on a one-way trip to hell. “Second, please never say pinnacle again,” I groan, even as she begins to fade along with the lingering beats of her chiming laughter.

Within a few seconds, she disappears into the space between this plane and the next, leaving me alone and blessedly in peace.

I let the silence sit for a minute, let the thrum of desire build until the heartbeat in my ears becomes unbearable. I let my touch linger on my skin as I undress, letting my hands graze my sides as I take off my denim overalls. Tossing my shirt aside, I wander back out to the living room and grab what I need from the rickety drawer in my altar. Back in the bathroom, I set the lube and my rose quartz dildo on the countertop and face myself in the mirror.

Anticipation bubbles as I slip my thumbs into my boxers and slide them down my thighs to my ankles. My fingers carve a path back up my chest, circling the sensitive bud of my nipple a few times before I splay my hand firmly up under my neck.

That skull flashes across my vision again.

My mouth parts as I slick my fingers with lube and widen my legs, my mind battling with the no, don’t think of the man who hurt you and the oh god, please remember how good he tasted. I sink my fingers inside myself, desperate to feel good, to distract myself from the confusion. My free hand grabs the faucet, needing something to cling to as I set a hurried pace.

Looking up, I blink away the wayward fantasy of a certain tattooed man standing behind me. A flash of anger fills me, and I need more—I want this feeling gone, I need to come, and I need it now.

Another minute of opening myself up with my fingers and I’m leaking steadily on the floor between my feet. I grab my rose quartz dildo, lift my knee, and rest on the countertop. The coolness of the stone elicits a shiver that takes over my whole body, and a breathy moan shudders out of me. It stings a little as I reach behind and push the quartz past my rim. Ignoring the pressure, I push it deeper, inch by inch, reminding myself that I am in control here.

My mind is just that—mine. I glare at myself in the mirror, at my liquid-gold eyes, at my flushed skin. I want to touch myself, but the death grip I have on the faucet is unyielding, so I rut against the surface of the counter instead. I pant rapidly, driving the smooth quartz into myself, over and over, pressure building in the base of my spine. Tingles fan out across my skin, a moan ripping out of my throat as I quickly approach the inevitable.

The memories become so visceral, so tangible, it’s like Sunday is between my legs again. It isn’t the gradually warming stone but his hot flesh as he fucks me in the back of a hearse in his parents’ garage. The hand wrapped around the faucet is the one shoved down his shorts between library stacks when we couldn’t bear to be away from each other. Breath on the shell of my ear, fingers pressed into flesh until it bruised, filthy words whispered against my throat as he brought me to the edge.

“Oh fuck,” I gasp as my pleasure peaks, the edges of the room undulating along with my pulse, fissures of magic bursting from me. My back arches, ass clenching around the quartz nestled inside me as I come, creamy ropes streaking across the counter as I pant through what feels like an everlasting orgasm.

It’s not until something hot and wet drips onto my collarbone that I realize I’m crying.

I place the dildo gently in the sink, tears rolling down my face as my gasping pants turn to sobs, then to gut-wrenching cries that tear the air from my lungs yet barely elicit a sound. The downside of release—the broken dam, the cathartic expulsion of everything I’ve been holding in.

I feel sick with it, the memories of everything Sunday and I had overlapping with our eventual breakup. Meeting my ex-husband Leo, believing he helped heal the wound Sunday left. Naively believing that Leo was my forever person. The reality of my situation pours out, running in rivulets down my face, my knee sliding from the counter until my shaky foot rests back on the floor. I collapse forward, taking the waves of emotion as they come, knowing that while it feels horrible now, it’s maybe just what I need. A cleansing, of sorts.

I can walk into work tomorrow with an open mind and a closed heart.

Because where Sunday Mourning is concerned, I shouldn’t be.

Chapter Five

Bellamy

There’s something to be said about the level of peace that comes from crying yourself dry, rehydrating in a vat of scalding-hot rose water, and downing a glass of elderflower wine. It tastes divine, giving my body that fuzzy effervescent feeling.

The room is still hazy with incense and amber light as I cool down from my bath, my oversized tee brushing my thighs. Feeling much better after crying my eyes out, I grab my favorite tarot deck from my altar and sit cross-legged on the floor. Delphine sits across from me, her skirts surrounding her in a pool of chiffon and lace.

I cut the deck in my hands, the act itself grounding. I love feeling the cards slide between my fingers, the satisfying sound as they glide against one another. Three cards, three opportunities for guidance. And Spirit, do I need it. I focus my intention, my question. What do I need to work on? What do I need to hear right now?

One message comes in the form of a slipped card landing in my lap. I place it in front of me, slightly to the left of center. I shuffle until I feel that need to pull the other two, placing them down, one to center, one to the right.

This is one of the rare moments Delphine sits quietly, although I’m sure she’s just pretending to be interested in what I’m doing. She’s probably plotting something ludicrous to say for her own entertainment.

I take a moment to ground myself before I turn over the first card, the card that signifies my situation. The shadows on the wall swell as I flip it over, revealing the image of a carefree traveler looking at a flower in his hand, oblivious to the precipice he’s just about to walk over.

The Fool.

Delphine snorts a laugh as I slam my lips together in a tight line. Even those new to tarot could recognize The Fool. I’ve studied tarot for a long time, so I know the deeper meaning behind every suit, every image.

The Fool himself, blissfully unaware of the drop in front of him. It symbolizes a leap of faith, embracing new opportunities without fear. He carries a small backpack, denoting the baggage of past experiences—maybe the essentials needed for the journey ahead. In his palm, a white rose: purity, innocence, naivety, new beginnings. And lastly, a small dog nipping playfully at his heels.

“Loyalty and companionship. Well, isn’t that interesting?” Delphine muses, leaning over and inspecting the card.

I don’t bother responding, begrudgingly accepting the message and pressing the card back into the floor with a little more pressure than necessary.