Page 16 of Wished

I take my wish back, I mentally project to the necklace.I take it back. I never, ever want to be married to this man.

I reach down to my left pocket and flip out the white cotton material. “See? Nothing.”

“The other.” Max nods to my right pocket.

It’s then, as he does, that I notice an unusual weight in that pocket. An unusual bulk.

A strange sensation creeps over me. Whatever is in my pocket is hard like stone, round like coins, heavy like a pocketful of rocks.

I blink at Max as my mind goes blank.

It’s not possible.

I closed the box.

I shut the necklace away.

I never even touched it.

Slowly, as if I’m moving through thick mud, I quest my fingers into my pocket. They hit the cold, faceted surface of a stone. As if I’m in a trance, I loop my fingers around the stone and pull the chain from my pocket.

The sapphires catch the sunlight, gleaming like a stream of raindrops falling from the sky. They tinkle and clink and—holy crap—I hold the necklace between me and Max, my heart thundering.

There’s arrogant satisfaction, angry acceptance, and cold dismissal wrapped in the curl of his lip. His expression fills with disgust. For me.

He looks at me as if he’s never seen anyone so low, so beneath him, in his entire life.

I’m the scum of his universe. I’m the dirt he can’t wait to wipe off his shoes. I’m the lowest of his low.

But . . .

“I didn’t—” I cut myself off. Clearly, I did. But I don’t remember doing it. I don’t . . . “I didn’t take it. I wouldn’t?—”

He scoffs. “You did. You would.”

He pries the necklace loose from my hand and forcefully drops my wrist. I stumble back and my thighs hit the decorative edge of the wooden desk.

A short while ago, the library was bathed in golden solitude and soft, muted quiet. It was breath-held expectation and teasing magic. Now it’s stark and barren, and the reality is ugly.

Max narrows his eyes as if I’m one of the mangy rats that slinks through the gutters at night in search of rotting food to nibble and diseases to spread.

“It’s all a misunderstanding. If only I can explain?—"

“No.” He cuts his hand through the air, silencing me. I grow cold at the expression on his face. “I’d like you to leave. I don’t think I need to say that you aren’t welcome in this house ever again. In fact, I would very much like it if you made certain that I never see you again. Ever. If I do, the police will be involved. Do you understand me?”

I stare at him. At the sharp line of his jaw, at the glint of sunlight in his black hair, at the dark brown eyes I’ve spent years daydreaming about. I never really believed Max would see me. But I never believed I wouldn’t be able to see him.

“Do you understand me?” he asks.

I nod, pushing the words past the pain in my throat. “I understand.”

3

The best thingabout chopping onions is that no one asks why you’re crying. You can stand in the middle of a busy kitchen with tears streaming down your cheeks and no one thinks there’s anything to worry about.

My knife slices through onion number twelve, seesawing on the cutting board as it slides through the crisp flesh. The spray of onion juice mists the air and its pungent scent sets off another stream of stinging tears. My eyes burn, and the sharp tang of onion bites at my sore throat. There’s a salty taste on my lips and my cheeks are wet.

I chop the onion with a quick motion of my wrist, creating perfect slender slices. The reassuringthunk, thunk, thunkof the knife hitting the wood sets a soothing rhythm. When I’m done I swipe the slices off the cutting board and into a large bowl.

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