Page 7 of Beneath the Dirt

I’m about to ask her when Harlan was here, a place I’d never expect him to be, but she continues on, stealing my opportunity to ask.

“You have to be more careful. The last thing I need is for your stepfather to burst in and disrupt everything I’ve built here.”

“Don’t worry he can’t kill me. Isn’t that a rule or something? Thou shall not murder?” I joke.

A sigh slips past her pursed lips as she remains unconvinced. “You don’t strike me as someone who would have the commandments memorized.” Her tone is ripe with disappointment. If there’s anyone who despises the church and all it stands for as much as I do, it’s Frida.

“I’m not,” I reassure her, “I just have a good memory. Plus, it’s fun using the shit he preaches against him.”

“That’s my girl,” she clicks her tongue in approval, though her playful demeanor vanishes as quickly as it appeared. In its place, another foreboding glare.

“Let me rephrase, he’s going to kill you if he finds…” her voice trails as she lifts her hand, exposing a sliver of the cracked leather spine I’ve been impatiently waiting for, “… this, mi brujita.” My eyes light up as her hand shakes the palm-sized book in her grip for emphasis.

Restlessness settles in my bones, causing my fingertips to buzz with eagerness to have what I came for—what I’ve waited so long for—in my possession. Reaching into my crossbody purse, I fish for my wallet. Sliding the cash, I’ve been saving for months out, I place it on the countertop and extend my greedy palm out ready for our exchange.

One second bleeds into five, and by the ten-second mark of her just holding it within arm’s reach, not giving it up, I go to snatch it.

“Araceli,” she scolds, jolting her hands back. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” I snap, eyes glued to the weathered black leather she’s holding captive. “I promise he won’t see.”

Frida maintains distance between the book and me, unconvinced or moved by my words.

Adjusting my tone, I continue. “Besides, it’s just a book.” The words escape me and immediately I feel the weight of them hanging in the air. It’s not just a book. It’s anything but. Regret fills me. Suddenly, the shop feels ice cold, as if I insulted every object in here, and the violent chill wreaking havoc on my spine is a collective reminder.

No, you fucking dumbass, it’s not just a book.

Mumbles in Spanish flee Frida’s lips in long streams, were too fast and too low for my high to decipher, despite me being fluent.

“No estás lista,” she says, clear as day, and indignance causes me to stomp my feet like a child.

“I am ready.” I defend myself. “You know I am.”

“Are you?” She places the book on the glass countertop. Her index finger points to the title. Gold, embossed lettering shines before my eyes. “Fatum enim eligimus,”she reads the title. “It means—”

“For we choose fate,” I answer for her, familiar with its Latin translation.

“Exactly. So no, brujita, it’s notjusta book. It’syourbook—your journal. It’s a beginning, and if your mother were—”

“Alive?” I cut her off. “Well she’s not,Frida. Hence why I’m here so you can give me the book that I would've been gifted had she been alive.” A lump lodges in my throat as my voice lowers. The words preemptively sting before they pour out. “Or if she didn’t abandon the Pagan roots my birth father introduced her to thanks to—”

Frida snaps her fingers, stopping the spiral I was about to go down.

“Enough, Araceli.” She tilts her head in the direction of the book she placed on the counter, signaling me to pick it up. “Let’s not focus on any of that and instead focus on why you’re here. Go ahead.” Her words nudge me to pick it up, and the moment the worn leather meets my hands, a surge of warmth floods my body.

“Jesus Christ,” I blurt as my palm glides over the title before opening to skim the pages.

Her tongue clicks, correcting me. “He isn’t welcome here.”

“Oops,” I say through a half chuckle. Skimming the pages, I’m surprised to see that all the pages are empty. Completely blank, aside from a picture on the left-hand side of the cover. Confused, I study the picture. My gaze falls to the curved edge of a wooden sailboat. A man with a stare as blank as the pages that fill the book bore into a woman whose begging expression reeks of pain. I angle my head, trying to take in every detail, but before I can study the rest, Frida’s hand emerges and closes the book. My money, trapped between the cover and her palm.

“What is this a beginning to? There’s nothing inside.”

“Fatum enim eligimus,”she reminds me again of the title.For we choose fate. “It’s the beginning of whatever it knows you need.”

I look up at her, confused. “But I have to write it and as the title implies, don’t I get to choose?”

She giggles, amused by my inquisitive nature, which is nice to see for a change since my stepfather detests it.

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