Page 10 of Love Spells: And Other Non-Refundable Magic
“When are you going to admit that’s your real job?”
“When it starts paying the mortgage.”
“It almost does.”
“Almost is carrying a lot of weight.”
She doesn’t answer immediately. I hear the rustle of more fabric, another towel being folded.
“I have a date tomorrow.”
I sigh, because I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but I already know where this is going. It’s a cycle that keeps repeating, over and over again. She gets interested in someone, then tries really hard, then she gets disappointed and hurt.
“He seems nice,” she adds, walking into the kitchen. I’m facing the counter, completely avoiding her. I know she’ll be able to see the disapproval on my face. “He’s a history teacher in Bellevue.”
My mother studies me for a moment.
“You know,” she finally says, dropping a tea bag into her to-go mug and turning on the kettle, “you’re the only person I know who sells love spells while sounding disillusioned by the entire concept.”
“Oh, so you know other online witches?”
“Flora.”
“I don’t sell love, Mom.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I sell rituals.”
She waves one hand. “Same thing.”
“They are not remotely the same thing—”
”They are to your customers,” she interrupts. “Who almost pay your mortgage.”
I grab an empanada and take an impossibly large bite, because I want to avoid speaking entirely. She waits, ever so patient, although I can tell she’s annoyed at my cynicism.
“The ritual isn’t the point,” I say finally, setting the food down and looking at her. “And you know that magic isn’t real.”
“Then what is?”
“People don’t usually know what they want,” I reply. “Besides, my store lets people believe whatever helps them become a little kinder to themselves.”
She is quiet for a long time, moving around the kitchen putting things that don’t need to be moved into places they most definitely don’t go, but it gives her something to do with her busy hands and her busy brain.
“You know what I think?” She turns to face me and leans against the counter, crossing her arms.
“You’re going to tell me anyway.”
“I think you’re very good at helping strangers believe they deserve love.”
I wonder if I’d believe it more if I weren’t so determined to never become the type of woman waiting around for another person to complete her. And it’s ironic, really, considering I’ve spent the past few years avoiding relationships with women before they have the chance to become the center of my universe.
I already did that with Alison. By the time our relationship imploded two years ago, I’d built so much of my life around her that losing her meant losing almost everything else along with it. Moving back in with Mamá was only part of it.
She reaches over and squeezes my arm. “I just wish you believed it about yourself, too.”
Her words settle in the air between us, hanging heavy and with more tension that I’m willing to cut through.
