Page 5 of Witchful Thinking

He’d be home for a few days in time for the festival. He drove into town just yesterday, the night before his birthday, treating himself to a long weekend stay at the Tides Hotel on Ocean Avenue. He celebrated his special day by taking a swim in the Atlantic, letting his home waters cleanse his scales. Alex planned a stroll around the grounds before heading over to Ad Astra for his birthday dinner and dessert.

Tomorrow morning he’d check out, birthday gift in hand, and head back on the road. The last year was…eventful. His apartment lease was up in less than a week, and whatever items he couldn’t sell, he gave away or donated. On New Year’s Day, Nahla had promptly ended their engagement by leaving her princess-cut ring on the kitchen counter with a follow-up text to his phone.

Alex,

Hurting you is the last thing I want to do. There needs to be more to a relationship than having fun. Our connection seems so shallow. I need something deeper and real. I wish that the future holds something much better for both of us. I hope you find what you’re searching for. I’m sorry.

XOXO Nahla

Damn. Those words haunted him, kept him up at night like a monster under his bed. She wanted to start the new year with a clean slate while cleaning him out of her life as well. He’d taken a sabbatical from photography, unable to find inspiration for his upcoming gallery showing. The potential of a good surprise, in the form of a gift from the parents, encouraged him to come home, if only for a few days. He’d be on a hunt for another apartment—or rather, another place to lay his head—soon enough. Once again, he was searching.

Standing under the light of the Ferris wheel, Alex snapped a few candids on his phone. He wanted good memories of this place when he left tomorrow. Maybe being back in the Grove would entice his missing photography muse to return to him. In his opinion, he hadn’t snapped a good photo or image in months, unable to find that elusive perfect shot. Now, he couldn’t put his phone down, trying to capture the images before him at the festival. Everything was touched with unspoken magic. Not every place in the world held the magic that the Grove did, so he reveled in the moment. Balloons that threatened to fly away stayed wrapped around small, eager hands.

Popcorn never spilled but stayed in its striped containers. Magic was an open secret in the Grove. Not everyone subscribed to the magic, but it was there in the atmosphere, ready for the picking like hanging flowers from a tree. He walked around, chuckling at the familiar entertainments. There was the knockdown game, the Madame Zora fortune booth, junk food stands, and the Ferris wheel, which had made the world glow and shine the same way so many years ago. This place had once been home but no longer. The Freya Grove Historical Society Founders’ Day Festival was a popular Jersey Shore attraction every single year. Magazines and travel blogs he sometimes freelanced for repeatedly highlighted the event as a “must go” and “once-in-a-lifetime experience.” Every late May, the Grove was descended upon by thousands of tourists who hoped to get a glimpse of a wayward witch or a ghoulish ghost. It was as if the town had been frozen by a timeless enchantment to remain changeless for years. The lights filled the darkening sky with animated colors. The Grove had once been his playground.

Gargoyles roaming around by the library. Okay.

Vampires bowling at the Grove Lanes at midnight? Fine.

Witches and fauns gathering around in the West Grove party wearing nothing but smiles and daisy crowns in their hair. Sure.

There was nothing exciting about the Grove. Period.

He scanned the festival and noted where he could take a quick picture. In addition to his photography career, he worked as a social media manager. Clients from all over the world hired him to dazzle and pull people onto the websites and social media feeds with images that incite the imagination. This town, as charming as it seemed, hid a dark side that he’d seen too many times. Behind the lace curtains and closed doors of the Grove, people gossiped and cast hexes against their neighbors.

Alex walked a few steps. The flash of a silver charm bracelet caught his attention and drew his focus. Like any merfolk, he loved shiny, beautiful things and often found himself coveting a vintage watch or an heirloom he spied on his adventures. His scales itched. No way. He knew that bracelet.

He’d seen that bracelet on his last first day of school and had met its owner.

He’d saved that bracelet from Grove Lake and been rewarded with the sweetest hug he’d ever been given. Years later, he still felt her soft body pressed against his—sending his thoughts spiraling out into the universe. He knew that wrist. He’d held that wrist and felt her pulse kick up under his palm when they danced under the tea lights on prom night.

He knew her. Lucinda Lucy Caraway. Lu.

He got in line behind her in the Madame Zora fortune booth line, where he stopped and studied her. Her hair, once long and braided, was short and natural, with ziggy curls that sprang out into the air. Her fitted pencil skirt showed off her thick, shapely legs, and her ballet flats tapped on the ground impatiently for the machine. He studied her full curves the way the first mapmakers did a map—with a sense of awe at the knowledge of a new world. The light-blue jean jacket she wore was covered in various pins and patches, including one circle patch that proudly said MY BROOMSTICK RUNS ON TEA.

She turned momentarily away from the booth. He caught her profile. Hey now. He breathed in shallow, quick gasps, as if he were prepping himself to submerge into an ice bath. She looked, with her touches of silver and gemstone jewelry, more ethereal than ever. Sheer magic glowed from her skin. A thrill of anticipation touched his spine. He leaned in as she stepped forward, fed the Madame Zora machine, and waited. He couldn’t resist another glance. She’d starred in his dreams for so long, his brain didn’t believe that she was close enough to touch. He kept himself from blinking in case she vanished from sight. A light breeze kicked up the festival, and her perfume, a mix of sweet, floral scents, tickled his nose. She bent over and fumbled with the paper slot, giving him a view of her round behind. Hello. He stared but shielded her from view so anyone else wouldn’t get a look. He glanced over his shoulder. A line was forming behind them, and a few grumbles erupted from the growing crowd.

“What’s the holdup?”

“You didn’t break it, did you?”

When did people get so precious about the machine? For their senior prank, their class had dressed up Madame Zora and posed with it for picture day. Even the principal got in on the fun and took an ill-advised selfie with Zora. Alex chuckled at the long-forgotten moment, then returned his focus to Lucy, who yanked at the machine slot. Alex hesitated. This wasn’t how he wanted to see her again—he hadn’t planned on seeing her again at all, but fate was forcing him to play his hand.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

She stilled for a moment. He held his breath. She didn’t turn around.

“No.” Lucy sighed. “My fortune got stuck.”

“Hold on. I got you.”

She moved back, and he stepped in. He knelt on the ground and reached into the dispensing slot. With a quick yank, he pulled the partially torn fortune out and then stood. He faced her, holding it in the palm of his hand. Their eyes connected. At that moment, everything crystallized. She’d grown into her beauty, her face rounded out by age and her curves lived in and fleshed out. Her charm bracelet jangled when she pressed a hand to her chest. Her open brown eyes were muted with distrust.

“Alex?” she asked. Her voice sounded unsteady. Uncertain. His stomach clenched. Yeah, he’d earned that hesitancy.

“Hey, Lucy.”

She took the fortune from his hand, touching his scales with her fingertips. The brief contact sent an electric shock over his skin. It pulsed and charged every cell within him. Eleven years, eight months, three weeks, and twenty-seven days. That was how long it had been since he’d touched Lucy. And he’d sworn then that it would be the last time ever.

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