Page 62 of Witches of Honeysuckle House
“Isn’t that what you were wearing yesterday?” Angela asked.
“It is,” Florence said.
Angela’s eyebrows shot high on her forehead. Her lips curved up in a smile that quickly disappeared. “But the curse …”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Florence said.
“I will not be going to Honeysuckle House on the thirteenth,” Owen said.
“What about the festival?” Clara asked at the same time Angela said, “Have you told Evie?”
“I’m hoping to talk your mother out of the festival,” Florence said.
“How?” Clara asked as she buried her face in Ink’s fur.
“We’ll explain it all soon,” Florence said. “But right now, we’re headed to Honeysuckle House.”
“You’re actually going over there?” Though there was surprise in Angela’s voice, she nodded, as if she was relieved.
“With Owen’s help,” Florence said. “I tried yesterday, after you texted me.”
Angela took Florence’s hand. “You could’ve called me.”
But Florence shook her head. “Evie needed you.”
“And now she needs you,” Angela said.
“And me!” Clara said.
Angela rested a hand on Clara’s shoulder. “I think this is something Florence has to do on her own.”
Florence traded yesterday’s skirt and sweater for jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. She undid her braid and replaited her hair into twin pigtails, one of which she tucked behind her ear as she and Owen followed the familiar road to Honeysuckle House. She leaned forwardin the seat, her hands on her thighs. Each turn of the tires over pavement made her heart race a little faster.
“You okay?” Owen asked as they left the town center behind.
“Not in the slightest.” Her legs shook.
“Do you want me to pull over?”
“The only way I’m going to be able to do this is if you do it for me.”
“Maybe it would help if you closed your eyes,” he suggested.
Florence glanced sidelong at him. She couldn’t quite parse how she’d gone from avoiding this man to putting her panic attack in his hands. After his tarot pull, she’d planned to do everything she could to make sure whatever the cards meant, they didn’t involve her. Now she was sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, entrusting him with some of most shattered pieces of her heart.
As they approached the familiar curve in the road, Florence braced herself with her hands on the dash, her breath coming out staccato. Her eyes started to spot over. Owen reached a hand across the space between them and gripped her scarred forearm gently.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered.
Florence listened. She pressed her eyelids shut so tightly white burst across her vision. She dropped her hands from the dash, letting Owen thread his fingers through hers.
“Count your breaths,” Owen said. “One.”
Florence inhaled.
“Two.”
Florence exhaled.
