Page 67 of XOXO

“Go home and get some rest, child,” Miri instructs me. “We have a long night ahead. You can make it up to me after the ritual is complete.”

There’s no sense complaining. As per usual, I’d expected to be on chore duty anyway. At least I’m not being punished any more than I would otherwise for being the coven fuckup.

For a moment, I mourn Brynn’s disappearance and subterfuge. There was something about her that made me feel fractionally less like I had to atone and more like I could get it right—no matter what “it” was.

As I stagger out of the cabin, down the mountain, and find my car still waiting for me, I can’t help but dwell on whether the night actually happened or was a figment of my imagination.

* **

A week passes by, but Brynn Hathaway consumes my thoughts.

The second I got to my car, I woke Jay up and bribed him with yet another unspecified favor to cover for her presence.

Not that he knows why, nor did he care with what I’d offered.

Changeling.

Changelings are outcasts. People think they’re evil, but all of the research I’ve done suggests they’re simply an unknown.

What was a changeling . . . No, what was Brynn doing on our land?

I’ll never know. She disappeared. I can’t find one speck or hair left behind to scry with.

It makes a weird sort of sense. She probably got in where the break was.

I replay the sequence of events again and again in my mind—she stops short, I fall, and I find the moonstone.

They aren’t that delicate.

I bet I didn’t crack the rock at all, that somehow she did and Jay caught her in the midst of an attempt to steal from our storehouse.

Except, she didn’t take anything as far as I can tell.

For whatever reason, I’m not even mad at her. I’m too busy missing her.

On day eight post-Brynn, I turn the key in my apartment lock and miracle of miracles, it actually swings open on the first try.

There, in my kitchen, Brynn Fuckin Hathaway bustles around the miniscule countertop.

The aroma of tomato sauce and melting cheese fills the air.

“Oh good, you’re home. The lasagna’s almost done. Real lasagna. Not that store-bought shit in your freezer.”

I stare at her for several long seconds before my brain can reconcile the image of Brynn cooking in my apartment.

This will either go very bad or very good. Best not to provoke her until I know what she wants.

My keys jangle as I drop them into the little bowl beside the front door. I leave my laptop bag and step out of my shoes.

“I like my frozen lasagnas,” I say.

“They’re shit and your taste is shit.”

“Considering you are my taste, that’s probably fair.”

“Ouch. Does that mean you’re still mad I licked and left?”

“More that you never told me you were a changeling.”

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