Page 29 of Witchy Woman

My eyes lazily scan for the words ‘fire’ and ‘flame,’ but I’m not seeing much. Other than Elizabeth, the start of our line, being burned at the fucking stake.

Talk about yikes.

My thoughts stray to Ash, as they usually do when I’m not otherwise occupied. To his face when I told him I didn’t want him. To his determination to respect my boundaries even though he doesn’t understand them.

To how lonely he must feel with his dad being sick. My heart aches at the thought.

Without much control over my actions, I pull out my phone.

Laura: Are you okay?

I’m not sure what makes me ask it, but I need to know that he’s not alone in his home thinking about how he doesn’t have anyone to talk to. Which is ridiculous. I finally got exactly what I wanted—space from my soulmate so I can keep him safe. And now I’m undoing all that hard work.

Ugh, can I unsend that?

My phone buzzes. I take a beat to prepare for whatever he’s going to say, to deep breathe. To meditate like Grandma taught me.

Fuck this.

Hulking Brute: Dad had a bad day today.

I hold the phone to my chest, trying to alleviate the ache. I don’t even know Ash’s dad, but I hate hearing that he had a bad day. I hate knowing Ash has to deal with this.

All I want is to find him and hug him.

How am I supposed to navigate this? How am I supposed to know what the right thing to do is?

I’m trying to protect him, I’m trying to give him the chance to find a life that isn’t as dangerous as the one I unfortunately live. I’m trying to give him what he deserves.

Why does it seem like the more I get to know him, the more I don’t know what I’m doing after all?

Laura: Meet at our spot just before sunrise?

Good God, we have a spot.

Hulking Brute: Thanks, Goldilocks. I’ll see you then.

I just hope I don’t regret it.

Winter may bemy favorite season. Lord knows why, though, considering it’s fucking cold as a witch’s tit out here.

But I can’t deny the almost lonely beauty of a blanket of snow over a world undisturbed. The trees wait helplessly for the cold to fade away so they can bloom once more, while we all huddle inside in our warm blankets and body heat.

I pull up to the parking lot in my pink Prius—notthe Pink Puke Mobile as Hazel calls it—to find Ash’s behemoth of a truck already waiting. I’m not surprised, honestly, he seems the punctual type.

At my approach, he hops out of the car and my heart leaps similarly into my throat. He’s beautiful, as usual, all wrapped up in layers of jackets that only highlight how broad he is.

But it isn’t his beauty that captures my attention, it’s his face. The sadness there. It’s the sadness that pulls me out of my car and into his space.

We don’t speak, but I can see the tension in his shoulders and the stress in the furrow of his brow. His smile in greeting is weak, it doesn’t reach his eyes. Doesn’t hold the same teasing lightness it usually does.

My body aches from the pain he’s radiating. It’s heartbreaking.

I follow him through the trees to our spot in the clearing with the view of the impending sunrise. It hasn’t begun yet, but light tickles the tops of the trees.

I breathe deeply. “Is he okay?”

He nods, eyes trained ahead. “He’s okay. Sometimes I swear the chemo makes him sicker than anything the cancer was doing to him.”