Page 62 of Love Spells: And Other Non-Refundable Magic

“Get out.”

He doesn’t, obviously.

For the next few minutes, he stays exactly where he is while I work, occasionally offering opinions about a bracelet he has no idea how to make. He calls me a fake witch, then fills the silence with a story about how he told his fraternity brothers that spreading salt outside their bedroom doors during the full moon would attract women, only to wake up the next morning and discover the hallway lined with salt and several very hopeful twenty-year-old men. He tries—and fails—to argue that this is irrefutable proof that witchcraft is real and that he deserves a percentage of my profits.

By the time his flowery stories are done, so am I.

I hold the bracelet up between us, checking the spacing one last time before tying off the elastic and trimming the ends. The aventurine looks good with the silver, and the little crescent sits neatly at the center.

“Done.”

Fausto takes it from me carefully, turning it over in his hand before his face breaks into a smile. “She’s going to love it.”

He slides the bracelet into one of the small cotton bags I use for orders and he thanks me with a kiss to the top of my head that I tolerate only because he’s already walking away by the time I can complain.

“Tell Maggie about drinks!” he yells as he walks out into the hallway and to the front door. “I love you!”

His laugh carries down the hallways, followed by the sound of the front door slamming like it usually does when he’s around.

My phone pings beside me.

Primavera1959

2. I want people to ask what I think

Another message appears while I’m reading.

3. I want good sex again

And then, a few seconds later:

4. I want to stop feeling like I’m behind.

I’m stuck on five.

I look at the message for a moment, then turn my phone face down.

I still have fourteen orders to pack.

CHAPTER 18

MERRYWEATHER

We arrive at the party after nearly four hours of me watching my friends get ready for it.

My costume only required approximately twelve minutes and a strong intake of air so that it would zip up. But Veronica had declared that getting ready together was half the point, which meant I spent most of my afternoon at her apartment drinking wine coolers while Dani sat cross-legged on the bathroom counter doing her eyeliner and Veronica rejected three different lipsticks before circling back to the first one.

Four hours.

And now we’re standing in the living room of a house so aggressively bland that I am almost offended on behalf of all the effort we put in.

There are gray walls. A gray couch. A television large enough I’m sure people have to tilt their heads back to be able to watch the whole image on it. The framed poster above the couch looks like it could be art or also a map of a national park? The coffee table contains exactly three objects: a remote control—for said giant TV, I assume—a bottle opener, and a candle that has never been lit before.

“I guarantee you there’s a mattress on the floor somewhere in this townhome,” I say.

Veronica takes a slow look around. “Oh, absolutely.”

“You don’t know that,” Dani says, rolling her eyes and walking farther into the party.