Page 62 of The Royal Street Witch
“Do you like it here? Are you happy?” His eyes are searching, almost lost looking, and that ache that was dormant finds its way back in my chest.
“I do. How did you end up in New Orleans if you grew up in here?” It’s something I realized I never asked, and his eyes grow dark, his lip curling up.
“I didn’t grow up here. When we could get away, my mother would bring us here for the day. It’s about two hours from where I grew up and she would take my father’s car. It holds my happiest memories, like a secret. No place makes me feel how I feel when I’m here. I come back often but it’s not like this. Not with someone I love, not during the day.
“But that’s not what you asked.” He clears his throat and entwines his legs with mine. “Yeah, well I needed to get out of my house, away from my father. My friend lived there and invited me to stay. I hitchhiked all the way to New Orleans.”
“Hitchhiked?” I echo, and he chuckles at my surprise.
“That was a main mode of transportation back then. I had no idea what the future would hold.” He inhales and closes his eyes. “I was just thinking about our future. The things we can do together.” He then pins me with his eyes. “The places we can go.”
And it impales my heart in a new way. This future he dreams of, that includes both of us, a future that would mean hiding and lying. But also, a future of him staying the same young man and me, only growing older. I look to the ocean, watching children run through the waves, the water licking their feet, their little hands creating sandcastles.
“Let’s just enjoy ourselves while we are here instead of worry about our future.” That’s my plan at least. To enjoy the moment and not think of all my responsibilities back home. Not think about what’s expected of me, the child I’m supposed to have.
He scoffs, pulling his legs from mine. “I’m not worried about it. I’m excited about it.”
“Well I’m worried. You took the potion twice today.”
He squints at the sun behind his glasses. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, you promised—”
“Aster, I know. I’m being careful. No nose bleeds.” He glides his index finger down my jawline then tucks my hair behind my ear. “I’m not going to waste a second of what the daylight brings me. Especially since it’s going to end so soon. I’m going to protect it and love it, and call on the memories one day, memories that you gave me. If I go on to live for another three hundred years, I’m going to remember this moment every day. The way the sand feels on my feet. The sound of the children’s laughter. How your skin was golden. How you bit your bottom lip when you looked at me. How your nose scrunches when you’re worried, like it’s doing right now. How in love with you I was and am. This makes the highlight reel of an extremely long movie, do you get it?”
I stare at him for a solid twenty seconds, letting his words sink in. And instead of over-analyzing, instead of breaking down each sentence, I swallow my words and simply say, “Got it.”
My favorite days are the ones spent making love then lounging on the couch, heads on opposite ends, our hands grazing each other’s legs, lazily learning each other’s habits. Bastian wakes up renewed, ready for a new day. I wake up needing coffee and no talking for at least twenty minutes. He leaves toothpaste in the sink and rolls his socks into balls and throws them at the end of the bed when he goes to sleep. He kisses my neck seconds before I fall asleep, like he instinctually knows I’m fading into another zone and wants to say goodbye before I slip away, before he leaves to find blood. I don’t ask questions about who or where he fed when he leaves, and he doesn’t offer any information. I focus on the good. How he laughs more than anyone I’ve ever met and how he’s so patient with me. With my slow to warm attitude, with my obstinance.
It’s easy loving Bastian, far from the kind of love I witnessed in my mother’s relationships. Her life was a vicious cycle of lust, love, and revenge, where black magic was plentiful. Of waking to the rumblings of feet being pushed out the front door, shrieks of jealousy and rage, of husbands that wouldn’t leave their wives.
With Bastian there aren’t screams, no blood magic of tears. He treats me like I’m fascinating, wanting to know everything about me, about my life. He pays attention—knowing I get cold in the night, always having a blanket ready to wrap me in, making me lemon drops. Sour and sweet.
“Can you just let me take care of you?” he asks, pulling a pan from the cupboard.
“I’m concerned with your cooking abilities,” I say, standing in the kitchen after he’s insisted on make me breakfast.
“I was a human once that had to feed myself, and besides, I know a secret ingredient that makes everything better.”
“What’s that?” I say as he pushes me to sit me on a stool.
“Butter.” He pulls out a stick and drops the entire thing into the pan and squints.
“Uh, do you want me to have a heart attack?” But he just leaves it there as he moves to cracking eggs, and I point my finger to the pan, igniting the gas stove.
Bastian’s arms drop to his sides, his bare chest exhaling in an exasperated rhythm. “Really? You just can’t help yourself.”
“I can’t.” I lean on the counter, and he winks at me as the butter sizzles in the pan.
He cooks me breakfast—eggs and grits. Coffee with cream. And he’s right, butter makes everything, especially eggs and grits, better.
“Would you like to see San Francisco now?” he asks, placing my plate in the sink.
“Uh, would I like to? Is that even a question?”
His hands tap on the counter, jovial, light. “I’ll book my favorite hotel.”
THE NEXT AFTERNOON I WATCHBastian down two vials of the potion and my stomach drops. We are packing our things, leaving for San Francisco once we’ve finished.
