Authors: Amy Garvey
“WELL, NO ONE DIED,” GABRIEL SAYS FOUR
hours later when we walk outside to sit on the porch. It’s dark now, and the cold is knife-edged, slicing through our coats and scarves. “That’s a win.”
“Oh yeah. Taste the victory.” I slide closer to him on the creaky swing and tuck myself under his arm. Inside, Mom and Mari and Olivia are sitting around the dining room table with coffee, and Robin is up in her room again, excused from further festivity after poking the fire and accidentally lighting up the curtains. The living room still smells like smoke.
“It could have been worse,” he says, and kisses the top of my head. His arm is firm and steady around me, and I bite back a sigh of pleasure when his fingers skate gently across my cheek.
Despite Robin’s outbursts and Mom’s awkward interrogation of Olivia, he’s right. It could have been a lot worse, and in the end, the afternoon was actually sort of enjoyable. Comfortable in a way I hadn’t imagined it would be, especially when Aunt Mari broke out the Pictionary and we all sat in front of the fire to play.
In fact, the only person who seemed a little off was Gabriel. He smiled and he made conversation and he played the game, but he was preoccupied, far away in his head whenever I looked at him, and I hated the fact that it was probably Mom’s fault. Every once in a while I caught him looking at her, and the idea that he might not like her anymore tore at me.
But now he’s wrapped around me, a blanket of boy in the frigid night, and it’s good to let the moment stretch out. To gather it close just like his arm and soak up all of its warmth. To let myself think about what could come after tonight, where we could be next week, next year. All the things I had to stop dreaming about for Danny and me long before I wanted to.
My thoughts have carried me so far away, I’m startled when Gabriel speaks. “Did you want your dad here today instead?”
It takes me a minute to figure out what he’s talking about. “No.” I wriggle up straight so I can face him. “Not today. Today was about family, and my dad isn’t part of that anymore. Not right now anyway.”
As soon as the words are out, I realize it sounds like I mean Gabriel and Olivia
are
family, and I know I’m blushing.
It’s a relief when all Gabriel says is, “I don’t think Robin’s going to wait forever.”
I exhale, shaky and laughing. “Well, I’m not asking for forever. Just, like, another month.”
He doesn’t respond to that, and I’m glad. I don’t want to think about my dad or Robin right now. So I sit up and reach for the package I set on the porch floor when we sat down. “I have something for you. Merry Christmas.”
His grin is lopsided with surprise, and he leans over to kiss me. “I have something for you, too.”
I sense Olivia’s handiwork in the shiny green paper and the real white ribbon, but what’s really nerve-racking is how much it looks like a jewelry box. I swallow and run one finger along the ribbon before I raise my eyes to Gabriel.
“You first,” he says too quickly.
Okay then. I know Gabriel, right? It’s not going to be a promise ring or something. At least, I hope it won’t be.
I leave the ribbon curled in my lap and carefully tear away the wrapping paper. He grabs it with a sigh of frustration, and I take a deep breath before I open the plain white box.
“Oh, Gabriel.” The words are out before I can stop them, because the necklace nestled inside on its rectangle of cotton is beautiful. I pick it up with one hand, the long, silver chain cold on my bare fingers, and gently touch the objects dangling from it with the other.
A huge, old skeleton key, worn with age. A tarnished locket in the shape of a heart, at least as old as the key, with delicate scrollwork etched into the front. And finally a little silver bird, wings spread in flight.
I don’t know what to say. Too many words are crowded in my throat, and I’m afraid if I let any of them go, the hot press of tears underneath them will spill over, too.
“This is you,” Gabriel says, and I’m pretty sure he’s ignoring my glassy eyes on purpose. He pushes the bird to make it swing on the chain. “I saw it in that antique store downtown, and then I just sort of went from there.”
I stare at him, holding the chain so hard it digs into my fingers. “You made this?”
For a second he looks embarrassed. “Well, yeah. I mean, I saw the bird, and then I added the locket and the key. Is it . . . ? Crap, it’s lame, right? I’m sorry, I thought—”
I grab his chin and kiss him, hard. “You thought so exactly right.” I press the words into his mouth and lean my forehead against his for just a moment before I sit up.
Whatever he doesn’t feel like he can share with me yet, this is Gabriel. This is the boy I’m falling in love with, a boy who gives me his heart and the key to it.
When I finally move back, he’s smiling. “So you like it?”
I can’t do anything but nod then, and hold the necklace up for him to take while I unbutton my coat. He lifts it over my head, and we both look down as it falls against my dress, charms clinking together softly in the quiet.
I’m
not
crying, I tell myself as I lean in to kiss him once more, and he thumbs one rebellious tear away without a word.
“Your turn,” I say when I’m pretty sure I can speak again. “God, I hope you like this.”
“Will you stop that?” He takes the box I hand him and laughs when I grab it back.
“Come with me. I mean, there’s more, but not here.”
He grins, sly and a little wicked. “I like the sound of that.”
“Don’t be a jerk—come on.” I stand up and pull him down the porch to the front steps, and lead him into the backyard.
“I guess it’s bigger than a breadbox, huh?” he jokes, and I roll my eyes. “Wren, did you get me a
car
?”
“You’re going to ruin it,” I warn him, but I’m smiling, too. The weepy romance part is over, and he doesn’t look so distant anymore, either. For all I know, he was just worried that I wouldn’t like the necklace.
There’s an old wrought-iron bench set along one side of the garage, and I sit down there. “Okay, now.”
He looks adorably confused, but he just shakes his head and tears off the wrapping paper to open the box. I take the lid from him and watch as his mouth opens in surprise.
“That’s . . . my house. And my shoes. And
your
shoes.”
“I took it.” I can’t help biting my bottom lip, hard, to keep my nerves from jangling so roughly inside. “I, um, took them all.”
He’s already lifting away the first frame to see the ones beneath, his mouth still open and his brow creased in concentration. “Wren, these are awesome. These are the kind of photographs you take?”
I poke him. “You don’t have to sound so shocked. I used to take pictures all the time. Before . . . well, before. These are all places that remind me of us.”
You too,
I hope but don’t say out loud.
“I know. I don’t even know what to say, they’re . . . they’re really awesome.” He looks up at me, and his eyes are so clear, so happy, it takes my breath away for a second.
This is it, everything I wanted, and nothing can ruin it, not Robin, not my mom, not my missing dad. It’s a happiness so big I’m not sure I can even hold it.
I kiss him, because it’s only going to get better now. I focus my power as I press my mouth to him for another second, and when I pull back I whisper, “Merry Christmas,” and look out into the yard.
It’s snowing, a slow swirl spinning lazily to the ground, and the bushes that line the fence are sparkling, tiny pearls of light hovering as if strung there. I reach out to let a snowflake fall into my bare hand, and it melts in an instant, fading into nothing but a faint wet smear on my palm.
Just like a real snowflake,
I think, and glance up at Gabriel.
He’s not smiling anymore.
“Too cheesy?” I say, trying to laugh. “Good thing I didn’t go with the talking snowman.”
“Wren, stop.” His voice is a harsh scrape of sound in the silence, and his face is set like stone.
“I’m . . . sorry?” It’s the most I can manage for a minute, and I turn away to focus again, winding the power back into its neat coil. The snow stops, barely a powdery dust on the dry grass, and the lights die with one last glimmer. “I . . . I thought you would like it.”
He’s already put the framed photos back in the box and closed the lid, and he sets it on the bench before he stands up. He only takes two steps before turning around, scrubbing at his face restlessly. Erasing something, I think absently.
“It’s not that. It’s . . . you have to be careful.”
“What? Why?”
He stares at me and finally chokes out, “We’re out in the open.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing, not after the way we were together just a few minutes ago. “Gabriel, we’re in my backyard.”
“Right now, yeah.” He stops pacing and fixes his gaze on me, so intent I couldn’t look away if I tried. “But other places, too. I mean, I know you’ve been using it, Wren. I can feel it. Hell, I saw it, in the café the other day.”
It’s my turn for my mouth to fall open, but for a second I can’t speak for the anger clogging my throat. I want to lash out at him with some snarky comeback, rip through him with words so sharp they’ll hurt. But what comes out, in a small, hurt voice that I hate, is, “You make it sound like a drug.”
He stops and looks at me, but even though I can see the regret on his face, I can’t feel it. I can’t feel anything but the cold and the numbing shock of his disapproval.
“I didn’t mean it that way, really.” He kneels in front of me, and I let him take my hand in both of his. I can’t feel them, or him, either. I’m so cold, down to my bones, I feel like I might shatter if I try to move.
Gabriel’s always known what I can do. He worried when he realized what I had done to Danny, but I don’t blame him for that. I was wrong to bring Danny back, and I knew it.
But that’s not what I’m doing with my power now. I made it snow. I made a moment in time into something I could keep, without a camera. This is not Black Arts or something freaky.
This is
me
. And he doesn’t like it.
“Wren, please, you need to understand—”
I can hear his voice breaking, but it doesn’t mean anything. His fingers twining around mine don’t mean anything. I worked hard on the photos I took, because I wanted him to love them. But giving him this moment? That’s what I was looking forward to. The magic I could share with him, and only him. That I
wanted
to share with him.
I stare into his eyes, dark gray now, the color of storm clouds and slate, the color they turn when he’s upset, concerned about me, trying hard to do the right thing.
But maybe it’s just the evening’s darkness. Maybe his eyes don’t really change shades with his moods, and it’s just a trick of the light.
Maybe it’s all just a trick of the light.
“I understand,” I say, and I’m proud that my voice is steady. “I understand everything. Good night, Gabriel.”
I don’t know when he and Olivia leave. I turn off my light and put my headphones on as soon I get to my room, and I stare at the wall beside my bed for hours, music unheard, more staticky noise in my head.
In the morning, sometime just after dawn, I take my phone out of the drawer in my bedside table and check the contact list.
I find
J. BAYLISS
there, and
FIONA
.
And I know exactly what I’m going to do today.
MOM IS STILL IN HER PAJAMAS WHEN I’M
getting ready to leave the house at noon. Curled on the sofa with a book, she looks up when I clatter into the front hall. “Going out?”
She sounds casual, but I know better. She was understanding enough not to bother me last night, and she still hasn’t said a word about me blowing up the stairs without saying good night to anyone, but she’s watching me. She’s my mom, she gets to do that, and I understand that she’s worried, but I don’t want to talk about it yet.
“Yeah. I have my phone.”
She puts her book down and stands up, grabbing her empty mug off the coffee table. “Meeting Jess and Dar?”
Damn it, I knew I wasn’t going to get away without at least a couple of questions.
“Maybe later.” I pick through the coatrack, looking for my other scarf, mostly so I don’t have to face Mom. “I was going to meet some other people first. For pizza,” I add, and could kick myself. Extra details are always a bad idea. I’m going to have to remember that I was supposed to be going to Cosimo’s if she mentions it later.
“Should I ask if Gabriel is part of this plan?”
The fringed end of my green-striped scarf brushes my fingers when I push aside Robin’s soccer jacket, and I grab it before I turn around. Mom has moved over to the front door, and she has her back to it now, as if she has all day to slouch there chatting. I sigh.
“It would be cool if you didn’t. Ask, I mean.”
She considers me for a minute, arms folded over her chest, her empty mug dangling from one hand. Her hair is piled on top of her head with a butterfly clip, messy and unbrushed, and in her robe and her old plaid pajama pants, she looks like a Sunday morning. Warm and comfortable and full of time. For a second, it’s tempting to walk into her arms and let the whole ugly mess spill out.
But a part of me doesn’t want to have to admit that Gabriel is more narrow-minded than I expected. And a smaller part—minuscule, atom-sized—maybe doesn’t want my mom to think less of him, because as mad as I am, I’m not ready to call him an asshole and start a smear campaign.
Anger is hot and bright, burning through everything it touches. You can warm your hands in the flames, at least for a little while.
A broken heart just hurts.
Mom sighs and comes over to hug me anyway, just long enough that I feel a little better but not ready to give in and burst into tears. “You know I’m here. And we can talk whenever you want, if you want to.”
All I can do is nod. The sudden lump in my throat is evil and stupid, and I swallow it down hard.
She brushes hair off my forehead, and when she kisses my cheek, I breathe in the clean, familiar scent of her. “Have fun, okay? And let me know if you won’t be home for dinner. We’re all on leftover duty for the duration.”
I sketch a salute. “Roger, corporal.”
She snorts as she walks into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Try four-star general, baby girl.”
As if she has any better idea of military rank than I do. I wind my scarf around my neck and grab my bag, taking a deep breath before I walk outside.
If Gabriel isn’t into the magical side of me, I’m going to talk to some people who might be.
I’ve never been to the coffee shop where Fiona wants to meet. It’s on the other side of town, closer to the high school, and tucked in between a deli and a dry cleaner’s. The sign looks like it was last painted in 1947 or so, and the inside of the place is just as retro, with cracked vinyl stools along a square counter in the middle of the room and a few ancient wood tables with matching chairs scattered along the walls.
Fiona and Bay are on the far side of the square, facing the front, and Fiona waggles her fingers at me when I walk in. A bell over the door jingles weakly, and I smile nervously.
The shop is deserted, aside from two old men who are actually playing checkers at a table in the front window, and neither one of them pays any attention to me as I walk by. There’s only one person behind the counter, a girl in her late twenties who looks like she rolled out of bed only minutes after she climbed in. The front of her white apron is splashed with old coffee stains and something I hope is dried ketchup.
“A new face,” she says idly as I take a stool next to Fiona. “It must be my birthday.”
“Ignore Connie,” Bay says with a sly smile. “She’s permanently bitter. I’m pretty sure it’s in her DNA.”
She rolls her eyes at him and walks away, idly wiping the counter as she goes. And completely ignoring
me
, which I guess is okay for now.
Fiona jumps off her stool and ducks under the counter to scoop ice into a glass and pour some water over it. Connie doesn’t even appear to notice, and Fiona grins like a naughty little kid. “We’re very DIY around here.”
She slides the glass toward me, and I stop it with my hand before it splashes my coat. Which I realize I should take off, as well as my scarf. I’m sitting so primly on my stool, all wrapped up, I must look like I’m at Sunday school.
I’m not like this, not usually, and if I’m going to hang out with these kids, I need them to know it. I figure acting the part will convince me, too.
“Nice,” I say as Fiona gets back on her stool, spinning it lazily while I take off my coat and scarf. “You bartend in the Old West on weekends or something?”
It’s weak, just a warm-up, but Bay laughs. “Fee here is just your average, everyday show-off,” he explains, taking my coat as I realize I have no place to hang it. He gets up and carries it over to the row of hooks along the wall. “She likes to do everything with
flash
.” He makes jazz hands in punctuation, and Fiona pouts.
“Everything’s fun if you make it fun,” she tells me, leaning close as if this is an important secret. Her breath smells like coffee and menthol cigarettes, and her lips are an iridescent plum today.
“I’m sure murder victims would love to hear that.”
She looks so surprised for a minute, she doesn’t respond, but Bay hoots out loud. “Oh,
snap
. This one’s awesome, Fee.”
It takes her a second to put her smile back in place, but once it’s there, she doesn’t seem mad. She pushes off with one foot and sends her stool spinning again, her cloud of hair bouncing over her frilly, white blouse.
She looks a little like something out of a Victorian picture book today, with her high-collared shirt and long, black skirt. But there’s a black leather belt with silver studs around her waist, and black platform boots covered in zippers, so the effect is closer to a Victorian doll that a vicious little punk girl has dressed up.
“Do you want a coffee?” Bay says, and I drag my gaze away from Fiona with effort. She’s got style, even if it’s kind of deranged.
I lean over to look into his cup. “It looks like motor oil.”
“Tastes like it, too, but it keeps you up.” He grins and points at the menu chalked in a careless scrawl. It hangs above the center island inside the square of counter, and it also looks like it was last revised before my mom was born. “They have food, too. As far as I know, it hasn’t killed anyone.”
“Cut it out, Bay,” Connie says, and wanders back from the front of the shop with the old men’s empty coffee cups. “You want a simple sandwich or a bagel or something, you’re fine. I wouldn’t suggest the meat loaf, though.”
“Good to know,” I tell her with a weak smile. “I’m not really hungry, though.”
“But you are curious,” Bay says, and I glance at Connie.
She’s not paying any attention to us, rinsing the cups before setting them in the sink, and I nod at him.
“It’s cool.” Fiona slams to a stop by grabbing the counter. “We’re not really here because of the munchies anyway, am I right?”
I glance at Connie again. I’m definitely not here for the food—I’m not sure I’ll ever be
here
for food—but it doesn’t seem like the stealthiest place to discuss the topic at hand, either.
“Hey, Con,” Bay calls. “How about three of the giant mugs of tea, and a big piece of the cake?” He stands up before she’s even turned around, and walks to the back corner of the shop, where a lone table for four sits with a sad, plastic daisy in a dollar-store bud vase. Fiona hops down to follow him, and I wind up scrambling behind them.
Fiona drapes her legs over the second chair on one side of the table, leaving me next to Bay. I manage to restrain a glare and sit down.
It was easy this morning. Fiona burbled and chirped at me and gave me the address of the coffee shop and that was pretty much it. Now . . . now is the part I’m less sure about.
“Fiona told me about what she saw in the tunnel,” Bay says, and he doesn’t even lower his voice. I have to clench every muscle not to glance over my shoulder at Connie. “But I guess you figured that.”
“Yeah, pretty much. Who was your friend that day?” I ask Fiona. I can’t quite dial my voice up to the normal volume, but I’m close.
“Oh, that was Neddie.” She tosses it off and shrugs. “He’s not around much.”
“He’s cool,” Bay says, and leans back against the wall, one elbow up on the table. His coat is hanging on the wall next to mine and a yellowed rabbit-fur jacket I really hope is fake. I assume it’s Fiona’s.
I don’t know what I expected Bay to wear under that dumb coat. Black pleather? A three-piece tweed suit? But he’s in a totally normal, gray button-down and faded jeans, and up close his face is friendlier and less mysterious than it had seemed after our one brief meeting.
I realize what he’s said a moment too late, and I try to sound casual. “A threat? Is anyone a threat?”
He smiles, and even though it’s simple, instantaneous, I can’t help feeling that there’s something lurking behind it. A shadow that flickers by too quickly to make out. “Not really, no. And Connie’s totally taken care of.”
Taken care of? I’m not sure I like the sound of that, but before I can steal a look at her, Fiona adds, “Simple spell. She doesn’t hear anything we say about the craft.” Her grin is pure delight.
I don’t have to make up an excuse to glance at Connie now—I can hear her shoes on the faded linoleum floor, and when I look, she’s carrying three giant mugs and a pot of steaming water.
“I’ll be right back with the tea stuff and the cake. I assume you cheapskates—oh, I mean, poor, starving students—want three forks, right?” She looks exhausted, and her blue eyes are as faded as the floor.
“Absolutely!” Fiona chirps, and jumps up. “I’ll help.”
“So what kind of spell is that?” I ask Bay when they’re gone.
“Nothing fancy.” He shrugs. “Just takes the right wording. And some power.” He runs his finger around the rim of one mug idly. “Do you use spells?”
“I have,” I say carefully. No way am I saying what for.
His smile is just as slow as Gabriel’s can be, but on him it seems practiced, like he’s acting the part of the mysterious stranger. “But you don’t always need to?”
I think of my mom, of Mari, of the kinds of things Mom has seen me do that startle her.
And then I think of Gabriel, and the way he balked at the show I put on for him last night without even a word.
“No.”
Fiona comes back with the cake and the tea bags just in time to hear Bay say, “Oh, we’re going to have some fun.”