Page 53 of Hopelessly Teavoted
“Well,” began Priscilla. “I’m not saying to do it, just that it’s an option. Mom and Dad did.”
He grimaced. “Would you soul-bind with Evelyn?”
Both women stiffened.
“No,” said Prissy softly. “I would not. I’m not opposed to marriage, mundane or even witch, but I don’t ever want to be bound. I don’t need to tattoo my soul onto someone else’s on top of it. I don’t think I’d like to bind myself to anyone like that. Ever.”
Evelyn looked sad but not surprised.
“As for the other things. Mom and Dad are dead, but we also can keep their memories alive. Like, do you remember the time we came home early from school and caught them tangoing in the hall?”
He smiled. “In formal wear and all, every sconce in the place lit, and a full orchestra of instruments enchanted to play for them. Yeah, I do.”
His heart still felt heavy, but the telling of the story felt right. Like sitting shiva, which he had missed in lockdown. He thought about what he would have wanted to share, had he been there. “Uncle Larry once told me that in college, they were rivals. That one time, Mom hexed Dad’s hair short and he hexed her nails and lipstick pink for an entire month.”
“Mom with pink lipstick?” Priscilla laughed.
“It must have been something,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “They really were.”
“Thanks, Priscilla.”
“You’re welcome. And I tell you what. Out of courtesy, I won’t prank you at all this week.”
“Thanks for that,” he said darkly. “Maybe you could extend that no-prank rule for a few weeks? I invited Vickie over for dinner some Tuesday. In a few weeks, when I’ve got a good rhythm going with school.”
Priscilla’s eyes lit up. “Hart family dinner! I’ll cook, and I’ll refrain from pranking for it and all, I swear.” She winced a little at the thought of it. “But after that, all bets are off.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“Hey, Az?”
“Yeah?”
“Take a shower. You smell like self-pity and ass.”
He sighed. There was the sister he knew and loved.
By the time he climbed the stairs, the banister rising to meet his hand like a dog leaning in to be petted, his thoughts had drifted to Victoria.
The house must have known; it drew the curtains and ran a shower that smelled like the lemon soap he favored and steamed the mirror up immediately, stopping him from having to stare down the echoes of his own lust.
He showered, trying not to think about the way Vickie had tasted on his fingers what felt like lifetimes ago, and the soft sounds she had made. The other sounds he had wanted her to make. He knew how to kill the thoughts, though. All he had to do was shut his eyes and picture his mother’s ring turning to ash. And the realization that both his parents were gone, out of his reach to talk to, and that he could never touch Vickie again.
He snapped his fingers and the water turned cold, which also helped.
On Monday morning, he stood in front of a mirror, running a hand through curly hair, and he suddenly couldn’t standit. He snapped his fingers a few times, and then a few more. A simple suave barber spell, one that Priscilla had perfected years ago and taught him as an alternative to spending hundreds of dollars at the salon.
The trick was to think of a few sensations you loved while you did it, and the magic did the rest to craft the art of the haircut.
He had tasted strawberries and felt the soft fuzz of that pink jacket, and smelled the lemon scent of his own soap, the kind he’d used since his mom started ordering it from a witch a few counties over and stocking it in her shop when he was a teen. A few blinks later, and the haircut was good enough that he felt camera ready, the sides of it trimmed close to his head, and the top an inch or so longer. He smiled as he shrugged on a dress shirt, chinos, and a blazer.
Azrael had a bit of a chip on his shoulder about teachers who boasted that they were unapproachable, especially if they were white men like him. They always seemed to be assholes, and he didn’t think there was any merit to pretending to be what he was not. Teaching was not sitting at the front of the classroom; it was active motion, and it required authentic attire. He’d known plenty of people who rocked pantsuits naturally, but he was not one of them. Casual professor chic, he decided, looking in the mirror.
If he knew anything about teaching, it would be such a busy, exhausting day that he would not have time to consider Victoria and his longing.
The redbrick exterior of the high school looked drabber than he remembered from the week of staff orientation, but he swallowed the thought and walked through the double glass doors, swiping his badge to get through the secure outer door. Tan linoleum stretched out in front of him. Dust bordered the floors and the crumbling corners, and he felt overwhelmed at the prospect of doing this for the next thirty years until he retired. Alone and dreaming of her. Remembering the squandered years they could have been together. Would it be betteror worse if she paid her debt and the curse couldn’t kill him by Halloween, and he ended up watching her, from afar, never being able to touch her, for years, stretching into decades? He pushed the thought aside and focused on the present.
