Page 34 of War on Christmas

I love my shoulder tattoo. It looks innocuous to the untrained eye. All black ink, delicate and feminine and pretty. Flowers and herbs, twisted together and joined with the gossamer strands of a spider’s web. But to a gardener, or any green witch worth her salt, it’s anything but innocent.

“It’s a witch’s garden,” I explain, then take his hand in mine and trace his fingers over the inked lines. “Hemlock.” I drag his fingertip over the tiny flower buds. “Belladonna.” Round, black berries, each ringed by a starburst of leaves. “Foxglove.” Elongated blooms, like little trumpets. “Henbane.” Five-pointed stars with dark centers.

“Poisons?” he asks. I let go of his hand, but he keeps tracing, his eyes intent on his task. “Is that how you see yourself?”

I shrug, not bothering to hide my shiver from the sweep of his fingers on my skin.

“One person’s poison is another’s medicine,” I whisper. “In the wrong doses, these plants can be lethal, but used in the right way, they can provide relief. Comfort.” His gaze shifts to my face then. Locks onto mine. I swallow before I can continue. “People want to see the world as good or evil. Black or white. But that’s not how the world works, is it? We all have the capacity for goodandevil. We’re all both. Poison and cure. Hero and villain. Angel and demon.”

The words fall between us, heavy in the silence, but Jeremy doesn’t look away. Because as upbeat and easygoing as he’s learned to become, he’s always liked this side of me. The dark side. The part of me that’s a little bit morbid. That never sees the glass as half full. That insists on seeing the world as it is, not as it makes people comfortable to see it.

It’s why it was so devastating to lose him.

“And this?” His voice is thick, his hands gentle as he shifts me so I’m lying on my side, my legs sprawled across his lap. I prop my arm under my head like a pillow and watch Jeremy’s face as his hand rides up the side of my thigh, pushing up my shorts and the thin lace of my boy-cut panties to expose my hip tattoo. Again, the ink is all black, but instead of poisonous plants, it features two giant chrysanthemums, my birth flower. And in between them lies a shaded scorpion, tail curved and ready to strike. I open my mouth to answer him, but before I can, he whispers, “Scorpio,” his fingers already running along the endless curves of ink.

“Scorpio,” I echo, my voice a whisper. “You remember that?”

He smiles as he continues to trace the tattoo. “I remember everything, Freya.”

Twenty-Three

FREYA

10 days until Christmas…

Sam:Youcannevertell your brother I asked you this, but…how is the seduction going? (BTW I’m ALL Team Freya on this one. I’ve heard the Freya and Jeremy stories, and clearly there is some major tension there that needs resolving.)

I grin at the message from Thad’s girlfriend and take a quick peek around the store. It’s the afternoon slump, no customers, so I lean forward onto the counter, my thumbs already flying across my phone.

Me: Some great make-out sessions. The first one was interrupted by my DAD. (Talk about high school flashbacks.) I think Jeremy knows resistance is futile, but he’s putting up a valiant effort. He’s been using my sister’s rug rats as human shields. Kid-friendly movie night. Sledding. Ha. As if some babysitting is going to best me…

Seconds after I hit send, my phone dings with a reply.

Sam: LOL! Oh no! Poor Papa Mike! Well, keep me posted. I want DETAILS. I’ve always suspected there’s more to Jeremy than that Mr. Nice Guy shtick…DETAILS, Frey.

Me: Fine. You big perv. See you in a couple days. Hopefully I have some DETAILS for you by then.

The shopkeeper’s bell chimes merrily, and I slide my phone into my pocket, looking up to greet whoever entered. I stop short when I see a colorful, flowing skirt and hear a familiar jingle of bangle bracelets.

“D.G.?” I ask, straightening from my slouch against the counter.

“Freya Nilsen.”

Mrs. Davis-Green, the sweet, soft-spoken language arts teacher who dragged me to my first stage crew meeting, stands in the doorway, her smile warm.

When I made my way through her classroom two decades ago, D.G. homed in on the loneliness behind my brash mouth and brasher fashion choices. I would have told her to get lost when she suggested I join stage crew, but she clearly had a fellow-artist’s soul and she was just so kind, with her soulful brown eyes and thick-rimmed glasses.

Even I, at my absolute fifteen-year-old worst, could not say no to her.

By the time I graduated, she was more than just a teacher to me. She was a friend and mentor. We stayed in touch for a while, exchanging emails a few times a year, but like most of my friendships, this one, too, slipped away from me.

Her expression is cheerful and affectionate now—there’s no anger or judgment—but as she wanders into the store, I’m acutely aware that it was me who let our correspondence die.

“It’s great to see you,” I say to D.G., “but shouldn’t you be in school?”

D.G. laughs. “I always take a personal day before the holidays. The shops are too crazy during the weekends.” She picks up trinkets as she goes, carefully inspecting each one. “Besides, I heard that my favorite student was back in town, and I wanted to pop in and say hi.”

My face heats. In many ways, I’d been a great student, smart and driven, often a top performer in any given class. However, despite my stellar academics, my teachers usually remained wary of me. (Probably due to my flip-flopping between endlessly sparking debates and wielding an attitude of bored indifference.) The fact that D.G. was willing to push through my bravado and really see me? That shelikedme? It meant a lot.

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