Page 88 of Vengefully Matched

“Oh,” he said. “No problem. Is your friend okay?” His eyebrows were enormous; they crinkled in worry.

“I hope so,” she said, cracking her knuckles and flexing her fingers. “Thanks anyway.”

The woman at the laptop waved. “I hope you find your friend,” she said, returning to whatever was on her screen that made her type so furiously, and then pausing to give the man a smile and a wink, which he returned.

“Butt cheek jiggle,” shrieked one of the children. Priscilla was glad to live in a world where the people who found such things charming, or the very least, tolerable, had children, and then people who didn’t could choose not to.

“Thank you,” said Priscilla softly, stepping backward as the man closed the door to the chaos within.

The next few cabins were similar: a few clearly empty, unrented; a few with families in various states of disarray; and one with a group of college kids, alarmingly drunk for 7 p.m., but not appearing to have any intentions of going out, so she couldn’t really fault them for it.

When she got to a little cabin with a sign that said THE SHIRE, she thought for sure this would be it. Other than the sign, it was not built like a hobbit hole; it looked like an A-frame that fit the description from Connie, same as the others.

A shiver of hope slipped down her spine, a hope she wanted to trust was magic, and not just the fact that there were no little dogs or any other giveaways that this was a family vacation.

She knocked on the door.

“Get that,” shouted someone, sounding distressed, and Priscilla raised her fingers, poised to snap if needed.

A long-haired man with a shaggy, ill-trimmed beard answered the door. His eyes were haggard, and he was standing, arms crossed. Peeking from behind him was a brown-haired woman, eyes red from crying, still pretty in that slightly puffy, soul-crushing kind of way.

“What can I do for you?” He asked it as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He slouched, hunching forward, slicing a few inches off his still-imposing frame. She had interrupted something. What she saw in front of her made her glad that she hadn’t swallowed her reservations and married Evelyn to save face.

It felt, once again, like coming up for water, realizing that she could trust her instincts for telling her when to run and when to dig in her heels and fight. The mixture of relief at the closure of her failed engagement and panic at the prospect that she might fail Agatha, too, if she wasn’t quick enough warred in her chest.

“I’m looking for my friend,” she began tentatively. This wasn’t the cabin. The woman burst into tears. “Are you all right?” she offered awkwardly.

“No,” said the woman, miserable. And then, to the man, “You said you wouldn’t. You promised. You said you’d never.” He shut his eyes.

“I didn’t think I would,” he said. Then, turning to Priscilla, “It’s just us here.”

“I’m fine,” mumbled the woman. She returned to her crying, head in her hands, and the man just stood there, looking awkward.

“Good luck,” she shot out nervously, turning and sprinting back to the hearse.

She was glad, once again, that she had found the courage to say what she wanted before it got to something like this. And terrified at the prospect that loving someone again, letting someone in, could potentially put her in the middle of a devastating breakup like this one day, but that fear had to be worth overcoming. She would find Agatha and take her chances.

Azrael’s next suggestion was a ten-minute drive away, and as she approached it, she felt it in the air. This was it.

Her heart pounded. She rapped on the door.

“Coming,” said a voice, muffled, but she knew that voice. She’d know that voice anywhere, the way it was mapped onto her brain and written in her veins now.

Agatha opened the door, wearing, of all things, jeans and a lavender plaid flannel. Priscilla froze; she’d never once in the entire time she’d known Agatha seen the woman wearing denim of any sort. The pastel was on brand, but in flannel? It was almost too much for her brain to process.

“Can I help you?” Agatha asked, just as Priscilla was about to dive in for a hug. She pivoted awkwardly, faking a stumble. There was nothing on Agatha’s face to suggest she’d been kidnapped and was now found.

Her mouth dropped open, and she waited for the punch line. For Agatha to hug her. For Agatha to recognize her. For Agatha to pull her close and run her hand against the line of Priscilla’s jaw. She worried for a moment that Agatha was angry with her, furious enough to stand there pretending not to know her, but the look on her face was puzzled. Quizzical.

“I’m sorry,” said Agatha. “Who are you?”

Her breath caught, her brain whirring to catch up to the impossibility in front of her. Agatha did not know her at all.

They had stood in uncomfortable silence for too long, but the only thing to do, the only thing at all, was to introduce herself.

“I’m Priscilla,” she offered awkwardly. Her blood ran cold. Had Agatha hit her head? Would she remember Priscilla eventually, or had Agatha been spelled to forget her entirely? What if the woman she finally knew she had all of these intense feelings for forgot everything, forgot her, just as she was about to figure her shit out? What if it was permanent?

Priscilla’s chest tightened in fear, but she tried to keep her face impassive. It wouldn’t help to frighten someone who didn’t know her anymore, even if every cell in her body was screaming out in anguish that maybe she had flown too close to the sun. Maybe she had almost been too happy, finally figuring out what she wanted for her career and for herself. Maybe people didn’t get to be happy in their jobs and in love. Maybe it was too much to ask from a universe stretched too thin.