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Scott tucked himself more fully into the corner of his room by the door as he listened to the phone ringing against his ear. He’d started to leave the room for this call—Cecily was sleeping peacefully—but something made him really not want to leave her side. That said, sitting there staring at her was making him want to crawl out of his skin, and he was too worked up to lie down, so he decided to check an item off his to-do list instead.
“Hey, Scott. I’ve been meaning to call you. Everything okay?” His ex-boss’s gruff, friendly voice came through with a crackle on the line that quickly resolved and disappeared.
Scott nodded though Jonathan couldn’t see him. “Yeah. Everything’s good, I think. Thanks for asking.” That was the abridged version, for sure, but true enough. “Uh... Hey, I realized I hadn’t circled back with you on what we talked about at the bar a couple of days back.”
“It’s cool,” Jonathan replied. “Family takes precedence over tattooing, no doubt.”
“Exactly,” Scott agreed. “Which is why I think I gotta pass. I’m grateful, and, frankly, stupid flattered that you’d want me to take over your shop one day. I just—yeah, I think getting out of New Orleans is gonna be good for me.”
If he was being honest with himself, he’d never really intended to accept Jonathan’s offer, he just hadn’t been willing to say no. But now, after everything, and after watching Cecily sleep off the drugs that saved her sister for the last hour, it didn’t seem like such a hard thing to do.
There was a short pause, then, “That’s a respectable answer. Can’t say I’m not bummed to see you go, but it’s a damn fine reason to leave. You gotta do you.”
Scott laughed under his breath, feeling a lightness he’d hoped to feel at the end of this conversation. Confirmation he’d done the right thing. “Glad to hear you say that, for sure.”
“Obviously, you’re welcome if you find yourself in NOLA again. I know you’d talked about keeping up with a couple of clients down here.”
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll be back once or twice a year—at least for a while.”
“Okay then,” Jonathan replied. “I’ll see you when I see you.”
Scott found himself smiling. “See you around.”
He ended the call and stood for a second, facing the corner and weighing the phone in his hand. That hadn’t been as hard or as awkward as he’d feared it would be. All in all, that seemed like a good sign he’d made the right decision.
“Who were you talking to?”
Scott turned around to find Cecily sitting up in the bed. Locks of her brunette hair were falling from the knot on top of her head, framing her face in long, loose waves that shone red-gold in the sunlight coming through his window.
“Uh, Jonathan—my old boss from the shop.” He dropped his phone into his back pocket and crossed to the bed where he took the glass of water from the bedside table and handed it to her.
“Ah, tattoo business,” she surmised with a smirk as she took the glass from him.
He tried to laugh but failed at genuine mirth. “You’ll want that water in a second.”
Her eyes said she registered his low-humor mood, though she didn’t outwardly acknowledge it. “I am pretty thirsty,” she remarked as she brought the glass to her lips.
Scott stood and watched as she took a sip. Then a gulp. Then another. And another. Until the glass was empty.
“Better?” he asked as she handed the glass back to him.
“Yeah, thanks.” She nodded, then looked up at him. “You?”
He felt his brows furrow in question.
“You left,” she said. “Are you okay?” Her voice got quiet. “Are we okay?”
He caught for a breath, surprised to hear her ask if they were okay—equally surprised to hear her refer to the two of them as a “we.” He liked it. A whole hell of a lot.
“Yeah, we’re good,” he said. He sat the glass she’d handed him back onto the bedside table. “I didn’t leave because of you.”
“Okay.”
But she deserved more of an explanation than that. As much as he wished he didn’t have it to give.
This might suck. He knew that. He was going to tell her, and he was going to have to live with her reaction—not just live with it, respect it. That reaction might include leaving him. And as much as that would hurt, it was better than letting her go into this blind. Because if he wanted to move forward with her—and he really did—then she was going to find out eventually, and sooner was less harmful than later. She deserved his honesty—this hardest truth about him—the same way she’d shared her hardest truths with him.
But where to start?
He cast his thoughts back to the times he’d told this story before, in therapy, in meetings. They weren’t anything like this. Cecily wasn’t another addict, she was his best friend and so much more than that. She knew more about him than any of the people in his NA meetings ever did.
And just like that, he knew where to start.
“You know my Mom was an addict,” he said.
She nodded. Her shoulders drew up and her head lowered like she was uncomfortable. “Yeah, I’d wondered if that’s what your reaction was about.”
“It wasn’t, actually—not really,” he said truthfully. He sat on the edge of the bed. “It was about me. Not her. And definitely not about you.”
Cecily looked at him with question in her eyes.
Those eyes he could get lost in, the green was so deep and detailed. He was suddenly itching for a paintbrush.
“I have my own history,” he said, then had to force the rest of the sentence out of his mouth, “with heroin, I mean.”
Now the question in her eyes changed, her brows furrowing.
“It was years ago. I just wanted to try it.” He forced his eyes to stay on hers so he could read every expression there, so he could feel the truth of every reaction she had to what he was saying. “I wanted to know what my mom chose over me, I guess. I don’t know.”
His eyes fell as he paused, thinking.
He’d been a lot younger. A lot more self-involved.
A lot more stupid.
“I smoked it—but not cut with tobacco. And...” He sighed and shook his head. “I get it. I get why she chose it over me.” His eyes met Cecily’s. “The high was so good.”
He was breaking out in a cold sweat just remembering it. He pushed himself up from the edge of the bed.
“But the high is only that good once. So after a few more times smoking it, I found another way to get it.”
There wasn’t question in her eyes anymore when he looked at her, she knew what came next—it was written in her expression, in her wide eyes and the way her brows drew up in the middle. She was worried—for him.
“I didn’t go through with it,” he said and drew a breath. His scalp was crawling. He had to move or he’d keep thinking about it too much, so he paced to the door, then back to the bed. “I got the needle in and I knew, right then, without a doubt—if I pushed that plunger, that was it. I was going to choose this drug over everything. Over Callum, over tattooing, over art. Everything.”
“That’s why you don’t drink,” she said, her voice very small.
“Honestly, alcohol isn’t a problem, but I don’t do anything that alters me anymore.” He shrugged. Sometimes he missed drinking cold beer on a hot day, but that was all the draw alcohol had for him and it wasn’t worth the anxiety or the guilt. “Hell, I barely even drink caffeine.”
She sat for a long stretch of a moment, staring at her hands that were clasped together, squeezing one another so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were turning white. Scott couldn’t bring himself to say anything, instead spending the seconds hoping she wasn’t about to leave. Hoping when she looked at him again, she didn’t see him differently.
And knowing that if she did—look at him differently or leave all together—he’d respect that.
“Scott, I...” she looked up at him and he was relieved not to find disgust in her stare—but sad to find tears there instead. “I just smoked opium in your house—”
“I know.” He rushed to the bed, but then couldn’t bring himself to sit beside her.
What if that’s not what she wanted now?
“I wanted to stay with you, but all I could think was what if I’m strong enough?.” His voice shook. He just wanted her to know how much he wished it were all different—and how much wishing it didn’t matter; it would never be different. “All I could hear was this nagging in the back of my head that told me I’d want it. I’m so fucking mad at myself for leaving you. For being this loser who had to.”
“What?”
He stopped. There was no more worry, or sadness in her eyes—it was an incredulous, what-in-the-hell-are-you-talking-about look that painted her expression now.
She rose onto her knees on the mattress and reached for him, taking his t-shirt in her fists, drawing him close enough for her to touch.
“All I know about addiction,” she said, eyes fierce to match her voice, “is that my father lost that battle—if he ever fought it at all. You’re the strongest man I know. You’re strong for leaving. Do you understand?”
He couldn’t speak while something like hope and awe and reverence bloomed somewhere in his chest. He could only stare at her. At this beautiful, strong, smart woman who was holding onto him like he was her tether to the world.
“I wanted you to know,” he heard himself say. “Callum’s the only other person who does.”
Because Callum had taken care of him when he’d been sick after coming home that night. And the day after. Then he’d driven him to meetings and appointments for months after that.
“I wanted you to know,” he said again. “So you know what you’re getting into.”
When she nodded, it was obvious she was doing it instead of speaking so she could keep the tears in her eyes at bay. She smoothed the front of his t-shirt, then reached up and brought her hands to the sides of his neck, blinking her eyes dry as she did it.
“There is no settling here,” she said. Then she tipped her chin up and tugged him gently toward her until his lips touched hers. “I want you,” she said.
Then she kissed him again.
“I want you.”
And again.
“All of you.”
Again.
“Understand?”
He nodded. “You have me.”
⫷⫸⫷⫸⫷⫸
“Okay, let’s see those wrists,” Wren said as she perched on the edge of the bathtub in the still steamy bathroom.
Zander was sitting on the lid of the toilet with a towel covering her short hair and fresh sweats plus a new, clean tee covering her body.
The shower seemed to have cleared Zander’s head a little. She was moving with more command, speaking with fewer pauses and in more complex sentences. That was all a good sign. The thirty-two ounces of water and electrolytes she’d downed definitely hadn’t hurt either. Dehydration did weird things to people.
Zander lifted both her hands and turned them palm-up, revealing two long rows of stitched X’s. Wren had to employ her best nursing skills—a little rusty after not using them for months—to keep herself from reacting.
Those were the cuts of somebody who had been serious about what they’d been trying to do.
“They’re bad, huh?” Zander said into the professional silence Wren had mustered.
“They’re healing nicely,” Wren replied, reaching for the gauze and ointment she’d sat on the counter.
Zander’s chuckle was low. “Nice dodge.”
Wren smiled before she could help herself, though her laugh was only with partial mirth. She was trying to keep her nurse’s face on, but she couldn’t keep it totally professional—she was talking to one her oldest friends. “It wasn’t a dodge as much as a gentle sidestep to the positive.” She began applying ointment in gentle strokes, keeping her attention on Zander’s wrists.
“Ah. Fair enough,” came Zander’s response. “Is Cecily up yet?”
Wren shook her head. “I don’t think so. Do these stitches hurt at all?”
“Kind of.” Zander shrugged. “I took some ibuprofen after I ate.”
Good. That’s exactly what she would have told her to do.
“So, that boyfriend of yours is a keeper,” Wren said, trying to steer the conversation toward lighter topics.
She heard Zander’s whisper of a chuckle and saw her nod from her peripheral vision. “He is, yeah.”
“And, um, not exactly my style, but dude is hot as hell,” Wren added.
Zander’s laugh was heartier at that. “I definitely agree.”
Wren looked up at her friend as she finished with the first line of ointment. The circles under her eyes had lightened even in the minutes since she’d gotten out of the shower. “He would not give up until you were okay. You should know that.”
“I know,” Zander nodded. “I could hear him some of the time.”
Wren knew her smile was sad, but she couldn’t help it. So she returned her attention to the task of bandaging Zander’s wrists.
“The two of you seem like friends,” Zander said. “Like you’ve known each other longer than a couple of days.”
“We had a lot of time to sit and talk,” Wren replied with a whisper of a half-happy chuckle.
“Yeah, I guess that’s true.” Zander’s voice was quiet, but it picked up when she went on. “What have you been doing since you left New Orleans?”
“Working as a witch for hire. I bet that’s not what you expected me to say.”
“Definitely not,” Zander agreed, smile in her voice. “What does that even mean?”
“It means rich people pay me generously to do preschool magic and things they could do themselves in they cared to learn,” Wren said. “I offer to teach them but they like to have someone else do it.” She shrugged and shook her head as she taped the bandages on Zander’s right wrist. One down, one to go.
“Like what?” Zander pried.
“Cleansing their homes, mostly. Like, burning sage or palo santo to remove negative energy,” Wren explained. “Once or twice I’ve actually cleared some real shit. But mostly it’s just run of the mill negativity. Like, seriously, you could do this yourself but that’s cool pay me $200 and I’ll do it for you.”
Zander laughed. “That’s amazing. Where have you been doing this?”
Wren began with the ointment on Zander’s left wrist. “All over. I was in San Diego, and I needed some seeds, so I found a shop and there was this middle-aged woman there who looked completely lost. I don’t know what I was thinking but I offered to help her find what she was looking for, and next thing I know, she’s offering to pay me if I come to her house and do a cleansing.”
“No way,” Zander said, smile and amazement in her voice. “That’s awesome.”
“Right?” Wren agreed as she added more ointment to Zander’s left wrist. “Anyway, I thought sure, why not? I mean a couple hundred dollars is nothing to shrug at. So I did that, then she told her friends, and then they told theirs, and now I’m traveling all over the place doing it.”
“Seriously,” Zander said. “Wren, that’s incredible. How fucking cool is that?”
Wren laughed, but it faded into the back of her throat. Yeah, it was cool she was making a small living doing something she loved and came naturally, but being so far away meant she hadn’t been there when Zander needed her. Maybe if she’d been here in New Orleans instead of driving all over the country, Zander wouldn’t need to have her wrists bandaged.
“What were you thinking?” she felt herself ask aloud before she’d thought through the words. She looked up to meet Zander’s gaze. “Were you trying to end it, when you did this?”
Zander stared back at her. “No.” She grimaced. “Yes. It was the only way to end the Shadow.”
Wren had known what her answer was going to be, but her chest still went cold when she heard Zander say it. She went back to work, turning her attention down again. “You talk to Callum about it?”
“Not yet. Does he know?”
“Know you slit your wrists?”
“Know I was trying to kill myself.”
The easy way Zander said it made words catch in Wren’s throat. “I don’t think so. I think he suspects but he doesn’t want to believe it.”
“What is that sound?”
Spurred by the change in tone and topic, Wren stopped what she was doing and looked at Zander. “What sou—” but then she could hear it.
“Is that—?”
Uh oh. Zander didn’t know this yet, Wren realized. “Uh, yeah. That’s Cecily and Scott. They happened while you were out.”
A very audible—and very pleasurable—gasp could be heard through the walls of the bathroom and Zander’s eyes went wide.
“Is that okay?” Wren asked. “Are we pissed about that?” She hoped not—Cecily and Scott were cute together.
Zander’s brows shot upward and she shook her head. “Not pissed at all, no. Me and Callum have been waiting for them to get out of their own way for a while. No, I’m actually alarmed by how clearly you can hear that. Like, how many times has Scott heard it when Callum and I do it?”
Wren barked a laugh, caught off guard, and soon Zander was laughing too.
“That’s mortifying,” Zander added as their laughter slowed.
“We’ll just keep talking to drown it out until I finish wrapping this wrist,” Wren offered, still laughing a little. “Then we’ll get the hell out of here, deal?”
“Deal, yes. For the love of god,” came Zander’s immediate, emphatic response.
A couple of hours later, Wren laid her messenger bag on its side on the table in the dining room. She gave it a shake to make the contents settle, then she went about finding the right angle to slide the folded silk she had in her hands into the interior.
It was getting late. They’d all spent the afternoon together. Scott had gone to get take-out and they’d eaten all evening—Zander especially. They hadn’t turned on the TV, or watched a movie. They’d just all sat in the front room together, talking and eating, and just—being.
It had been really lovely.
Cecily and Scott hadn’t made any grand announcements about their togetherness, but it was clear in how they sat together and shared food. How Scott got up to get her more, and how Cecily made sure his water was always filled. Callum had waited on Zander like her legs were broken, and Wren admired him for his attentiveness even if Zander had rolled her eyes in good nature every time she went to stand and he jumped up and asked her what she needed. The only thing he’d let her do herself all night was go to the bathroom.
“If you’ve designed a way to do that for me, by all means, but I think this is something I gotta handle on my own,” she’d said with a smirk. She’d hit the kitchen on her way back from the bathroom and returned to the living room with another plate of food and a new glass of water—much to Callum’s apparent chagrin.
It had felt good to be in the presence of love like that all day, but now the house was quiet. Zander was sleeping again, which was good. Cecily and Scott had sequestered themselves into Scott’s bedroom, and Callum was nowhere to be seen. Which meant this was Wren’s cue to exit.
Six months ago, she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to see the way Cecily and Scott were so comfortably in love, or the way Zander and Callum fit like a glove together. Now though, seeing those things had been bittersweet. They made her remember instead of rage.
Still, as much as she had enjoyed basking in the shine of their love for one another, they deserved their privacy. Plus her bed was calling her name. She’d slept six hours in the last 48—it was time to go. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do next, or where she was going to go, but that was something she could work out on her own, back in her RV. Maybe with a glass of wine and her tarot deck over the coming days. Bridgette would help her figure it out, and she wasn’t in any rush.
She was looping her bag over her shoulder when she heard somebody coming down the hall. She looked up in time to see Callum peek around the corner. His hair was a mess, shirt creased like he’d been sleeping and woken up. Or like maybe he and Zander hadn’t been sleeping at all.
Wren hoped it was the latter, for their sakes.
“Hey, are you heading out?” he asked, stepping into the room in earnest.
“Yeah, I’m gonna let you all rest,” Wren replied. “But I won’t be far.”
He crossed his arms over his chest like he was cold. Or maybe upset. “Zander said you live in an RV. Where are you parked?”
“At a camp site outside the city,” Wren said. “It’s only twenty minutes away.”
“We have room,” Callum said. “You can crash here tonight. Or, hell, we can park on the street and you can move your RV into our driveway tomorrow.”
That was really kind of him to offer but she didn’t know how to explain that there was no way she could back her RV into their narrow excuse for a driveway.
“I’m only a quick drive away,” she said. “And Zander has my number, so call if you need anything. Doesn’t matter the time.”
Callum gave a nod. “Yeah okay.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Wren added, angling for the door. “Zander shouldn’t be lifting anything until we take her stitches out in a couple of days so I’ll take her place in the packing brigade.”
Callum’s quiet laugh was light and easy. “You don’t have to do that, but we’ll take all the help we can get at this point.”
Wren threw a look around the front room, only about half-packed. “I can see that.”
She was halfway out the door when Callum stopped her with a hushed “hey.”
She turned back.
“Um, don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, and she braced herself for something seriously awkward. “But is—was—did your girlfriend have blond hair?”
Wren’s brain tripped, her thoughts reordering for a second before she could respond. “She did, yeah. Long and blond. And it curled at the ends. It was really pretty.” Thinking about the way it used to shine like spun gold when Bridgette was in the sun made her smile and made her eyes sting at the same time.
“She looks young,” Callum said. “But she’s clearly not—not younger than us. Just...I don’t know, youthful?”
Wren’s brows furrowed in question and amazement. “Yeah, exactly. People thought she was a teenager until she spoke.” She took a breath—and a flying leap of faith. “Have you—”
“I’ve seen her,” he said with a half smile, like he was as amazed as she was. “A lot, actually—damn near every time I leave the house without Zander. She rarely says a word. She’s so chill, I don’t mind having her around. In fact, I sort of miss her when she doesn’t show up.”
Wren just stared at him, her mouth opening and closing like she was going to say something, but her thoughts were so loud and so jumbled she couldn’t find a place to begin.
He’d seen Bridgette? Was she okay? Was she happy?
Could this really be happening?
His brows drew up, questioning. “Do you want to talk to her?”
The air left Wren’s lungs on a rush as she nodded. “Yeah. Yes. I want to talk to her.”
Callum’s smile was broad and happy. “Okay, yeah. Let me put on shoes. I’ll meet you in the backyard.”
“Wait. Now?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, why not? It’s the least I can do after everything you did for us today. And I’d do it anyway, even if you hadn’t just saved our lives.”
Is this for real? Just minutes ago, she’d been entertaining the idea of letting Bridgette silently guide her hand while she chose tarot cards—now she was about to talk to her. Through a medium, but talk to her nonetheless. Wren nodded. “Okay.”
A couple of minutes later, Wren was standing on the patio listening to crickets chirp as she breathed in the humid-thick New Orleans night air. The sound of the back door cracking open made her turn. Callum came padding down the couple of steps with Cecily on his heels and Rhia behind her.
“I brought back-up,” he explained, motioning to Cecily who raised a hand as if to say “that’s me. I’m the back-up.”
Wren went to say something—anything in response—but when words failed her, Cecily gave her a smile and looped her arm through hers. “We gotta walk into the grass where she can come through.”
So Wren let Cecily lead the way, arm and arm.
“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”
“Bridgette.” Wren’s lips were numb.
“That’s fitting. I didn’t realize she was your girlfriend or I’d have said something sooner,” Cecily said quietly as they neared the center of the yard. “She’s beautiful. I’m sorry for your loss.” Then she turned like someone had said her name—someone Wren couldn’t see.
“Hey, Trey. This is Wren. Can you let Bridgette through if she’s here? She’s the spirit who hangs around us a lot—the pretty blond one.”
Wren’s heart was beating so hard she could hardly draw a breath.
Cecily laughed quietly, then looked to Callum. “Why don’t you start us off, Cal.”
Callum took a single step along the grass, toward empty air, and smiled. “Hi, Bridgette. I’m Callum. I see you a lot, but I’ve never introduced myself.”
Wren’s eyes filled with tears that went skating down her face when she blinked. Cecily, who was still holding onto her arm, gave it a squeeze. Then a tissue was being tucked into Wren’s hand.
“Not my first rodeo,” Cecily whispered when Wren threw her a glance.
She gave a quiet laugh and wiped her eyes—just as Callum turned to her.
“She can see you,” he said. “She says she’s with you every day.”
Some cross between a sob and a laugh erupted from Wren’s chest.
This was really happening.
“I know. She’s always with me. She—” she revised herself, her breath catching on tears. “Thank her for all of her help.”
“You thank her,” Cecily said, her voice quiet. “She can hear you. We just have to talk for her.”
Wren looked around the yard, at Callum and Cecily, and all the empty space. She closed her eyes because looking at nothing felt wrong, and staring at Callum or Cecily wasn’t any better.
It felt right to close her eyes. It felt easier.
In her mind, she pictured Bridgette how she remembered her, light and happy, and so brilliantly smart. Her golden hair was long and thick; the soft green of her eyes was the color of sage; her lips were soft pink like the palest rose petals. Everything about her was glowing with joy.
“I miss you,” she whispered, a fresh stream of tears painting her cheeks.
“I miss you,” Bridgette said in Cecily’s voice. “But I’m here. Always.”
“How—how are you? Are you healthy there?” Wren hadn’t ever wondered that before, not consciously, but now that she was standing here, talking to her Bridgette, she had to know. When she died, had she been healed?
The strength of her hope for that made her sway on her feet. If Bridgette was healed—maybe that made everything worth it.
“Completely healthy,” Bridgette said. “I feel incredible.”
Wren’s hands slapped over her face and a sob tore up her throat. She felt Cecily unthread their arms and rub her back.
“Please don’t cry for me,” Bridgette said. “I’m well, Wren. I was never going to be well on that side. And you deserve someone you can be fully you with. You have such incredible gifts to offer the world—to offer the someone you’ll someday meet. There are wonderful things on the horizon for you. Don’t let missing me make you miss them.”
Wren sucked a shuddering breath in through her lips. “How can I look forward to anything without you?”
How could she look forward when every plan she’d made—they’d made—was gone now?
“You must. I’ll be here always, watching you lead your life, basking in the knowledge that I got to be part of you. That I got to be part of the incredible life you get to live.” Cecily’s voice delivering Bridgette’s words got firmer, stronger. “But you have to live it. Go live it, Wren.”
“Live it for you,” Wren whispered through tears. But how could she do that?
“No.” There was grit in her voice now. A tenacity and will Wren had missed so much it nearly took her breath away to hear it. “Live it for YOU.”
Wren could see her, the Bridgette in her mind’s eye, leaning into her, squeezing her arm, her green eyes piercing and fierce.
“I’m done living,” Bridgette said, her eyes softening with understanding and sympathy. “I love you, but I’m done living, Wren. And I’m not sad about it. So don’t you be sad about it either.”
