Just as I start daydreaming about what kind of coffee-flavored desserts I could whip up when this is over, I feel a small kick under the table. For a second, I think it’s John, who’s all jittery himself, but no, it’s Charlie, playing with my foot. Turns out he’s barely on Cassandra watch either. In fact, he appears to be more on Amber watch. With his chin propped up by his palm, a shy smile peeks out from his curled fingers, like the sun eclipsing the moon. I can only see the edges, yet I still feel its warmth; it radiates through me, and when combined with the caffeine, I have to literally hold on to my chair to keep from falling off. I nudge him back, and his expression brightens, more so in the eyes than lips. It’s the kind of look you cannot fake; I’ve seen it plenty of times during joint matchmaking sessions, when a couple comes together to confirm their impending union. Once I give my seal of approval, they turn to each other full of love, pupils turning into stars. You can almost hear their inner string quartets swelling. It’s pretty gushy, straight-from-the-movies kind of stuff….I’ve never had anyone look at me that way. It’s a little unnerving, and yet, I don’t want it to stop.
I’m feeling all tingly, until I foolishly take a deep look into his eyes, causing my matchmaker visions to activate. There she is again, Charlie’s future wife, all adorable with her wide, toothy smile and funky fashion flair. I try to fast-forward, but I can’t; I watch her come up from behind him with an overflowing popcorn bowl, then snuggle down next to him on a couch. He kisses the top of her head, and she sighs, leaning into his chest: another sickeningly sweet scene among the many I’ve witnessed so far. Only this time, right before the happy ending fades to black, I’m given another snippet, a final detail I truly hoped would keep itself concealed.
A name floats up from the depths of his heart, percolating to the surface of my consciousness. Kim—it’s official, the name of the girl who will be his bride. I’ve become quite familiar with her face and the love they’ll grow to share, but somehow knowing her name makes her more real, an actual person and not some spectral buzzkill interrupting my time with Charlie. I thought it would take longer for me to learn this concrete fact—the only other match name I’ve ever learned is Vincent—but I guess time flies when you’re falling for someone who isn’t yours. Up until now, I’ve been haunted by the idea of this girl, knowing I was encroaching on someone else’s turf, but she was still just a vision, a vague notion of his coming attractions. But a name—Kim—is inescapable, something I can’t ignore. I can’t unsee it, I can’t unknow it, and the guilt is overwhelming.
Suddenly, I’m burning up, angry at myself for letting things get this far, for letting myself get so attached to someone who’s already matched. Why didn’t I distance myself, put up the walls that have worked so well in the past? What was I thinking spending so much time with him? I ignored my logic, letting my feelings take the wheel: stupid, messy emotions overriding my screwed-up matchmaker judgment.
“Are you okay?” Charlie asks, clearly sensing my self-flagellation.
“Yeah…just…too much caffeine,” I lie.
“There she is,” John says, causing us all to look toward the window. I’m momentarily disorientated, taking a moment to refocus on the task at hand. It’s very dark now, streetlamps casting pocketed spotlights of sidewalk and green space. Just across Michigan Avenue she waits, in a small park south of the museum. All alone, swinging her wild wavy hair, she’s clearly nervous as the meeting time draws near.
The three of us stand in unison, but John sets his hands on our shoulders. “You two stay here,” he commands. He never takes his eyes off Cassandra, causing him to stumble and bump into the Starbucks clientele as he makes his way to the door. As we watch him jog away outside, Charlie slides over to the seat next to mine, his eyes still trained on his dad.
“So, now that we’re rescuing Cass from a seemingly shady fate and we know she’ll be safe, you’re going to break the news to my dad, right?”
My stomach sinks, churning with my own frustration over being attached to someone who’s not mine. Suddenly, the idea of spreading this horrible feeling fills me with dread.
“Right?” he asks again.
“Right, yeah,” I say weakly.
“What’s with the hesitation?”
“Nothing, I just…hope everything goes okay.”
“What do you think is gonna happen?” he asks, his face suddenly much closer to mine. I feel my ears starting to burn, so I shake my hair over them.
“Um…I…really don’t know.”
“He’ll be fine, though, right?”
Charlie’s proximity is causing my brain to scramble, like words floating randomly in a bowl of alphabet soup. The thoughts are there, yet articulating them is proving frustratingly difficult. “Um…”
“You know, once this is over, I’d like us to still hang out,” he says, giving me a small, hopeful smile that turns my insides into pudding. He notices my right hand resting on the table, and slowly moves his left to join the two together. What was just an empty palm is now a tangle of fingers, united in a gesture unlike any I’ve ever experienced. Every day at the shop, I take the hands of strangers, and all I ever notice is clamminess or a severe need for lotion. But this, with Charlie, is entirely new, like I can feel his entire body chemistry just from a small patch of skin. It’s humming inside me, rushing like a waterfall, so loud I almost don’t hear him ask, “Would that be okay?”
My brain and my body are both fighting for my full attention, and I can’t decide who deserves it. While holding Charlie’s hand feels so, so nice, my brain is screaming KIM KIM KIM. I start to regain use of my jaw just when something pulls Charlie’s attention outside.
“Hey, look, he’s got her.”
I turn to see John and Cass reunited under a streetlamp, but for someone who’s been missing for a while, she sure doesn’t look happy to be found. They’re not embracing like I’d expect; they’re not even standing that close to each other. It wouldn’t take a lip-reader to see that they’re fighting; Cassandra’s arms are crossed firmly over her chest, while John is making sharp, firm gestures to indicate that they need to leave. We watch their angry pantomime in silence, unsure of what to make of their strange greeting.
The couple is so consumed by their bickering, they don’t notice the circle of goblins that has quietly surrounded them. Dressed all in black, child-size suit jackets and bowler hats, their tiny bodies blend into the night, almost undetectable as they stand just outside the artificial light. They assembled so quickly, but there have to be at least twenty of them, standing each about five feet apart. My heart starts to race as I realize what’s going on. I know an incantation circle when I see one.
“Charlie, get up,” I say in a voice that instantly shifts his expression from dream to nightmare. His hand still clutched to mine, I yank him upward, our chairs toppling over as we make a hasty exit.
“What’s going on?” Charlie asks as we start running.
“We’ve got to get them out of that circle!”
“What circle?”
Good Gods. While any other girl would probably be over the moon if Charlie Blitzman was so enraptured by her presence that he had no awareness of his surroundings, that kind of swooning does not help me right now. Goblins have fairy blood in their lineage, and fairies have a long and confusing history; they aren’t all Tinker Bell. For every Zen, Mother Earth worshipper with wings, you’ve got a spiteful, pissed-off little sprite who hates being a pixie. No matter what, their magic is strong, and they can stir up trouble in a blink.
There’s a reason why witches and other magically inclined beings do their business in a circle formation. While sorcery may be in their DNA, it still takes a decent amount of energy to get the juices flowing; circles keep that effort from spilling out and being wasted. But there’s also a reason why no one ever stands in the middle. The center is the focal point; it’s where magical folk place the token, which will either aid in manipulation or be manipulated. And since John and Cass have no ide
a they’ve just entered a mystical cage match, I have a bad feeling I know which kind of token they are.
We run down Michigan as it starts to drizzle, keeping the oblivious duo in our sights. Even though most of the goblin clan’s backs are to me, I know they won’t take their time getting stuff done. With the traffic roaring by on the always-busy street, my warning cries would go unheard; I need to break the circle before the spell is complete.
We get to the corner, but there’s too many cars to just bolt across. I try to mind-meld with the traffic signal to make it change, but the only response I’m given is a quick flash of white light. It bursts in and out, like a visual shock wave, disappearing before it can fully register. Too bright to be lightning, I blink it away, thinking it was one of those traffic cameras catching a lead-footed driver, but when my eyes refocus, it’s clear the light had nothing to do with modern advances in law enforcement. Because our mark—our whole reason for this pseudo spy mission—has disappeared, along with the man who loves her and the supernatural element that clearly has something against her.
As the rain picks up, we finally get the go-ahead from a white-lit stick man, yet now we have no need to cross.
Charlie blinks in disbelief, unable to process the scene—or lack of scene—before us. The walking man trades places with a red warning hand as Charlie’s words fill the now empty space.
“Um, Amber? Where’s my dad?”
THE RAIN IS COMING DOWN harder; I didn’t realize my trench coat would be so practical when I grabbed it earlier tonight. While Charlie’s plaid button-down looks like he just pulled it from the wash, my clothes are dry under the coat’s water-wicking fabric. But I still feel damp, my insides heavy and soaked with guilt. I’d never proclaim to be the most selfless person, but I never knew I could be so selfish.
We’ve crossed the street, standing under one of the stone lions that guard the entrance to the museum. Both of us stare at the empty park, as if we could make them reappear simply by wishing it.
“Amber, what the hell just happened?” Charlie asks. A valid question, and while I can explain the magic behind it, I cannot justify my negligence here. What was I thinking? How could I be so stupid? Did I really think a baggie of mystical crap would save the day?
“Charlie, I’m…so sorry,” I choke out. I rub my palms into the rough stone (he’s since let go of my hand), the texture grating on my skin.
“What are you sorry for? Where’s my dad?” he repeats.
“I…don’t know.”
He walks around the grassy area where his father stood moments before, looking for clues he won’t find. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I do know a goblin would never leave evidence. The rain has already washed away their tiny footprints.
I shake my head. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve told my mom and brought her here. She could’ve stopped those goblins and whatever they were up to with a flick of her wrist, but I was too stubborn. I didn’t want to admit I needed her help. I’m such a jerk.”
It’s hard to see his face through the sheets of icy rain, but I can’t imagine anything positive is resting there. “You didn’t know what would happen,” he says flatly.
“You put your trust in me, and I completely and utterly failed. I didn’t want to get in trouble, and now your dad has been vaporized.”
“Vaporized?”
“Well, probably transported. But who knows to where!”
Charlie takes off his rain-speckled frames and tries drying them on his sopping wet shirt. The droplets smudge the lenses, so he wipes them on his bare forearm instead. The dragon’s flames are unable to make a difference.
“I get the guilt trip,” he says, anger creeping in his tone, “but that doesn’t help anything at all. My dad is GONE, Amber. Gone! I don’t even know if he’s dead or alive! What are we supposed to do?”
“We?” I ask incredulously. “There’s not going to be any more ‘we.’ I’ve mucked this up enough for you, Charlie, so it’s time I pass you off to someone who can actually play in the big leagues.”
He turns to me for the first time, his face shiny with rain. If he were to shed a tear over his disappeared dad, the weather would be a great cover. “What do you mean? You’re bailing?”
“Uh, in case you haven’t noticed, I have no magical qualifications for this. I can’t see the future or throw a mystical wrench into anyone’s cauldron. I am totally powerless, and my only real skill is just making this partnership worse.”
“And what does that mean?”
I look into his green eyes, deep and lovely, but turn away before I have to endure another clip of him and Kim. I’ve made so, so many mistakes here, I can’t even rank which is worse. “It means…that our pairing is completely pointless in every conceivable way.”
“Amber, stop.” He moves to take my hand, but I shove it behind my back, scraping it on the brick. “You can’t do this. Not right now.”
“No, you stop. I’m really glad you came to me for help, but I’m no good for you. I care about you too much to keep leading you astray.”
“But—”
“I’m going to tell my mom everything. I’ll have her call you from now on. She’ll be able to get your dad back, I’m sure of it.” I see a bus sloshing up the street, so I dig through my deep coat pockets for my bus pass. I hustle over to the corner stop just as the bus sprays the sidewalk with water.
“Wait!” Charlie runs after me. “You can’t just leave me like this!”
“And why on earth would you want me to stay?” I cry out. The bus doors swing open, but Charlie grabs my shoulders, his grip firm despite the slipperiness of my coat.
“How can you ask me that?” he cries back with accusing eyes. “I need you, Amber. What am I going to do without my dad? And not just me, but the city? What am I supposed to say when the mayor stops showing up for work?”
The bus driver, impatient at listening to us squabble, shuts the door and presses on.
“I don’t know!” I say, arms swinging wildly against his grip. “I don’t have the answers—clearly!”
He grits his teeth, either from frustration or freezing in the rain. “I’m not asking you to have all the answers. I’m just asking you to stay with me. As a friend. As…” I watch the rain muddle the anger and fear on his face, as longing emerges as well. I know what he’s thinking, and it kills me to continue kicking him when he’s down.
“I can’t do that for you, Charlie. I want to…you have no idea. But I can’t.”
“I don’t understand.” His voice is low. “There is something here, I know it. But you’re pushing me away when I need you the most.”
Another bus is rumbling up the street, and I’m so cold I feel like I’m drowning: in the rain, in my desire to wrap my arms around him and tell him it’s going to be okay. In knowing that I’m trapped in a reality where that can’t be. The weight of not being able to act on what I want is unbearable, and watching him stand there, soaked to the bone and completely defeated, is making it hard to stay afloat. “It’s too hard!” I spit out, almost strangling on the words. “Okay? Being around you…it’s too much.”
He lets go, setting me free as the weight of my words hits him. Even through the deluge, I can almost see his realization, understanding what my confession means.
Embarrassed and exposed, I climb on the second bus, giving him one last “sorry” as the door closes behind me. I refuse to look back through the window as we pull away, knowing full well Charlie’s disappointed face would be forever burned in my brain. I take a seat near the back, checking my phone as the bus rumbles north. I have several missed texts from Amani, wanting the status of our rescue mission, but I leave them unanswered. My fingers cannot be trusted to communicate right now. It would be a fury of caps-locks and sad emoji, and no one wants to be on the receiving end of that.
The bus ride lasts for a lifetime, yet I find myself at my apartment doorstep much quicker than I’d like. I fill my lungs with fresh Chicago air, unsure of
when I’ll get another opportunity once my mom is through with me. My keys in the lock sound like prison bars slamming shut, and while I thoroughly deserve any punishment I receive, it’s not any more comforting.
As soon as my foot crosses the threshold, Mom’s in my face, rightfully ranting about my lies to get out of work. I stand in the doorway, my coat dripping a puddle of shame around me, and see the makings of a locator spell on the floor; Mom must have been on the verge of chanting. This is the reaction I expected after I punched Ivy. She’s already pissed, so I might as well keep the fire burning.
“Mom,” I say when she eventually stops to take a breath. “There’s more.” I give her a play-by-play of the last several days, leaving no detail untold. Pagan religions don’t partake in this kind of ritual, but I imagine it being like Catholic confession, asking forgiveness for all my sins. Only I doubt my mom will be a very benevolent deity.
Oddly, though, the longer I talk, the quieter she becomes. I expected unbridled rage, hands and lips shooting lightning bolts at the bull’s-eye painted on my forehead. But instead of conjuring an electrical storm, she’s placid, currents swirling under the surface. I’ve only seen her react this way once or twice, and never toward me, and honestly, the lack of fury is even more terrifying.
She doesn’t reply at first, her hands lying neatly in her lap. She looks like she could be meditating, and maybe she is, repeating the mantra: “Murdering one’s own child is wrong.”
The Best Kind of Magic Page 17