By Magic Alone

by Tracy Madison

  Scot drives halfway down the road before remembering he left his jacket here. He turns his SUV around and comes back, knocks on my door, and when I open it . . . he drags me into his arms, holds me tight, and then . . . then he kisses me.

  A slow, deep, engulfing warmth encased my fingers and spread over my skin. The air thickened with the arid stillness that occurs right before a summer storm rolls in, with its flashes of lightning, knives of rain, and shouts of thunder. I gripped the pen tighter and the writing in the journal blurred enough that my wish—fantasy?—became an illegible mess of blue ink.

  I inhaled weighted air though my nose, exhaled through my mouth. I did this over and over until the constricting pressure surrounding me evened off and then finally lightened. Dizzy, I dropped the pen and the book and struggled to stand.

  Wine. That’s all it was. Too much wine.

  I stumbled toward the bedroom on wobbly legs, but only made it a few steps when a reverberating knock echoed through my apartment. No. It couldn’t be. But I knew. I knew in a way I’d never known any other thing at any other time ever.

  Still, I pretended that I didn’t. Because acknowledging that would have been too damn much. I told myself that my visitor was Kara or Leslie. Or both. I told myself that someone in my building had ordered food and the delivery guy was at the wrong place. I told myself that the neighbor down the hall had locked himself out and needed to use my phone to call the landlord or the maintenance guy. And I kept telling myself these things as I approached the door, as I unlocked the door, and yep, even as I swung it open.

  “Sorry, Julia,” Scot said. “I remembered you had my jacket and—”

  I grabbed his sweater and pulled him inside. His arms came around me and he yanked me against him tight. Hard. The second before his lips touched mine, he whispered, “Yeah. Crazy amounts of trouble.”

  Chapter Nine

  I dumped two Extra Strength Tylenol capsules into my palm, swallowed them with a glass of water, and then, without a flicker of hesitation, followed those up with two more.

  After the kiss, which could also be described as the stupidest moment of my life, Scot and I had jumped apart as if the fires of hell and damnation were licking at our ankles. Well, okay. That was how I felt. Scot’s polite but quick-footed departure didn’t necessarily mean his thoughts were on a par with mine.

  He’d kissed me in such a way that my toes curled, and the flower of attraction—probably a damn rose—finished unfurling its stupid, fluttery petals, and the icicle that had begun to melt in Scot’s car last night became a messy, watery puddle. He might have left because our kiss had given him a stomachache and he hadn’t wanted to toss his cookies in front of me. Perhaps he’d recalled Verda’s dinner-table pronouncement of our someday three boys and had escaped before we went on to create number one. Or, I supposed, there was always the chance he’d become filled with so much desire for a wine-saturated woman that he had to get away before he acted on his lust.

  I doubted it was the last one. My guess was on one, two, or the fires of hell and damnation. Or all three, for that matter.

  Whatever the case, we’d kissed, he’d left, and I spent the remainder of the night trapped in the repetitive motions of staring at the journal, gazing off into space, and touching my lips in disbelief and surprised pleasure. That is, until the swift and heavy hand of guilt squeezed my insides to such a degree that I was fairly sure I’d be the one tossing her cookies. At some point, alcohol and the conflicting tide of emotions forced me to get in a few hours of sleep.

  Waking up in yesterday’s clothes with a headache and that rumble of uneasiness that brought about a shot of nausea was not something I’d experienced often, and up until the other day hadn’t happened since college. I took a scalding hot shower, scrubbed myself with gobs of cherry-blossom-scented body wash, used my ultraexpensive, so-thick-it-was-like-butter conditioner on my hair—hair that Scot had decreed beautiful—and meticulously shaved my legs and underarms. I toweled off and rubbed moisturizer—also cherry blossom scented—into every inch of my skin. It wasn’t until I’d wrapped an oversized towel around me and had taken tweezers to my eyebrows that I realized what I was doing.

  I was primping.

  Beautifying myself in the way a woman does when she expects a man will see her buck naked. When she expects a man’s hands—and, uh, other parts—to be on her body.

  “Holy hell,” I muttered. The tweezers fell into the sink with a soft clank. I glared at my reflection in the mirror as if it—I-— weren’t any better than a wanton whore. This was wrong on so many levels. Scot was taken. Oh, okay, he wasn’t taken taken. But to Leslie, he was hers. And that meant he was hands-off. Completely, irrevocably, until-the-end-of-time hands-off. Even if nothing ever occurred between Scot and Leslie again, he was untouchable.

  But God, I so wanted to touch him.

  Especially those smiley-face freckles. They were begging to be touched. Caressed. Tickled. Licked.

  “Stop,” I told my reflection in a firm, no-nonsense tone. “Even if Leslie weren’t an issue—but she is!—the most you can ever have with Scot is meaningless sex. Steaming-hot, make-your-toes-curl sex, probably, but . . . No! He’s not right for you. You are not right for him. So stop!”

  Unfortunately, my strict chiding didn’t halt the sudden image of my legs wrapped around Scot’s naked torso with the bedsheets tangled between us. It didn’t detract from the very real fact that sex—meaningless or otherwise—sounded pretty damn great. And it also didn’t stop me from noticing that I had one perfectly plucked eyebrow and one that resembled a curled-up caterpillar. Okay, a baby caterpillar, and there certainly wasn’t any unibrow stuff happening, but in direct comparison with the other brow? Not attractive.

  “Okay.” I picked up the tweezers and waved them in front of the mirror. “You can pluck. But no more primping!”

  “You like Scot?” Kara’s startled voice hit from the side of me, from the hallway outside the open bathroom door. “Are you serious?”

  I dropped the tweezers again, my heart in my mouth. “Shit, Kara. How long have you been standing there?” Maybe I was going to have to rethink this whole sharing-keys-with-my-friends thing.

  “I was in the living room and heard you talking. I thought you knew I was here . . . and yeah, Julia, ‘shit’ about sums it up. What’s going on?”

  Pulling my towel tighter, I turned. “Is Leslie here?”

  Kara crossed her arms over her chest. “No. She’s working today. Some big case they just got.”

  “Oh.” I wheezed. “Okay. That’s good.”

  “Doesn’t mean I’m not going to fill her in.” Confusion streamed into Kara’s green eyes. “Damn, Julia. This is huge. You seriously like Scot?”

  “I—I don’t know. Maybe?” This was all so new. Hell, less than three days since bizarro world started. I was still trying to catch up. “I haven’t actually . . . um . . . decided that for sure.”

  “Oh-kay. Why don’t you give it some more thought while you get dressed? I’ll be in the living room.” Kara didn’t say anything more, just left me alone.

  Fuck, right? I backed up to the edge of the tub and sat down. I gave myself a couple of minutes to pull my ragged emotions together. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe once Kara told Leslie—because she would—Leslie would let me out of this agreement. And yeah, she’d be ticked. No doubt about that. But as long as the impossible didn’t happen—like falling head over heels for Scot—she’d get over it. At least I hoped she would.

  Then I’d just have to go through the motions for the next couple of weeks until Scot decided our pretend relationship had run its course. It wouldn’t be that bad. Then I’d be able to carry on as normal. Focus on my real life again: trying to keep Introductions afloat, meeting my parents once a week for dinner, hanging out with my friends here and there. Reasonable. Logical. Sound. The proper way to proceed.

  But the quick burst of disappointment that sank in was not reasonable. The craving to kiss Scot
again couldn’t be described as logical. And the sudden wish that Verda was right, that Scot and I were somehow meant to be together, wasn’t sound in the least. For many, many reasons.

  I sidled out of the bathroom without looking into the living room. Safely in my bedroom, I closed the door for privacy and threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. My gaze landed on the journal, which I’d brought in this morning. It sat on my nightstand. I’d pretty much decided that last night’s hastily scrawled entry and Scot’s abrupt arrival at my door were nothing more than weird coincidences. Because thinking it was magic that had propelled him to return wasn’t only idiotic, it was . . . well, nuts. He’d left his jacket here. He came back to get it. I was tipsy and threw myself at him, we kissed. That simple. But a tiny, infuriating voice in my head reminded me of the numerous things I’d written off to coincidence over the last few days. Maybe too many?

  “Let’s prove it once and for all.” I rifled through my nightstand’s top drawer to find a pen, picked up the journal, and without any hesitation at all, flipped to a clean page. What should I wish for?

  “I wish Kara hadn’t let herself in and heard what she heard,” I whispered. Yeah. Perfect. I wrote the words and waited. Nothing happened, so I underlined the sentence and thought the wish again. Still nothing. Hm. Maybe the eerie stuff only happened with the first wish.

  I eased my bedroom door open a crack and peered out. Nope. I could just make out the edge of Kara’s shoulder. So she was still here, last night had been a coincidence, and that was that. The barest twinge of regret settled inside.

  Unless . . . I chewed on the end of the pen. If the journal really had the power to grant wishes, maybe changing events that had already occurred was impossible. So focusing on the future, on events that hadn’t yet happened, might be the best way to go. Excitement replaced the regret. This made sense. Otherwise—wow—think of the havoc I could create with history.

  I bit my lip and wrote.

  Kara agrees to keep everything she heard about Scot to herself until I work it out on my own and either tell Leslie myself or give Kara the go-ahead.

  Light-headedness hit the instant my pen stopped moving. The writing—my writing—glowed in shimmering sparkles for several seconds before returning to normal. Had that happened last night? Ugh. I couldn’t recall. Again, though, the air grew in weight and volume, shifting and pulsating against me, drawing painful attention to every breath I drew in and out of my lungs.

  No wine today. Inebriation wasn’t to blame for the warmth suffusing my body or for the rapid goose bumps coursing along my skin. I was wide-awake, alert, and more than a little awestruck. I swallowed, gripped my hands into fists, and used the same breathing technique that had gotten me through before.

  When the effects subsided, I closed the journal and tucked it into my nightstand drawer. Standing, I slicked my damp palms down my pants. I ignored the twisting in my stomach. I ignored the way my hands trembled. Kara was waiting. I’d flip out later. “This is it, Verda,” I said. “Let’s see if you know what you’re talking about.”

  I found Kara on the sofa. She had one leg crossed over the other and was bobbing it up and down as if she were a battery-operated mechanism set on high speed. She planted her gaze on me and kept it there while I slid into the chair across from her.

  “I’ve been trying to decide if I should cheer and congratulate you or be pissed and scream at you.” Her tone was soft, tense, and bewildered all at once. “You’re Leslie’s friend. Why’d you agree to help her with Scot if you like him?”

  “Because she is my friend. And I never said that I like Scot,” I pointed out, grasping on to the truth, even if it hung on a technicality. A slim one at that. “I said maybe. Maybe I like him. I don’t know how I feel, Kara.”

  “You expect me to buy that? You either like a guy that way or you don’t.”

  “I’m stupid, then.” I joined her in the leg-bobbing tournament. “And it isn’t as if I have a ton of experience in this area.”

  Her mouth formed an O. “That’s right. You’ve dated, but you haven’t actually fallen for a guy since Ricky Luca, have you?”

  “I was twelve. I don’t think that counts.”

  She snickered. “It counts, all right. But—” My glare made her rethink her words. “Okay, then. You don’t have much one-on-one practice with guys that make you . . . um . . . get all hot and bothered. Wow, Julia. You’re probably megaconfused, huh?”

  “Exactly. Yes!” I nearly shouted, pleased she understood. Not that being clueless about men at the age of thirty-three was something to cheer about, especially when the clueless woman owned a dating service. Er . . . a failing dating service. Sheesh. “Have you gone through this?”

  Kara sucked in her cheeks. Probably to keep from laughing. “Of course I have. The first time was when I was thirteen. Maybe fourteen? A wicked long time ago.”

  “Can we drop teenage love from the conversation? I’m an adult, not some gooey-eyed girl with a crush on the football captain.”

  “Oh, sweetie. The feelings are the same, no matter how old you are. The way we deal with the feelings might change with experience, but—”

  “Do you have any advice?” I interjected. “Because I’m drowning fast.”

  Her eyelashes dipped in a slow, puzzled blink. In the length of our friendship, I’d always served in the counselor role. “You’re asking me for guidance?”

  “Yes.” My request was sincere. Whether the journal proved to be magical or not didn’t alter the fact that I was sinking in emotional quicksand. “Please.”

  Kara’s leg ceased bobbing. “When you look at him, do your knees turn to Jell-O?”

  “Jell-O?”

  “Uh-huh. You know, ’Watch it wiggle, see it jiggle, Jell-O brand gelatin,’” she sang in an upbeat voice. “Do your knees wiggle and jiggle?”

  “I know what Jell-O is,” I said. “And isn’t it ‘watch it jiggle, see it wiggle’?” Okay, and that mattered why? “Never mind. To answer your question, yes. Sort of. Maybe more like jelly. Not quite as wiggly as Jell-O.”

  Her lips twitched, but she nodded. “And when you’re near him—like smelling distance near him—does your heart go all shaky and fast?”

  Fuck. “Sort of. Maybe. Fluttery?”

  More mouth twitching ensued. “Do you find certain parts of his body utterly irresistible?”

  “Sexual attraction doesn’t mean I like him!”

  “Answer the question, Julia.”

  “Do freckles count? Smiley-face freckles, in particular?” I winced as soon as the ridiculous question left my mouth. “Don’t answer that.”

  “Oh, honey. Freckles?” Kara gave me a look filled with amused pity.

  “All those questions prove is that I think Scot is sexy. I thought the same thing when he and Leslie dated. Nothing new there,” I admitted in a rush. “So that doesn’t help me at all.”

  “This so blows.” Kara sighed. “I’d be ecstatic if it weren’t for Leslie. I’ve waited for this to happen to you. You deserve to have a crazy, heart-pumping, fairy-tale relationship once in your life. Every woman does.”

  “This isn’t a relationship! And I said nothing about fairy tales or . . . or . . .”

  “But it could be. Look, the reason I popped in this morning was to talk to you about this. Leslie gave me the entire scoop last night.” Kara hesitated and gnawed on her lip. “Convincing Scot to give them another go-around is such a bad idea. Do you know what it was like when she was dating Scot?”

  “She liked him. A lot. But couldn’t deal with his blue-collar trade.” Scot worked in construction. That was about all I knew. “So you two went out one night and she hooked up with someone else.”

  “Yeah, but even before that—” Kara shook her head, interrupting herself. “She was always saying how things weren’t going to go anywhere with them. That he was looking for a certain type of woman and she wasn’t it. But she wanted to be that woman, so she tried. She wasn’t herself with him.”

/>   This was a front-page bulletin. “In what way?”

  “He wants kids. You know Leslie doesn’t, but she told him she did. He’s a major Cubs fan and Leslie hates baseball, but she pretended she loves the sport. Literally, everything he likes that she doesn’t, she said she did.”

  Oh, dear God. “But Leslie despises fake people.”

  “I know! Don’t you see? She shouldn’t be with any guy she can’t be herself with, and she isn’t herself with Scot.” Kara frowned. “And sorry, but the cheating thing isn’t cool. And if she really fell for a guy, I don’t believe she’d cheat. So I wanted you to talk her out of this. She listens to you more than she does me. But if you like Scot, then you can’t. Because she’ll think that’s why, and it will turn into a huge thing.”

  “I don’t know if I—” I breathed in deeply. “Doesn’t matter. Nothing is going to come of whatever is going on with Scot, so quit worrying about that. I can handle Leslie. I can handle Scot.” Well, I hoped so, anyway.

  “She has the right to have this information. If you don’t tell her, everything will be worse later.” Kara’s shoulders slumped forward. “I don’t see her with Scot, but she’s my friend.”

  I understood. Kara believed in the sisterhood of friendship: total honesty, total trust, total acceptance. Usually, we were on the same page. “I will if there’s anything to tell. But for now, I need you to keep this between us. Let me work this out, Kara. Please?”

  Her face scrunched up. “Don’t ask me to do that.”

  “Just for a little while. Until . . . well, until I have the chance to get a grip.”

  “I can’t.” She stared at her toes. “If it were you, I’d feel the same.”

  Huh. Not magical, then. A new surge of disappointment gathered in my gut, which was dumb. In a brisk voice, I said, “Fine, Kara. I get it. I do. I’ll figure out how to tell her tonight.”

  Relief erased Kara’s frown. “Good. It will be hard, but it’s better if it comes from you. And maybe she’ll react okay. Maybe she’ll give you her blessing.”