Page 93 of Spell Ya Later

Even the house is too scared to make a noise. It ceases its normal moans and groans in her wake.

“Can you blame her?” I quietly ask.

Grandma exhales a heavy breath, finally meeting my gaze. “No. No, I don’t blame her. We are all confused, hurt, and we’re going to deal with our grief in our own ways.”

“I guess we’ll talk about the funeral in a few weeks. But what about Draven? What should we do about him, or whoever we’ve potentially pissed off by banishing him?”

Grandma’s eyes slip to the cucumber sandwiches. “One problem at a time, dear.”

“Grandma, we can’t just ignore this. There’s going to be retaliation and we can’t be unprepared like we were this time. We almost lost Noah—” my voice breaks at just the thought of him. Of the person I wish were here, who hasn’t spoken to me since he walked out. “—that way.”

I understand her hesitation, her need for a break. God, if I could lie in bed crying for the next year, I would. But I won’t risk losing any more of my family. If it’s up to me to lead the charge, then that’s what it is.

“I understand. Can we please just have a moment, wait until we can discuss the funeral with Laura? And then we will address Draven. Please?”

Her voice cracks in such an un-Grandma way over the word ‘please’ that the refusal dies on my tongue. “Okay. We’ll wait a little bit longer.”

She nods. “I’ll go make some lunch.” With that, she’s up.

I haven’t been in the living room for what feels like ages—I’ve been purposely avoiding it since I moved back in—but has really only been two months, and the family portrait still hangs.

I haven’t thought about it since I left. I don’t know why I would expect a painting to change, but it’s the same. Grandma sits in her high-backed, royal-purple armchair, with Mom and I standing behind her. Laura sits on the floor with her playful, youthful gaze.

It’s Mom I can’t look away from. The joke was always that Laura was Mom’s clone—Mom looks like just an older, brunette Laura—and that I was Dad’s. It’s not until this moment that I truly notice just how similar they appear. Same gentle waves, despite the difference in hair color itself, same golden honey-brown eyes. Even their noses are the same.

“I miss her, too,” Grandma says, quietly coming up behind me.

I wipe my face—and the tears I didn’t realize were even falling—before facing her. “Our relationship was complicated.”

“When people leave us with much left unsaid, it can feel as if we will never get closure. So, we must create that closure for ourselves, whatever that looks like for you. When your mother’s father left...” She pauses for a breath. “I wrote him a letter. I never sent it, but I said what I needed to say. That, and time, has helped.”

I smile, the only response I can give. I’m terrified that if I open my mouth, I’ll sob, and I won’t be able to stop. I’ve kept a lid on whatever shit I’ve been feeling, and I have to keep it up.

For Laura.

She needs me to be the strong one—hell, so does Grandma. I don’t have time to break down, and I won’t.

Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll convince myself.

Chapter 36

Blinking

Later that evening, I’m staring at my desk. Grandma left a small, brown leather notebook there for me to write a letter to my mother. Writing has never been my outlet though—it’s art. I wouldn’t even know how to write anything.

Noah would. Noah would have the perfect words. Maybe that’s why it was so weird that he wouldn’t even speak to me. Noah wants to talk about everything and anything, and I would listen for hours if he let me.

Stop it, Hazel. You’re just torturing yourself.

I need to sketch, paint, do something. Grandma’s spell placed all my things from the apartment back perfectly, without me having to touch anything. Too perfectly, since my desk was still messy. Could’ve used some organization in that spell. I rummage through the drawers and find a dusty sketchbook. It’s halfway filled with little creatures and cartoons I drew in high school.

Just going to flip on past that embarrassment.

I reach an empty page, grab my stupidly expensive colored pencils, and lie against the pillows.

I’m past the point of no return before I even realize what I’m drawing. Noah’s eyes. Brown-black, with the little star ofgreen in the right eye. His bushy eyebrows hang above like furry curtains. Before I even knew him, I knew exactly what his eyes looked like. I knew every little detail of them. Every fleck of color. I spent hours of my life drawing them and I know somewhere deep in my broken-ass heart that I’ll continue no matter what he decides.

“I miss you,” I whisper to the eyes.