Witchy Boys: The Complete Collection

by Katey Hawthorne

  A warm bed would’ve been nice. But it wasn’t worth the alarm bells "the wrong person" set off in my mind.

  Harry… look, I know they say don’t date your friends. But my crush on him had been a gay awakening at the age of 12, and it was becoming a gay obsession at 38. What can I say? I’m just real gay.

  And Harry was a good friend. He made soup for Mama when she got a cold in October, and he invited me to a book club at the University, and he paid for every other dinner and never wanted to leave even after the check was settled. He took every chance to touch my hand and smile at me, and I caught myself inventing openings for it.

  "You’re open-minded, for a man obsessed with a superstitious past," I pointed out one night, deep into our bottle and a plate of pasta.

  He laughed. It was a more common thing now he’d grown into himself. I was almost used to it, though I never failed to admire the crinkle in his eyes when it happened. He said, "Well, I’ll admit that, as a white man in America, it’s often tempting not to be. But at least I’m bi, so I have that to remind me not to be an asshole now and then, right?"

  "That’s a reasonable answer."

  He chuckled again. "But I’m serious. It hasn’t always been fun--and I’ve dated more men than women, publicly. I worried about moving back here."

  "Me too." I’d never dared to come out in high school, even. "Kids now have it better, at least. But even in college, I was… uncertain."

  "You got over it, though?"

  I nodded. "Slowly but surely. I did a lot of stupid things on the DL. But I think even straight guys have that problem."

  "According to every straight guy I know, yes." He poured us both more wine, this time something pink and French that was surprisingly complicated. He pushed my glass toward me when he finished, and my fingers brushed his as he pulled away slowly.

  Sometimes he made excuses to touch my hand, too.

  He smiled. "You never married, though?"

  I shook my head, gaze still lingering on his fingertips, now drumming on the table silently. "Too introverted."

  "Just need to find a person who gets that."

  "Did your husband?"

  Harry made a face that said it all but added, "Soooometimes. He was a pain in my ass about trying to get me out of the house. Said I’d disappear if I didn’t start interacting more."

  "Sounds like you needed it."

  "I did. I do. I don’t mean--" He cut himself off and stared into his wine, face scrunched up. "I mean, obviously I miss him, but I don’t mean I’m never--I don’t--Ugh."

  "It’s okay, man." I almost felt bad, enjoying how weirdly sweet he looked when he was trying too hard. "Take your time. Or don’t say it. But--I’m here, you know."

  "I just--get flustered." He looked away, over my head now. "These dinners with you… it brings back a lot of feelings. Not feelings of him, I just mean, feelings of how nice it is to… I’m not saying this is a date--or it’s ever been a date. I’m just… I think…"

  I couldn’t leave him hanging, it was too painful. So I took a deep breath and admitted, "Wondered if you’d notice how hard I’m trying to flirt."

  His eyes widened in surprise, his gaze finding mine. "You… are you?"

  "Um… I mean I know I’m not the best at it, but…"

  "No, you are! I mean. I thought… I was just being… lonely and desperate to think maybe…"

  "No more than I am to think maybe."

  He took on the look of a deer in headlights, frozen and appalled, unable to respond to the situation. He just stared, eyelashes fluttering behind his big old nerd glasses, pink lips faintly parted as if he’d forgotten to say something very important.

  This was my chance, though. I could say something smooth, rescue the situation, make him feel comfortable, to laugh, to ease us through this dangerous conversation. I told myself to sound smart, suave, but also like the Lucas he’d always known, the Lucas he’d missed in high school.

  Instead, I said, "Will you go out with me?"

  I wanted to punch myself in the face instantly. Not actual high school Lucas, just the Lucas he’d been missing. Ugh.

  He gave a little start, unfreezing all at once. "I, uh. I need to… go." He fumbled for his wallet.

  "It’s my turn to get dinner," I rushed to say, reaching across the table. "But hey, it’s okay, it’s fine if you don’t want to want to. I’ll withdraw the invitation. Like it never happened."

  Except it would never be like it never happened, because it had happened, and he was upset. Dammit.

  "No, it’s not--Thank you for asking." His clear, bright gaze met mine, shining through me like a beacon.

  Now I was the one frozen.

  He stuttered a little, then stood. "I wanted you to ask. I know I sounded like I was fishing for it. I was. But I just realized--things are still a little--it’s just that--"

  If he started that sentence one more time I was going to scream, so I broke in, desperate enough to repeat myself, "It’s okay, it’s fine. I still want to hang out. I mean, if you want to."

  "I do. I mean--maybe I shouldn’t. Gah--fuck, Lucas, I’m sorry. I gotta go."

  There wasn’t much I could do as he turned and beelined it for the door, his words echoing through my skull as if it were some hollow cavern. And apparently, it was.

  ***

  I managed not to message him all night, but the next morning when I finally crawled out of bed to unlock the shop, I couldn’t help myself. I sent: I’m sorry about last night. Let me know if you want to talk about it. Cool if not.

  By the time I’d hauled myself across the street and let the kid who worked Mondays for me in, Harry had sent back: Please don’t apologize--I’m the one who should be sorry. And I am.

  I checked my phone every two minutes for the rest of the day, but that was all he said, and I didn’t know how to reply to that. So I didn’t.

  By Wednesday, I felt like my head was stuffed with wool, I was so cloudy. Mama noticed, of course, on one of her many trips over to the shop to make sure I wasn’t already running it into the ground. I was sorting out the screw display, making it more accessible. She clucked her tongue at me but didn’t comment on it otherwise.

  She had other things to comment on. "What happened with Harry the other night?"

  "What? Nothing." I concentrated on the screws as if that’d help me lie to her. Bold, considering nothing had ever helped me lie to her before.

  Another cluck of her tongue. "You haven’t been yourself since that dinner. Did it go bad?"

  "Yeah," I muttered.

  "Was it your fault or his?"

  "Probably mine, but he thinks his."

  "Well, what happened?"

  "Mama, I love you, but I’m busy right now." And I didn’t want to talk about it because I didn’t know what actually had happened. He’d said he’d wanted me to ask him out, he’d led me down a path of gentle touches and smiles, and then he’d said…

  He hadn’t said anything, really. "I can’t," whatever that meant.

  "Well, he’s a damn fool if he lets you slip through the net," she decided. "You always did have good eyes--for people and things. That’s your daddy’s magic coming through. There must be something to him if you like him."

  I finally looked up at her. "I appreciate it. But I got things under control here. You can go back home."

  She gave me a doubtful look and wandered in the general direction of the cash register, probably to plague the new cashier I’d just hired. Poor girl, but I wasn’t going to save her today.

  I wished I could talk about what happened with Harry. Wished I could call Jamila, who’d always been interested in my love life in her nosey-ass sisterly way, and ask her what she thought. But she’d only say I needed to stop with the nerdy white boys, and she was probably right. Dammit, and now Jamila was infuriating me even when she wasn’t here.

  Except it wasn’t her fault; I was infuriating myself. Harry had said no, if not in so many words, and I just needed to accept it and understan
d that he didn’t owe me an explanation. If I’d gone and ruined an old friendship I’d been elated to have back again, well, I only had myself to blame.

  I could always ask Reggie to go for a drink. What did twenty-somethings talk about these days? Pokemon or some shit?

  Yeah. Yeah, I was definitely infuriating myself.

  ***

  Can you come over on Saturday night?

  It was Friday morning when I woke to that text from Harry. I had to blink all the sleep away to be sure that was what it really said, but yeah, it was--and he’d sent it at 2am.

  I sent back: Was that a drunk text?

  Though it was 8AM, he sent back almost immediately, No, I mean it. I’ll explain everything. Then he sent his address.

  So I, like an idiot, sent back, I’ll be there, sure.

  I spent Friday trying to find someone to cover closing for me on Saturday and convincing Mama to lock up so I could go see that boy. It was just about the longest day of my life, with nerves that started in my stomach and seemed to spread to my fingertips and toes, making them fizzly.

  When we were kids, I stayed over at Harry’s regularly. I’d felt the same way then, just before I went over with my sleeping bag. We’d sprawl on the basement floor and watch scary movies and eat junk food all night. I’d look at him in the blue light from the TV as The Exorcist played, and I’d think he was a really beautiful boy, and wonder what it’d be like to kiss him. Sometimes I’d see him looking at me, too, and he’d smile, shy and slow, fleeting. I’d be embarrassed, and so would he.

  I didn’t understand then. I wasn’t sure I understood now. But when Saturday night came, I crept out of the house while Mama was busy with her full moon cleansing ritual. I drove myself up to the little town of West Liberty, which clung to a jagged Appalachian hilltop like it might slide off at any moment. And I knocked on Harry’s screen door, feeling like I might burst out of my skin.

  The house itself seemed alive with some inexplicable, silvery energy; I would’ve said magic, but that couldn’t be, no matter what my eyes wanted me to think. I was just nervous, scared, ridiculous. The front door was wide open, letting the cool autumn airflow inside. Harry came quickly, his padded footfalls sending my nerves from fizzle to frenzy as they drew nearer.

  "Lucas. I don’t deserve it, but thanks for coming." He held the screen open and gestured for me to enter.

  I stepped into the warm, yellow light of his living room and eyed him with something bordering on suspicion.

  He had the grace to recognize it, apparently, since he looked down and bit at the inside of his cheek in an irritatingly charming way. After a second, he seemed to realize and shut the front door, closing out the porch light. "I have someone I want you to meet."

  At that moment, I very much wished I hadn’t gone through a gothic novel phase as a teenager. AlI could think was that his husband wasn’t dead, but was being held captive in the attic or some other weird shit.

  I was right, in a way, but also so, so wrong.

  The cozy, academic clutter of bookshelves and notebooks gave way as he led me into a creaking hallway and past a few doors. "Bathroom, if you need it," he indicated one as we passed.

  "Harry…"

  "Right, sorry." He stopped in the hall and took a deep breath. Then he turned to face me and took my hand in one of his.

  I stiffened but didn’t pull away. Most of me wanted to pin him to the wall and kiss him until he couldn’t breathe, so that was about as good as I could do.

  He winced but squeezed my hand gently. "I--I’ve wanted to tell you everything since I saw you that day in the store. It’s been so long, and I’ve been so alone, sometimes I think I’m losing my mind. But--it’s Darren."

  "Your husband," I said slowly. All I could think was, Jamila is right. White boys are crazy. What the hell was I thinking?

  But his eyes were wide and sincere and oh-so-honey-warm in the low light. He reached for a doorknob with his free hand. "He’s still here. His spirit."

  I should’ve walked the hell out. I told myself that much, anyhow. But there was never a chance.

  When he swung open the door, it led to a small study decorated with prints of old maps, a collection of antique mirrors, and two roll-top desks. One of them was open, and in the chair sat…

  A see-through man.

  "Holy shit." I couldn’t help it. He was almost transparent, but there were deep shadows where his eyes, his cheekbones, the cleft in his chin would be. He was a full-body apparition, which I’d only seen once before, at wake for my Auntie Margaret. She’d shown up to scare the pants off her sisters just for one last laugh before she took off to the afterlife for good. Scared the pants off of me too, at the tender age of ten. Never had forgiven her for that.

  I shook my head and took a step forward. The hairs on the back of my neck and arms stood up. "Goddamn, that’s a ghost."

  "Harry said you’d understand," ghost-Darren said. It stood; the chair it had been ‘sitting’ on didn’t move. "I’d shake your hand, but I haven’t figured out how to interact with the living world reliably yet. It’s nice to meet you at last, Lucas."

  "So…" I looked from Harry, who stood with his hands in his pockets looking abashed, to the faintly silvery specter of Darren. Darren who had been dead for three years. "I mean… It’s nice to meet you too, but… why are you here?"

  It wasn’t natural, that much I knew. A spirit could linger to see some of its worldly business taken care of if it had the will and ability, but after even a month, something was wrong if it was still hanging around. It was lost. It was broken. It was captive.

  "That’d be my fault," Harry said in a small voice, almost a whisper. "I--I was doing some research on moon-powered magic when his accident happened."

  I sighed. Goddammit. "What’d you do?"

  Harry took another deep breath, then squared his shoulders as if he meant to face me on a battlefield, not across his own study. He lifted his chin. "I did a binding ritual."

  Darren added, "I’m bound to the phases of the moon. So when it’s at its full power, like tonight, I can manifest. But when it’s not…"

  "You’re stuck," I finished when he trailed off.

  Darren smiled, but it was the saddest smile I’d ever seen. "I’m always stuck. Just sometimes I can talk to Harry and most times I can’t."

  "Why would you…?" I didn’t finish the question though. "Sorry. Sorry, Harry, I know damn well why."

  "I’m an idiot. A selfish idiot." Harry’s eyes welled up.

  "You were heartbroken," Darren said, shaking his spectral head. "I probably would’ve tried it too. I just would’ve failed."

  I got the feeling that this was a conversation they’d had a lot, from his expression and tone of voice. He sounded like a parent with a child who wouldn’t stop apologizing for picking a flower from the garden.

  Except what Harry had done was a lot more serious than a stolen tulip. "Have you started to--" I stopped myself, clearing my throat as I looked for a better way to phrase my question.

  "Fade?" Darren supplied, still smiling sadly. "No."

  I wasn’t sure what happened to spirits when they faded out of the material world, rather than leaving the usual way. Maybe they went where they were meant to go when they died… but maybe they just disappeared, their energy recycling into some other format on this side of the veil. The latter was the wisdom of my parents’ brand of witchery, anyhow. Spirits had to move on naturally, be helped before they faded out, or bond to some other energy that kept them there.

  "The magic won’t allow it, I think," Harry said. "I’ve been doing more and more research since I bound him," those last words came out bitterly. "I have a better understanding of what I did, but I can’t figure out how to release him without risking him fading out."

  "I don’t mind," Darren said.

  "If I have to, I will," Harry replied, shooting him a look that was sopping with apology. "But it’s not time, Darren."

  Darren smiled gently. Again, there
was more of the patient parent in him than anything else. Then he looked back to me. "Your family--are they…?"

  "Witches. I didn’t say it in so many words to Harry, but I figured he’d read between the lines," I said.

  Harry nodded.

  "Do you know anyone who could help?" Darren asked.

  "You want to go?" It was a stupid question. Of course, he wanted to go. Three years with only 24 hours in a month to talk to another person--unable to leave or interact… it was purgatory, which some might say would be worse than hell.

  "I do," he replied.

  "I have a detailed list of everything I’ve tried." Harry went to the closed desk and rolled back the top, then started flipping through some papers. "I kept perfect notes."

  My mind was reeling, trying to remember the names of all the useful witches I knew. It… really wasn’t that crazy a situation, altogether, for me. Not one I’d seen before, but if someone had asked me if it was possible, I would’ve told them yes. "Mama won’t be any good for it--she doesn’t play with the dead, and she keeps our house clean of more than dust, if you feel me. But I have a cousin who’s got a kind of business set up with his partner."

  I considered. Matt and I had been close for a few summers as kids, but at the time he’d lived on the Carolina coast, and we’d never really hooked up again after he moved down to Huntington. Still, I followed him on Instagram, and I knew he was in the witching business. "I think they deal mostly with demons though," I added.

  "Can you beg them to come?" Darren asked with a faint chuckle--the laugh of a man at the end of his rope.

  "Well, it’s too late this month, so I guess… it’s probably not crazy to think they could be here for the next full moon? If they’re not swamped with demons?" Bizarre things I never thought I’d hear myself say. But here we were.

  "The things I wish I’d known about your family," Harry said with an amused glance over his shoulder.

  I laughed. "Well, now you do."

  "Promise me you’ll ask him out again when I’m gone," Darren said.

  My face heated. "I… I didn’t know…"