Page 131 of Love Spells: And Other Non-Refundable Magic

Rose gets two bowls without me asking whether she’s eating some, too, which I suppose answers that question.

“I think I always thought wanting something was the easy part,” I say while I scrape pasta into the bowls. “Like you want something, and then the difficult part is figuring out how to get it.”

“That seems normal.”

“Right? Except apparently I have an entire process set up by myself before I’m allowed to want anything.”

Rose laughs.

“I’m serious.”

“I know. That’s why it’s funny.” My sister leans against the opposite counter. “I don’t see you as a person who doesn’t know what she wants,” she says, looking at one of the bowls of pasta moving in circles inside my tiny microwave. “I really think you know, but you don’t trust yourself until you have all the supporting evidence, and sometimes it’s too late and the moment passes.”

The microwave hums, and I look at her. She shrugs, suddenly interested in a loose thread on her sleeve.

“You’ve always been like that and, yes, it’s safe. You own a house and you have a successful career. But at what cost, Merry?”

I want to argue with her. Instead, I think about how much time I’ve spent over the past two months collecting evidence. I kept gathering it, turning every coincidence around in my hands, trying to determine what it meant and whether the universe was attempting to tell me something.

The ridiculous thing is that the clearest moments haven’t required any interpretation at all.

I wanted Flora to kiss me. I wanted to see her again. I wanted her in my house.

Today, I wanted the job Phillip described.

Every time I’ve known what I wanted, the knowing itself has been almost embarrassingly quiet.

The microwave beeps.

“So what happens if the evidence is wrong?” I ask.

Rose looks at me. “What evidence?”

“Any of it. What if you decide you want something and then it turns out to be a terrible idea?”

“Then it was a terrible idea. I’ve had my share of those.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

“Of course it bothers me.”

She says it so simply that I almost laugh.

“You make decisions like you’re not afraid of anything.”

“No,” she says as she takes out her bowl of food from the microwave. “I make decisions knowing I might regret them.”

There’s a difference there that I don’t particularly enjoy.

“I don’t know, Merry,” she continues. “You act like there’s some version of your life where you make all the correct choices and then nothing bad happens to you.”

“That would be ideal.”

“Sure. Let me know when you find it.”

She takes a fork from the drawer and heads back to the living room. I follow with my own dinner.

Aurora has reclaimed the center cushion of the couch, which forces both of us to sit around her. Rose turns the television on, and for a while we eat without talking.