Page 69 of Icy Heart, Empty Chest
“I am sorry about your painting. Approximately how much did you pay for that crystal?”
I told him with a sour taste in my mouth and he whistled low. I had loved that one. One of my father’s favorites but I couldn’t take the risk of not bringing his fever down. I briefly thought back to him lying on the couch, unresponsive and soaking through towels and then shook it out of my mind.
His mouth curled into a ghost of a smile that he then tried to suppress.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “What’s that smile for?”
He let out a brief chuckle. “There was no need to spend that much on my heart, Cor. It was yours from the start.”
“Oh my gods you dramatic horse.” I rolled my eyes and flicked at his chest.
“The way I see it, we’re all even and starting at square one. I do have one extremely important and nonnegotiable request.”
“Oh?”
He kissed my forehead. “Make that French toast again for breakfast.”
“Deal. So…”
“So what?”
“So you’re my boyfriend now?”
“Of course I am. Go to sleep, little nymph.” He reached over and turned out the light.
I drifted off to sleep, the first of many days and nights sharing my pillow, bed and life with Damien.
That next morning, I made the all-important and nonnegotiable French toast. It was new and foreign to have him sit at my table but also equally important and irreplaceable. It was incredibly odd; I had a purpose now where I really didn’t have one before. He made me feel safe and above all, wanted beyond reason. I forgave him and gave him (and his ass) my stamp of approval, which I think he wanted more than anything else. He delighted in his devotion. He enjoyed the flowers, surprises and game nights and the blush they’d put on my face. I enjoyed cooking for him but also teaching him, seeing him in the kitchen. At our one-year anniversary, he made me a chocolate cake from scratch. The middle was tragically undercooked but we ate the edges with the gobs of frosting that were left over. For all the ups and downs in life, he made it better, consistently. Always had and always would.
CHAPTER 19
I’m not sure why he made me go to the graduation. There’s only about ten of us and despite that, the speaker has been droning on and on. There’s nobility in the healing arts. There’s wonder. There’s the ability to help those who can’t help themselves. It was getting tiresome. I was being my usual exceedingly patient self while sweating into my graduating Healer blue jacket, under the hot summer sun. I had opted for a sundress in the heat, waiting for the droning man to stop so we could be reunited with our loved ones. I had my diploma from the Healer’s Guild in my hands, my clammy palms threatening to muss the deep navy ink. I turn back, gazing at the rows of chairs to find Damien’s beaming face. He’s been bouncing off the walls for the last two weeks, proud that I got through the academy with honors and a job offer to boot. I tried to convince him to spend graduation day with a few less layers, some air conditioning and a box spring but he convinced me that there would be plenty of that later and that he missed out on a lot of good memories of me. I couldn’t say no to that and the promises of dinner.
“And finally, to wrap up these short remarks, we are so very proud of all of our graduates!” The silver-haired selkie on stage started clapping and so did I.
Turns out, my name wasn’t known through town just because of my father.
A week after I sent in the initial application, I found myself sitting in front of a team of a witch, two healers and a warlock. I wasn’t thrilled at this. I could fake an interview for a job but for something that I was interested in? That was harder and took way more preparation.
I remember that an awkward silence had passed as I stared down the mahogany desk. I hated the awkward silences. Familiarity lends a comfort to the situation that you just don’t get otherwise.
The witch was in her mid-forties with frizzy red hair and warm brown skin. The warlock must have been pushing ninety based on the age of his robes and the bags under his eyes. The healers were closer to my age, each in a pair of scrubs with name tags hanging on them. Each had a sweet, encouraging smile. The pantsuit I had purchased for this was getting warmer and notably more soaked with my sweat, despite the open windows. I already plotted three escape routes from the room, though each of them were growing more improbable by the second. I mean, I really wasn’t sure if that drainpipe would hold my weight or not.
The warlock broke the silence, pushing a copy of my application over the pristine desk toward me.
“We had several more questions for you, if you wouldn’t mind,” he stated mildly.
“Of course.” I had plastered on my best customer service smile.
“Your resume doesn’t have much on it that relates to our line of work.”
OK, was that a question or a statement? “You graduated high school, started in university with art history, dropped out a few years in. A few years later you applied to us.”
Again, question or statement?
“I can see how externally it could seem that way. As I mentioned in the essay, after my father’s passing, as much as I liked that world, I couldn’t bring myself to go back and finish the degree in it. Too many memories, I suppose. I couldn’t see myself being fulfilled by it full time. My mother was a healer. She also taught me what she knew before she died. That’s another part of me that I want to explore and make my own. I find it to be fascinating. Lately I’ve turned over a new leaf in my life and I wanted a new direction, a way to get out of the shadow I’d made for myself. A chance to do better with the magic I have. Is it going to take intense study and dedication? Absolutely. It’s what I was born for.”
I hoped I was convincing.
