Maxwell chuckled. She’d never seen him do that before, and the way his eyes wrinkled around the edges made her… oh. Well. Penises were funny creatures.
“How long are you in town?”
She frowned, brought back to Earth. “Not long.”
“Can I take you to dinner tonight?”
Violet wanted to dance on the table. “Definitely.”
She called Zoe as soon as she set foot back on East Bay and told her to stop all spell casting immediately.
“What? Why?”
“Because Maxwell James is taking me to dinner at Muse tonight.”
“I don’t—huh?”
“So maybe I left my house.”
“Violet, I told you not to leave the house.”
She adjusted the bag of books on her shoulder and turned down Cumberland where green palm trees glistened in afternoon sun. “I just needed to see if Maxwell would like me, and he did. He flirted with me, Zoe. It was like he really saw me.”
“He didn’t see you. He saw man you—which is what he wants, by the way, since he’s gay!”
A beautiful girl with long, brown hair winked, and Violet almost tripped off the curb at the unexpected attention. “Can you just give me one night? Tomorrow morning, back to normal, but let me just go on a date with him, please?”
The sound of a big book slamming echoed on the other side of the line. “Have you thought at all about your Coffee Boy in this scenario? You’re messing with his life.”
Violet stopped walking. “What do you mean?”
“What if the date goes really well and he really likes Man Violet? What if you break his heart? Do you want to do that to him?”
“Oh, shit, I hate when you’re right.”
Zoe sighed. “I know how much you like him, but you can’t do this, Violet. Whatever happens between you two, it’s not real. It’s a lie. Which is why we don’t do love spells.”
Violet smacked her palm against her forehead. “What was I thinking?”
“I’d say you were thinking with your dick, but that didn’t show up until this morning.”
“Yeah, speaking of…” She stepped behind a telephone pole and tugged on her jeans.
“What?”
“I think I have a hard on.”
Zoe laughed.
“Maxwell smiled at me and I got a hard on.” She groaned. “Being a man is a pain in the groin.”
“Worry not, blue balls. We’re making progress. Should be able to do the spell tonight. Who knows? You might wake up with all your junk on the inside again.”
“Thank goddess.”
Because she was an idiot, Violet didn’t get Maxwell’s phone number, so she had to go to the restaurant to tell him she couldn’t have dinner with him. Still stumbling in her too-tight sandals, she found him waiting outside the small, old plantation house known as Muse—a fancy, utterly romantic Italian restaurant.
He’d changed his outfit. The white collared shirt under the navy blue vest made his tan skin look even darker. He ran his hand through his curly, brown hair as she approached.
“Hey, Victor.”
She put her hands in her pockets and stared at the pavement. “I can’t do this.”
“Oh.” She didn’t see his face, but she heard the disappointment.
“Muse is so romantic. It’s setting the bar really high. I’m not going to be here long, so I don’t want us to get attached to each other.” She finally looked up at him. She might have been a man, but Maxwell still had a couple inches on her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
He nodded and chewed on his bottom lip. “Setting the bar really high. Well, I live a block from here. Why don’t we order a pizza and watch Chopped? Just hang out?”
She gulped. Chopped was her favorite show.
They shared a beer at Pizzeria di Giovanni while waiting for their steaming pie of pepperoni, black olives, and extra cheese. He was the first person who’d agreed with her toppings choice in years.
Maxwell lived in a happy yellow plantation house broken into condos. The place wasn’t much bigger than hers, except for the ceilings: the ceilings had to be at least fourteen feet high. His furniture was all hand-me-down cozy, as was the bookcase, as were his stacks and stacks of used books. A big poster of Marilyn Monroe decorated the kitchen.
“You’re definitely gay,” she said.
Maxwell laughed. “Uh, yeah. My interior designing is that obvious?”
“Most guys would have a picture of the Rat Pack. You’ve got Marilyn.”
“I grew up wanting to be Marilyn.” He handed Man Violet an oatmeal stout from the fridge, which stood right next to his very own in-house golden espresso machine.
Standing so close together, Violet finally learned what Maxwell smelled like—not coffee, as she expected, but aftershave with hints of cedar and smoke. His delicious scent fought for dominance in her nose over that of greasy cheese and won.
“You smell amazing.”
Maxwell covered the compliment with another blush. “Don’t you own shoes?”
Violet glanced down at her toes, slightly hairy on top. “I forgot to pack them.”
“Do you want some socks? The floors get cold in here.”
“I’m all right.” She was warm all over, and once again, her paint-spattered jeans felt too damn tight.
“Dinner. TV.” He gestured with his thumb back and forth. Together, they loaded up chipped plates with huge slices of pizza pie and sat on the couch. Maxwell turned on Netflix, which gave Violet a chance to judge his viewing habits—mostly documentaries about farming and food.
Violet took her first bite of pizza as Ted Allen introduced the contenders of Chopped. She swallowed the bite of greasy goodness. “Why are you single?”
Maxwell choked on his beer, the buttons down his chest straining as he tried to suck air.
“There must be something wrong with you.”
“Of course there is.”
Violet crossed her legs and almost pinched her penis—again. “You seem pretty perfect to me.”
Maxwell shook his head. “It’s just a façade. And since we’re not on a romantic date, we’re just hanging out, I can tell you that.”
“And what does the façade cover?”
“I’m insecure. I always date bad guys who make me crazy. I get clingy, and they leave. I don’t really know how to respond to guys who’re nice to me.”
She put her elbow on the back of the couch and turned to face him. “That’s why you blush when I compliment you.”
Maxwell rolled his eyes. “I have the worst blush.”
“I think it’s adorable.”
His gray eyes lingered on the TV. “Let me guess, you’re seeing someone in New York. You thought you’d have some fast and easy fun in Charleston but then felt bad, which is why you tried to back out of dinner.”
“I don’t have anyone in New York.” Truth. “But I can’t be with you.” Truth, too, but Maxwell made it a lie when he leaned forward and kissed her.
She moaned and threw her plate of pizza on the floor by the couch. He didn’t taste bitter or sweet, but of pizza, and Violet loved pizza. Her big hands went into his hair as she straddled his lap, rubbed against him, and—
She pulled back and took a deep breath. “Holy shit, having a penis is amazing!”
Maxwell chortled. “You’re just realizing this?”
“No. I mean, it’s nice to be reminded.” She looked back down at him, his cheeks flushed and lips wet. “We really shouldn’t keep kissing. But I really can’t stop.”
He made a muffled sound as she kept kissing him.
Then, she pulled away again. “Shit. I’ve never done this before.”
“You’re a virgin?” His hands stopped kneading her upper thighs.
“Not exactly.” She ran her hands through his hair, as soft as she’d hoped. She imagined what he might look like with a broken heart. “Maybe we should slow down. Can we just kiss tonight?”
He smiled up at Man Violet.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
She kissed the pizza flavor right out of his mouth and eventually learned he did taste sweet. Like toffee.
Violet woke with a crick in her neck and the sun in her face. She also couldn’t breathe, and there was the annoying sound of a vibrating phone somewhere nearby. She shifted and realized she couldn’t move because sexy Coffee Boy slept on her chest—or, more accurately, on her breasts, which was when she realized she was no longer Victor. Man Violet had disappeared in the night, as Zoe promised.
She mouthed a silent “oh shit” and wondered how she could leave without Maxwell noticing. How could she possibly slide out from beneath him when he crushed her like an anvil? She mouthed a couple more “oh shits” when he started to rouse, his long eyelids fluttering above his cheeks.
He stretched against her and made a pleased little humming noise before opening his eyes. She was duly surprised that Maxwell James screamed like a little girl.
“Okay, don’t freak out,” she sputtered as he lunged away from her, tripped over the coffee table, and landed on his ass. “Maxwell. It’s me.”
“Violet? I don’t understand.”
“I’m actually Victor. Well, I’m Violet. Victor is Violet. Shit, I’m a witch.”
The man looked like he might cry. “What?”
“I’m a witch, and I’ve had a crush on you for a year, and I didn’t know you were gay, so I did a stupid spell that would make you like me, but it just turned me into a boy.” She giggled to hide her hysteria.
He slowly pushed himself to standing. “You’re a w-w-w—”
“Witch.”
“And you put a spell on me?”
“No. On myself. I did a spell that would turn me into someone you could love, and I woke up a man—which was when I realized why you always ignore me.”
“I don’t ignore you.”
She leaned back into the couch. Her boy clothes pooled around her now smaller body. “Not as a customer. Sometimes, though, as a person.”
He sat next to her on the couch and stared into her face. “The eyes. They’re exactly the same. How did I miss that?”
She rolled those eyes in question toward the ceiling. “In your defense, not many people jump to witchcraft as a conclusion.”
He slumped against the furniture, and they sat there, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Witches are real?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Since when?”
“Since, like, forever.”
“Right. Okay. And! You shoot blue sparks from your fingers.”
“It’s static electricity.”
“I don’t think it is,” he practically shouted. “In the Wizard of Oz, the Wicked Witch, she shot lightning bolts, right?”
“That’s Thor.”
He groaned and covered his head with his hands.
“Maxwell, it’s not a big deal. I mean, witches are real, and there are ghosts all over Charleston.”
He glanced up at her. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
She laughed.
He glared.
“This isn’t a good time to laugh, is it?”
“So you’re a witch, and you have a crush on me?”
“Yeah.”
“But I’m gay, Violet. Really, really gay.”
“I know.” She picked up her phone and found sixteen text messages and four missed calls from Zoe. “It’s not your fault.”
He snickered. “I know.”
She snickered back.
“I bet love spells never work out, do they?” He ran a hand through his hair, which, despite couch sleep, still looked fantastic. “I mean, how do you control an emotion that’s so volatile? It’s not like making the perfect latte or Bolognese.”
She chewed her pinky nail. “Plus, you’re coercing someone into something without their permission. It’s all fake. Just a lie.”
“I don’t know. Did you lie to me yesterday?”
“Apart from the obvious I-don’t-have-a-penis thing?”
He closed his eyes. “Oh, my God. ‘Having a penis is amazing.’” He leaned forward and laughed.
“It does have its perks—beyond the whole overactive thing. Do you get hard-ons all the time?”
He laughed even harder.
“How do you get through the day without just humping things?”
He laughed so hard, tears pooled beneath his eyes. “Stop, stop.” He wiped his cheeks. “So apart from the penis thing, did you lie to me yesterday?”
“Not really. I was just being me.”
“Well, I like you.” He shrugged. “Wanna be friends, witch girl?”
Violet smiled. “I would love to be your friend.”
“Promise to stop having a crush on me?”
“I’m always going to think you’re hot, Maxwell.”
“My friends call me Max.”
“Max.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you have any spells for gray hair?”
Her gaze darted to his beautiful curls. “Say it ain’t so.”
“I found a couple the other day.”
She knelt on the couch and invaded his space. “Show me!”
Violet’s phone continued to vibrate until she sent Zoe a text that said all was well—and it was, really. She might not have made Maxwell James love her, but he liked her. Sometimes a new friend was worth more than hot sex or even magic.
Sara Dobie Bauer is a writer, model, and mental health advocate with a creative writing degree from Ohio University. Her short story, “Don’t Ball the Boss,” inspired by her shameless crush on Benedict Cumberbatch, was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She lives with her hottie husband and two precious pups in Northeast Ohio, although she’d really like to live in a Tim Burton film. She is author of the paranormal rom-coms Bite Somebody and Bite Somebody Else, among other ridiculously entertaining things. Read more at SaraDobieBauer.com or find her on Twitter @SaraDobie.
All The Petty Curses
Lissa Marie Redmond
“Hans, Grets, what can I get you today?”
The Once Upon a Java Café was close to full at noon on that Tuesday as the pair plunked themselves down at my counter. Hansel was pushing three hundred and fifty pounds, while Gretel barely weighed a buck five. The arrival of the two mismatched fairy tale siblings with step mommy issues usually meant I was in for a long afternoon.
“The usual, James,” Hans said, pushing back his stool to make room for his gut.
“Same for me.” Greta was eyeing up the pastries in the glass case. “With a cinnamon strudel, a chocolate chip muffin, and three of those homemade doughnuts.”
Poor Greta, as she goes by now, ever since she was enslaved by that blind witch, she hasn’t been able to put on a pound. Not so for her brother, who ate like a bird, but looked like a butterball turkey.
July in Buffalo was scorching this year, the hottest on record, so I had to make up for it by icing everything. I grabbed a Snowy House Dark Roast for Hans and a double chocolate Cool Jamaican Me Crazy with whipped cream on top for Greta. While I was gathering up her goodies from the display case, I noticed a tall, dark-haired lady with a beaky nose come in. She had that look on her face. That look that told me she wasn’t there for my muffins and mocha. I braced myself as she glanced around the café. Then she spotted me.
She made a beeline to the counter.
“Are you James?”
I wiped my hands on my apron. “I am. James Jonah Fitzgerald. How can I help you?”
“He loves to hear the sound of his own name,” Greta whispered to her brother. Don’t mix your love life with your work life. I learned my lesson the hard way when I took Gretel out: never go out on a date with a girl who can eat everything at the Chinese buffet. When I didn’t call her again, somehow, I became the bad guy, and she’s never let me live it down. Greta? More like ReGretel.
I ignored her.
The hawk-like woman glanced around, then leaned across the counter and said in a low voice, “I need your help.”
Of course she needed my help. Every leprechaun, fairy, sprite, demon, wood gnome, Sasquatch, harpy, witch, warlock, elf, werewolf, Princess without a castle, and cursed star-crossed lover needed my help. In the past few months I’d gone from a happy, self- absorbed slacker to some kind of knight in shining armor. It’s like I had a homing beacon over my door for Fairy Tale Folk, or Fair Folk as they also call themselves. I should’ve just changed my sign from Once Upon a Java Café to the Come in and Dump Your Other Dimension-Like Problems On James And Have Some Coffee Shoppe.
I sighed and stuck my hand out. “And you are?”
She gave me a limp shake. “Scarlet.”
“Hey, Red!” Hansel called from his stool with a cheery wave. Gretel just eyed her.
“It’s Scarlet now,” she snapped, and Hans went back to sipping his coffee.
“Red? As in little Red Riding Hood?”
“Very good. You do your homework.”
I motioned around the room, and pushed my black glasses up on my nose. I don’t need them if I’m not reading, I just think they make me look smarter. “It’s not like my mom didn’t read to me as a kid. You’re in my coffee shop, right? Who else would you be?”
The placed was filled with all kinds of mythical folks. Sure, to the average person, they looked like odd, but normal, people. Unfortunately, I had the Sight thrust upon me against my will last December, and I own a coffee shop, so I became a magnet for everyone who ever graced the pages of a fairy tale. Now my shop has turned into some weird meet up, singles bar for the mythic and magical. And I became the bartender/psychiatrist to them all.
“I was told you could help me,” she repeated.
“No one can help you,” Greta piped up. “The Big Bad Wolf is your curse and you’re stuck with him.”
“Greta, please.” I held out a pastry heart to shush her. She shrugged and stuffed the whole thing into her mouth.
“I’m in love,” Scarlet told me. “And I can’t be with Douglas because everywhere I go—”
The door flung open and an absurdly handsome and jacked-looking guy with flowing brown hair walked into the coffee shop. I think I heard a few gasps from several female customers. At least six-foot-four, he was one of those guys with perpetually tanned skin, perfect white teeth and a jaw chiseled from granite. He strode over to Scarlet and embraced her. She went stiff in his arms. “Where have you been? I thought something happened to you. I woke up and you were gone.”
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