Page 125 of Love Spells: And Other Non-Refundable Magic

“That sounds like a personal decision, Mags.”

She smiles and stands to hug me.

We’ve been doing that again, too.

There was a stretch of time when I couldn’t remember whether Maggie and I had ever been people who hugged hello, or whether that was something I’d invented because I missed how uncomplicated our friendship used to be. Now I don’t think about it until her arms are already around me, and by the time we sit down, she’s complaining about her coworker Kevin as if there hadn’t been a time when we had to search for safe things to talk about.

I listen while we order, and then she tells me about another coworker—also named Kevin—who has decided that every meeting requires a pre-meeting and every pre-meeting requires a document no one will read.

Somewhere between coffee and food, she asks about The Spindle.

I tell her Luis has started hiding the good pastries behind the counter before the afternoon rush because he claims the staff deserves “first right of refusal since we’re being exploited for the benefit of humanity’s good mood.”

Maggie laughs. “You seem good.”

The comment is quiet enough that I almost miss it.

“I am.”

She takes another drink of coffee, and for a few seconds I think that’s all she’s going to say. Then she adds, “You’ve been around more.”

I look at her. “I’ve always been around.”

“Flora.” She takes a deep breath. We haven’t talked about it. And in the past few months since we’ve started working through this repair, we’ve only skirted around the topic. “I don’t mean physically.”

There’s no accusation in it, which somehow makes me more aware of what she’s saying. Maggie traces one finger through the condensation on her water glass.

“I love that you text me first sometimes.” The corner of Maggie’s mouth lifts, and I wonder if she’s remembering the multiple consecutive messages I sent her last week about the lady who wanted a cappuccino with no foam, but insisted a latte was not what she ordered. “It’s nice. That’s all.”

I look down at my plate.

There are a dozen responses available to me, most of them designed to make the observation smaller than it feels. I could tell her she’s being dramatic, or I could point out that asking someone to brunch is hardly evidence of profound personal growth.

Instead, I let the comment stay where she put it. “It’s nice for me, too.”

Something softens in her expression. Then she steals a potato from my plate, and the moment passes.

After brunch, we walk without deciding where we’re going. The temperature has dropped enough that Seattle is feeling more like winter than fall, and the sidewalks are slick with leaves that have gone dark from the rain. Maggie keeps stopping to look through closed boutique windows, so what should be a ten-minute walk stretches into half an hour.

“Oh,” Maggie says, stopping beside me.

I turn.

Merry is coming out of a bookstore across the street with Rose next to her. I recognize her before I register anything else, which has started happening often enough that it doesn’t surprise me anymore.

She’s wearing a pale coat and carrying a paper bag against her chest while she talks to Rose, and even from across the street I can see that she’s in the middle of a story because her free hand keeps moving as she speaks.

Then she looks up, and her entire expression changes.

It’s subtle enough that I might not have noticed it a few weeks ago. Her eyes widen slightly before her mouth curves, like recognizing me happens first and the smile follows a second later.

I notice things like that now.

Maggie makes a quiet sound beside me. “Sleeping Beauty looks happy to see you.”

I give her a look, but Merry is already crossing toward us with Rose following a few steps behind.

“Hi.”