Page 71 of Witchy Woman

“You okay?” he whispers into my hair.

I nod. I am now.

He places a big, clunky bag under the tree that I literally didn’t realize he was holding and wraps himself around me again.

“Is that all for me?” I ask, blinking up at him from beneath lowered lashes.

His chuckle is deep, rumbling from the center of his chest. “Of course it is. And then your big present is at home.”

My heart flutters. “Home, huh?”

He kisses my forehead, drawing me to the couch and snuggling me up to his side. Everything is okay as long as Ash is here.

Soon enough,Noah arrives and the house is full of chattering and laughter—something I haven’t heard since my father died. Hazel, Grandma, and I certainly had our moments, but not enough that the house laughed along with us.

Not enough that the joy soaked into the walls, making the lights brighter and the house warmer.

It’s something I didn’t realize we were missing until I finally had it.

The house is alive and so are we, despite Mom’s absence.

Ash and Noah are in the middle of some lively discussion about something called Warhammer? I couldn’t tell you whatthe fuck it is, but apparently Hazel commissioned Ash to make some minis for Noah when he wouldn’t talk to her. And that apparently made Ash look into it and he’s all obsessed and asking Noah fifty thousand questions.

Nerds.

It’s oddly reassuring that they like each other so much. Like just another piece of our family puzzle has clicked into place now that Mom is gone.

What an awful thing to think, but it’s true. It’s never been more obvious just how much she was holding us all back from having connections and love.

Her selfishness has never been so painfully laid out.

And yet, I can’t help but feel guilty. I can feel it gnawing at me. What kind of daughter thinks this kind of thing? Especially after I read her letter and found that she sacrificed herself specifically to prevent Hazel from turning into the shell of a person Mom became.

I shake my head. I can’t do anything to help her right this second.

Instead of continuing to wallow, my fingers trail along the cool side of the sewing machine my sister got me.

Pink.

I huff. I can’t really be mad at her for it. I think having Ash’s focus entirely on me has spoiled me. Set expectations that my family should know me better than they do, better than I allow them.

“Hazel spent a lot of time trying to find one that color,” Noah says, turning from the conversation with Ash.

Hello, crushing guilt, how are you today?

“That was very sweet of her,” I reply. It’s neutral, but honest. I don’t want to lie anymore.

“Pinkisyour favorite, right?” he continues, cocking his head. Noah is perceptive, too perceptive.

Ash leans back with that shit-eating grin on his face that I know spells trouble. “Nope. Her favorite is red.”

I pluck at one of the ridiculous fake feathers on my dressing gown.

A shadow falls over my shoulder.

“Hey, baby,” Noah says, eyes locked on the space above that shoulder. Hazel.

“Hey,” she replies. The guilt in that one word is almost overwhelming. I don’t even have to look at her face to know that she’s beating herself up for not knowing her own sister’s favorite color.