“Then what?”
Unsure of myself, I venture, “Um, Ivy? What’s wrong with your eye?”
She gently touches the corner of her face, being careful not to press too hard. Her normal scowl is restricted by some swelling. “None of your business.”
“Okay, well, I thought I’d see how you’re doing…how Iris is doing.” My voice cracks under my discomfort. Clearly, something is going on with her, but I know I’m not her first pick for a shoulder to cry on.
Her nose shrivels up like a stink bomb went off. “Ew. Well, stop. We’re not friends, Amber. I don’t see how I could’ve given you that impression. I don’t want you braiding my hair or signing my yearbook. I just want you to help my sister.”
“What is your problem?” I ask. “I’m not trying to be your friend, but I am trying to help you. That does involve basic levels of human interaction.”
“You want to talk basic levels of humanity?” she snaps. “How about trying to get a girl with no free will to eat? Hmm? Iris does nothing but lie in a disgusting heap, unwilling to bathe, chew, or get up to use the bathroom. I’m essentially the caregiver of a twenty-year-old baby, but at least babies have the urge to consume foods; I have to force pureed cheeseburgers down Iris’s throat to make sure she doesn’t die of starvation. My parents are on a cruise, so they aren’t home to see this, but that also means I’m all on my own with no one to lean on.”
“Ivy, I—”
“Then, last night, when I’m bringing Iris her nightly milk shake, a freaking black bird bursts through her window and beaks me in the face.”
“Beaked you?”
“Yes! Stabs me right in the eye with its pointy little black mouth.”
“What was a bird doing in your sister’s room?” I ask.
“How should I know?” She touches the sore spot near her eye, gritting her teeth. “And on top of that, now that I’m no longer sirening idiots to do my homework for me, I also have to squeeze in study time, which is not something I’m equipped for. I’m stressed out, I’m alone, and there’s nothing I can do about it.” Her eyes are glazed, but she stares at the ceiling until the tears subside. “You want to know how I’m doing? I’m exhausted. Completely exhausted.”
“I promise you my mom and I are doing everything we can to be ready for the full moon,” I say. “You’ll have your sister back.”
“Will I? Really? Because I’m pretty sure that even if she gets her free will, she’ll just be splashing off into the sea, and I’ll be left a hot mess. I don’t see any winning scenario.”
I can relate to that feeling. Knowing I am not Charlie’s endgame was strangling my heart, and now here’s Ivy, slaving over a sister who will probably still jump ship once she gets the chance. It feels hopeless, draining, and for a brief moment, we’re connected by our losses and magical mismanagements, carrying the burden of sacrifice in the name of love. But before it gets too mushy, she spins on her heel and catwalks off, a picture of perfection crumbling at the edges.
I’M stirring a pot of Gods know what for Gods know who at Gods know what time.
“Amber, it’s time to—what are you doing?” Marcus asks, examining my efforts with total confusion. His voice breaks me out of the faraway place my brain has traveled to, and I realize I’m tending to the aftermath of tonight’s mystery porridge with a spatula.
“Oh, um, sorry,” I say, not remembering wandering over here. The stove is not my realm in the Black Phoenix kitchen, and I don’t even want to know the steps involved in making this stew. It looks like a plundered village.
“Are you okay? You’ve been really off all night.” His face is rumpled in concern, with puppy-dog eyes begging to help. “This isn’t even your day to be here.” He’s kept his distance most of the night, but even the awkwardness of our last encounter can’t stomp out his protective, wolf-pack mentality.
“Yeah, I just…couldn’t stand to be at the shop tonight.” Which is putting it lightly. In truth, I avoided my Windy City shift like the plague. Love might as well be leprosy for me right now, except that instead of losing a limb, I’ve lost my heart. I thought coming here would help; being in a kitchen usually gives me a sense of purpose. But clearly, I’m just as lost here as anywhere else. If only I could roll up the world’s biggest pile of dough, climb inside, and sink down, away from everything.
“Oh.” He fidgets. I can almost picture a tail between his legs. “How come?”
I tilt my head in a weary “I don’t feel like talking about this” slant and add, “I’m just not up for being a love conduit right now.”
“Gotcha,” he says knowingly. He doesn’t press and instead drags the porridge pot over to the sink, filling it with water and soap. Most of the crew has already left; through the window in the kitchen door I see the waitstaff still tidying up. When it’s not filled with weird smells and even weirder patrons, the Black Phoenix is actually quite a cool-looking spot, with its gleaming gold tabletops and massive chandelier made out of champagne flutes. There’s a lot of glitz and glamour, considering it’s an underground hangout for 0.01 percent of the population. I walk aimlessly through the dining room, weaving through the tables.
Usually Vincent is leading the cleanup charge, taking no issue with rolling up his cuff-linked sleeves and wiping tables. But tonight he’s at the door, talking animatedly to a lingering customer. I can’t see her, but it’s clear this individual is getting his best material. I overhear beats of his classic Dracula story, which he only reveals to those deemed worthy, and it shouldn’t come as a surprise to see Amani is on the receiving end. What is surprising is there appears to be a smile on her face, and not a fake, “please make this stop” kind of smile.
Vincent’s just hitting the punch line as I approach. “And then I said, ‘Count me out, Drac!’” They both laugh, Vincent slapping his thigh at his own hilarity, and Amani not actively recoiling as she usually does. Her genuine participation in this type of exchange is a first.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
Amani’s still grinning as she turns to me and says, “Looking for you. I had a feeling you’d be here.”
“We were just having a wonderful chat.” Vincent beams. He’s absolutely glowing in Amani’s presence, and I swear he’s practically levitating.
“Did my mom send you?” I add, ignoring the sparkling vampire.
“Yeah, she’s pissed. Mostly worried, but definitely pissed. Haven’t you guys talked about—”
“No, not yet.” I don’t want to talk about my love life in front of Vincent, especially when he’s off in the stratosphere.
A man of the world, he picks up my deflecting vibe. “Well, I can see the two of you need your friend time, so I’ll let you be.” He gently takes Amani’s hand, which she does not automatically pull away. “A pleasure, as always.” He kisses the top lightly, and it isn’t new makeup that’s making her blush. My matchmaker senses tingling, I grab my best friend, and we pile into the Sharma station wagon parked out front.
Once buckled, I blurt out, “What the hell was that?”
“What?”
“That!” I gesture back to the restaurant. “With Vincent! And the smiling! And not barfing!”
Amani shakes her head, turning the ignition. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ohhhhhh, yes you do. You were all twirly.”
“I was just being polite.”
“Nuh-uh. I know your polite face: it’s a strained combination of societal niceties. This was something else.” I scoot as close to her as the seat belt allows, doing my best to pressure a confession.
She palms my face, pushing me back. “Okay, fine!” She sighs. “He said something actually funny and not creepy for once. Sue me.”
“Ha! Consider yourself served.” I take a brief moment of self-congratulation before slipping back into the malaise that coated me all day. Funny how familiar it is, like a Snuggie of pain.
The Sharma family vehicle is a straight-up disaster. Ripped t
o shreds by her five younger brothers, the interior looks like a holding cell for a feral jungle cat. The front seat is duct-taped together, and the whole thing smells like stale pizza. Which is to say, it’s a wonder to behold.
“So,” Amani says, keeping her eyes on the road, “I think I worked things out with Kim.”
“Oh?” I say, feigning interest. Somehow my brain has managed to push away Kim for the last several hours, and I’m less than thrilled to have her return. “How’d that go?”
“Do you even care?” she asks with surprising venom. Her demeanor change is shocking, catching me completely off guard.
“What?”
“You just left me there at lunch, Amber, to clean up your mess. I didn’t even know what I could or couldn’t say to her!”
I clutch the door handle, suddenly feeling very uncertain. “I had to go talk to Ivy about her sister.”
“Right. Right then? It couldn’t wait?”
Streetlights fly by outside, repeatedly highlighting my guilty face. “I mean, I guess I just figured you and Kim were closer, so…”
“Yeah, we are closer, but only because you’ve kept her at arm’s length the entire time.” I try to butt in, but she cuts me off. “And I get it, I do. The whole Charlie thing makes it a nightmare. But you know what? You let her into our world, even knowing what you knew. You should have just let her go to find a different circle to swim in. But it’s too late for that now.”
“Amani…”
She clasps the steering wheel tight, not letting go of her grip or stance. “Kim is a cool person. She’s funny and smart and free from most of the garbage most Manchester people carry around. We have fun together. She’s my friend, even if she’s not yours.”
I swallow hard. “I never said you shouldn’t be friends.”
“You don’t have to say it. I feel it. You turn into a damn turtle every time she’s around. And I’m not saying it’s not justified. But you’ve put me in a really difficult situation. If it comes down to a decision between her and my best friend, I’m obviously going to choose you, but I don’t want to even be in that position.” She turns to me for the first time, a swirl of agony and anger in her eyes. She’s never looked at me this way, and my insides collapse. I feel like a monster. The supernatural side of me has taken over, destroying everything I hold dear: first Charlie, now Amani. A creature that can’t be stopped, I’ve let down the one person who has always defended and cared for me when others left me to rot. What is wrong with me?
And yet, my words start tumbling out on a different tangent. “And what about me, huh? What kind of position do you think your friendship puts me in?”
“I just said, I know this is hard for you—”
“No, but you don’t really know. You don’t know what it feels like to see someone bring joy to everyone around you, while in the meantime, your insides are dying. I have to fake a smile when she’s around, and avoid eye contact as much as possible. I want her to just disappear, but then she’s so nice and sweet, I feel like a demon for even sending any negative thoughts her way. Because what has she done to me? Nothing, technically nothing, except, OH WAIT, she’s openly flirting with Charlie.”
She gives me a quick side-eye. “What are you talking about? I’ve never seen her do anything out of bounds.”
“Well, then you must have missed the grand showing of their body-paint performance art.” I rub my hand down my jawline like a paintbrush, fluttering my eyelashes like it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.
Amani’s shaking her head like she’s talking to a three-year-old with an overactive imagination. “Amber, did that really happen, or did you just envision it?”
“Seriously? Of course it happened! Kim’s on track to steal my boyfriend, and—based on how quick you are to defend her—probably now my best friend too!”
Pulling onto my street, Amani parks outside my apartment, leaving the car running. The air is so heavy, I can hardly breathe. I’m ready to just stop, drop, and roll onto the sidewalk, but I can tell she has more to say.
She leans back in her seat, laying her hands on her lap. It’d be so much easier if she’d straight-out attack me, release her rage in a flurry of claws and teeth. But she won’t, partially because that’s not her way, but mostly because she’s hurting, which makes it ten times worse. Black-and-white anger is much easier to take than the grays of suffering. “I understand why you broke up with Charlie. I support you. But now I need you to support me. Kim is my friend, but she’s not stealing me from you. She doesn’t even know she’s meant to be with Charlie. Stop being so self-centered all the time.”
With a final blow like that, I can’t help but snap, “Well, since I’m such a self-centered pain, I’m sure you won’t miss me when I’m gone.”
I get out of the car, slamming the door behind me. With the weight of her words on my shoulders, I can barely climb the two flights to my apartment, my body heavy with regret. I don’t know what possessed me to escalate the fight like that, even if I do have resentment toward her friendship with Kim. What kind of person have I become, pushing everyone away? I collapse on the couch, instantly curling into a fetal position. I hear Mom’s storming footsteps enter the room, the start of a rant on her lips over my missing work, but she pauses at the sound of my sobs. The words come spilling out faster than I can think them. I tell her about Charlie, Kim, my fight with Amani—everything. Squeezing it all out until I’m nothing but a shell.
Mom sits down beside me, guiding my head onto her lap, stroking my hair like she did when I was little, letting her fingers run gently through the strands. We seldom snuggle like this anymore, and her distant yet familiar touch is intoxicating. I nuzzle into her side, just as she launches into a memory.
“When your father left, it was the worst pain I’d ever known. It was physical, devastating, like my heart had literally broken, and without it, my body seemed incapable of survival.” I look up, and her gaze is elsewhere, reliving the horrible sensation. Sadness clouds her, and though the room is already dark, there’s a perceptible change to her coloring. “I felt like the fire within was extinguished, that I wouldn’t have the strength to go on. It sounds foolish, and weak, but…that is where I was.”
“It doesn’t sound foolish,” I whisper, understanding all too well. I don’t really remember my parents being together. Only a few random snapshots of mundane life come to mind. Dad building my first bike; the two of them talking in hushed tones in the kitchen. And then, of course, the fateful Uncle Seymour wedding, where my matchmaking skills decided to make their grand entrance. I certainly don’t remember my mom struggling under the pain she’s describing, or even the love she originally felt to get her there. Her grimoire entries about falling in love captured a time so foreign to me, a period of her life I still desperately want to understand. To me, my mom has always been a certified badass who took care of me, her coven, and—through Windy City Magic—the entire Chicago supernatural community. I can’t even conjure an image of her being anything less than a pillar of absolute strength. The idea of my mom crumpled, crying, and lifeless does not compute. “What changed?” I ask her.
Color starts returning to her face, like the early moments of dawn. “One morning, I couldn’t get out of bed. You came in my room and must’ve seen how sad I looked, and promptly walked back out. When you returned, you placed a giant plate of cookies next to me and said, ‘These always make me feel better.’” She laughs to herself. “In that moment, I knew I could survive because I wasn’t alone. I had you.”
It’s almost too much: the honesty in her feelings, the confession of her struggle. How I played a part in her rehabilitation. I want to play it off, make a corny joke to lessen the importance of my role, but though the space is unfamiliar, I actually feel quite comfortable, so I let it lie.
“Things will get better,” she says softly. “You’re a Sand; you have the power to rise again.”
MOM forbids me from matchmaking in my fragile state, saying she doesn
’t want to scare away customers with my temperamental attitude toward love, so I suddenly have a lot more time on my hands. I take some extra shifts at both MarshmElla’s and the Black Phoenix because I need to keep busy; it’s the only way I’ll get through the soul-crushing agony of simultaneously losing a boyfriend and fighting with my best friend. Every few seconds I reach for my phone, wanting to text either Charlie or Amani something—anything—to prove I’m not a pathetic loser with no social connections. But what would I say? No combination of letters conveys the right feelings, and there’s not a sad enough emoji in the world to illustrate my empty heart. Without that release, my thoughts ping around my cranium like loose fireworks, noisy and crackling but ultimately fading away until the next one flares.
School is excruciating. If I thought roaming the Manchester halls was hard before, it’s infinity times worse when I’m braving them alone. Weirdly, Charlie has disappeared off the face of the earth, which I guess is a blessing in disguise, except that I miss seeing his cute face and impeccable styling so much, I almost cry when I spot some random sophomore sporting a tie clip. Even though seeing him post-breakup felt like the ultimate torture, not seeing him is even worse, and I wonder if Mom has any memory-erasing spells to help wipe the constant thought of him clean.
I do see Amani and Kim walking together at one point, but since I don’t know whether to wave or throw a fit, I choose the next best option: hiding. In fact, the second-floor girls’ restroom has become my new favorite spot, serving as both a functional space and emotional fort.
I try to channel my energy into learning more about my mom’s past, spending a stalker-level amount of time googling her name, the shop, anything I can think of. But since she grew up in the Stone Age (i.e., before social media), the Internet doesn’t serve me much past very recent history. I scribble down a list of possible informants, including several of Windy City’s vendors and a few coven members, but my brain is not firing on all cylinders, and I can’t think of sneaky ways to get any of these people to abandon their loyalties and reveal Mom’s secrets.
The Sweetest Kind of Fate Page 13
