Page 28 of The Royal Street Witch
But Chantal loves the thrill of sales, of pitching her voice up high, in feigning interest on the minute details of why the tourists are here and oh, how much they adore our little city. Truthfully, I’m on edge and just want to run upstairs, bottle the potion and move on. Move on with my life, move on from Bastian.
It's been four days since we kissed and he’s been plaguing my thoughts, tormenting my days with memories of a kiss, and I’m just really disappointed in myself. I can usually say I don’t swoon, but I swooned—I swooned big time. And when he texted me last night the lyrics toSomebody To Love, I sat on my bathroom floor as Mercury pawed me and just stared at my phone for a solid thirty minutes. I typed and re-typed my response countless times until finally I came up with a bare bones answer.
I’ve adjusted the potion. You should have three hours of daylight per dose. You’ll need to test it first.
Will you test it with me?
No.
Come on. One last dance.
I didn’t respond. What could I say to that? And I haven’t heard from him since, but I am fully aware he’ll want the fixed potion and could show up tonight.
Chantal rings up a customer as I slump in my chair, caught between a sinking feeling of Bastian being out of my life soon and the elation of not caring if I sell necklaces or not. That it won’t make or break me. That I could close up shop and visit my mother if I wanted to. But what’s in Prague for me? What’s out there besides the life I have here? Bastian and Cassius will be off, frolicking in the daylight around the world soon enough, and I will still be here where I belong, alone again. And it hits me like dragonflies caged in my chest trying to break free. I don’t want my life to go back to the way it was before Bastian came into it.
“Fuck it,” I whisper and look up as Chantal leans across the glass counter, a pinky in her mouth, scrolling through her phone.
“Huh?” she says.
“What time tonight?” I ask, and a smirk lifts her lips.
“Ten.”
“I’ve seen your ass sing plenty in my life, you know?”
“Seeing this ass is never enough,” she says and twerks right on my display case.
“Shit…” I laugh and smack her ass. Walking back to the kitchen I text Bastian.
One last test, I have sample vials ready.
The text bubble pops up immediately, and I watch until his response comes through.
Meet tonight?
I’ll be at Chantal’s show on Frenchman. I’ll bring the vials and text you after her show..
Can’t get you off my mind. See you tonight.
The vials clink in my purse as I get out of my Uber, and just the thought of them tucked away in there makes me feel guilty. The poets for hire giggle amongst themselves, their chairs lining the sidewalk, typewriters in front of them on TV trays. Tattooed fingers remain ready to type up a custom poem at a moment’s notice. If I was social, if I wasn’t such a solitary creature, I would know them—would wave as I passed. But instead I nod and walk into The 60/30, where Chantal is already on stage with her opening number.
I order a rum and Coke at the bar then settle into a stool close to the wall, my eyes meeting my cousin’s, and she winks in greeting. With unquestionable talent, Chantal is like so many of the musicians of New Orleans. But Chantal isn’t just a singer, she’s a performer—in her purple corset, fishnet stockings and thigh-high boots, she has all the bodies swaying back and forth, singingSay My Nameby Destiney’s Child. Her all-girl cover band backs her on the tiny stage, and I watch her sing with a spark of jealousy in my veins, envious of her freedom and wondering if she knows the truth. And the truth is that watching her live her dream is like a blinding reminder that I was never allowed to have dreams—and I am a shallow bitch after all, aren’t I? Yet it’s true. I was born just to keep my legacy alive, keep the shop running, pay Aunt Violetta, and have a child, and it will just be that way for the Wildes women for all eternity.
Ashamed, I fake a smile as Chantal approaches once her show is over, her brow sweaty, her post-show high contagious.
She hugs me, skin slick, and I hold her for a moment and push out the awful things I hate most about myself.
“I wanna be Chantal when I grow up,” I whisper in her ear.
“Don’t lie,” she laughs, and her bandmate Asha walks up behind her and bumps my shoulder.
“Finally!” Asha yells—too loud for my liking, but I’m playing nice tonight so I feign another smile.
“Worth the wait,” I say and raise a glass. We tap each other’s, and Chantal is so energized she might just float away.
“Jade!” she screams, and Jade puts a finger to her lips—as if shushing Chantal has ever worked.
But, fuck. I haven’t seen Jade since I put the spell out, protecting my and Bastian’s thoughts from her mind reading. Jade knows she’s not purposely supposed to be digging around in our minds, but things can pop out, especially deep secrets, so one can never be too careful.
