Page 36 of The Witch is Back

“Seriously. Last I heard you guys were doing the friendship thing. He’s being all nice, what’s with the ’tude?”

Emma hesitated. “I just... I can’t.”

“Can’t...finish the sentence?”

“Can’t deal. He’s too... He’s too okay about the whole thing. And it makes me feel like...” She dragged a hand through her hair, which she’d left down to hide behind. “Like I’m being unreasonable about the whole him-leaving thing. Like I should be over it because he is. Or appears to be,” she added, thinking of that look he got sometimes.

“Which brings out the inner bitch,” Leah concluded. “Honey, if you don’t want to do this, kick him out of your place, we’ll fire him. Hell, Tia would pay you to. She’s had a face like someone ate all the marshmallows out of her Lucky Charms all week.”

“The annoying thing is he’s right.” Emma rolled out her shoulders to try and release the tension. “If we’re going to be—to be married, wouldn’t it be better to be able to speak to each other without wanting to push him into a convenient well and walk away whistling?” She coughed. “For example.”

Leah didn’t bat an eyelid. “Sure. But if you can’t get over it...”

“I know.” Emma made a sound like a teakettle. “I know.”

“...you should get under him.”

Emma dropped the cocktail shaker and only a push of telekinesis saved it from going splat on the floor. “What?”

“Just kidding.” Leah gave her an impish grin before she grew serious. “Maybe—and don’t curse me or anything—but maybe you should consider telling him how you feel.”

“I get it. You’re joking again.”

Leah held up her hands. “Hear me out. You can’t get past what he did, he’s tiptoeing around you because he obviously knows you’re angry about something. You’re both playing nice and that’s not how you clear the air. Even friends fight to clear the air.”

Emma cast her a meaningful look.

Leah grinned. “Best friends realize when the other is right,” she added. “But seriously. Maybe it’s the only way forward.”

“Leah...that’s the worst idea.” Emma’s head mirrored the jagged movements of the cocktail shaker she rattled. “I’m not going to offer up my soul to him to laugh at. Or to pity.” Or to offer a fake apology for how he hadn’t thought twice about her.

“Fine. Your life, your future husband.”

Emma’s stomach twisted. She didn’t speak, concentrating on building the Hex on the Beach in colorful layers.

Leah just didn’t understand. She hadn’t seen how ridiculously infatuated Emma had been with Bastian. He’d been her hero, her best friend, her world. Any piece of kindness from him, she’d taken to mean he liked her, too. Any time he sought her out, she glowed as the chosen one. Every time he brought her a cupcake on her birthday, she knew she was one birthday closer to her twenty-first when they could start planning their wedding and the beginning of their lives together.

She wasn’t stupid; she knew, even at the time, that he hadn’t been infatuated with her like that. He’d liked her as a friend, maybe his best friend, but he hadn’t looked at her with hot eyes or touched her with the intent for more. She’d known she was less important to him than he was to her. But she hadn’t cared. She’d depended on him, and he’d let her down in more ways than he knew.

She’d been good old predictable Emmaline, someone he could put down like a toy he was finished playing with, and she’d be happy when he picked her back up.

“Hello?” A man’s voice, annoyed, rose above the crowd. “Can I get some service over here?”

Both Leah and Emma looked over at the demand. Leah rolled her eyes and held out a hand. “I’ll finish my drink off. You go serve Mr. Manners there. Unless you want me to?”

“I need to push myself, right?” So saying, Emma slid Leah the drink and took a breath. She walked the short distance to the waiting customer. “Sorry. What can I get you?”

“A glass of red and a scotch neat. And some quicker service, if that’s possible.” The dimmer lights didn’t mask his displeasure.

Emma didn’t say anything, having learned over four years of owning a bar that dealing with customers meant you had to have a higher tolerance for BS. It wasn’t worth making an enemy out of someone who could drop money and convince people to come here. Besides, some people just liked to complain.

She poured the red wine, did the same for the scotch. The man stared at her with pinched eyes as she returned with them and told him his total.

“You know,” he said, taking out a leather wallet and sliding off a bill. “I’m pretty sure your boss doesn’t pay you to talk with your girlfriend there.”

Emma smiled, as she’d learned to under her mother’s tutelage. As fake as this guy’s “Rolex.” She took his money to the register, aware of his glower, annoyed that he wasn’t getting a response.

When she handed over his change, he made a point of putting it away. “Here’s a tip.” He lifted his chin as if imparting what he believed was a great one-liner. “Do your damn job and save the gossiping for later.”

---