Page 14 of A Heart On A Sleeve

“Sweet child, don’t worry. Irina can fix it, but you must ask me to do so.” The words sound lyrical coming from her lips, soothing me like a warm balm over my heart.

“Please, fix it. Help me allow myself to fall in love,” I beg, losing the last bit of nerve I have.

“I can’t.”

Two words—matter-of-fact. I’m appalled. She lulled me in here and told me to open up and ask for help. I told her things that only Ari knows. And now she says she can’t. What the hell was the point of this?

“B-but you said, you told me you would help.” Shock seeps into my shivering skin.

“I will help, but I cannot dabble in love or fate. No one can do that but you, Olivia. Ask for something else,” Irina urges.

“I-I don’t know what else to ask for. I want to be, uh, I guess open to love?” I hesitate. Is it that I’m not open to love, or am I simply scared of what it means?

“Ahh, now we are getting somewhere. Be more specific,” she says, encouraging me to continue.

“Uh, okay. Let me think.” I close my eyes, trying to concentrate on all the things that I’ve been told in the past. Things I needed to change.

The voices of my ex-boyfriends dance around in my head until the ask hits me like a train roaring down the tracks.

“I want to wear my heart on my sleeve,” I blurt out.

She hesitates, mumbling to herself so quietly that I can’t make out what she’s saying.

Right when I think I hear her say , I swore I’d never allow anyone to wear their heart on their sleeve again , there’s an echo in the room , just do it, Irina.

Let her learn the lesson . This voice sounds different, higher pitched, more definitive.

Panic resurfaces in my stomach, rolling it over and over like waves in a storm. “Done.”

She snaps her fingers and the cauldron bubbles loudly, a rainbow of colorful liquids splashing over the side before turning black. Irina moves in a flash across the room, grabbing a ladle and scooping the liquid into a mug. With tentative steps, she carefully makes her way back to me.

“Drink this, my dear, and you shall wear your heart on your sleeve.” She extends the mug out to my lips, and I rear back to avoid it.

“You must drink this, it is the only way.”

“The only way for what? I don’t even know what it is.”

I know I’m the one that went along with this, that spilled my guts to a stranger, but is it smart to take a sip of whatever this is?

She pushes it toward my mouth again, and I purse my lips like a child avoiding their first bite of baby food.

My mother’s voice echoes in my head. Don’t be rude, Olive .

Listening to her like I always do, I slurp at the liquid without another thought, going against my own judgment for what feels like the millionth time this week.

The liquid is bitter, then sweet. Hot at first, but suddenly cold.

“Very good. Now I must tell you, if you change your mind, you must do so before the clock strikes midnight on Halloween. Once the night has passed, the change will be permanent,” she says, like she’s issuing a warning. Alarm bells sound in my mind. What did I just do? What was that liquid?

I say nothing. Instead, I stand, darting from my chair toward the door that is noticeably barred closed. The sound of her fingers snapping raises chills down my spine, and then there’s a loud crack as the bar raises and the door flies open.

Racing up the stairs and back to the sidewalk, I feel dizzy, either from what I drank or from sheer panic.

I suck in breaths so hard I fear there may never be enough oxygen in my lungs again.

Looking from left to right, everything is exactly as it should be.

As it was before. I turn toward my cottage, starting toward it in a jog but quickly picking up my pace to a full sprint. I have to get home.

Offensively bright light spills in through the paned windows of my bedroom at approximately 6:40 in the morning.

It takes all my energy to restrain myself from shrieking in rage.

My head feels like it’s in a vice, bile stings the back of my throat, and my body aches like a swollen tick after a night of too much wine.

After leaving Irina last night, I sprinted back to my cottage, soaking in all the craziness of the evening.

When I say I’ve never thought of going to a psychic before, I mean it.

The fact that I so willingly went with her feels off.

Almost like I’d been coerced. There are a few things a good Southern belle must never do, using witchcraft to alter your fate is definitely one.

And thank goodness for that because I will never be doing it again.

It took me a few hours to come down from the whiplash of emotions, between Sam’s intervention of my kiss and Irina.

Restless and spooked were the general feelings of the night.

The former because of Sam and his hauntingly beautiful face.

He’s a puzzle I can’t quite figure out. Gorgeous but gruff, touchy but distant, confident but mysterious.

Then there’s the latter, I couldn’t scrub my body hard enough to remove the feeling of aged fingers crawling on my skin.

I spent a solid hour searching around the cottage for anything that might be lurking in the shadows. Finding nothing out of place, I finally forced myself to lie down. That’s when the anger made its home in my chest like an anvil weighing me down, making it hard to breathe.

This ferocity inside me wasn’t new, it’s a feeling I spent most of my life dealing with.

Anger because your home is supposed to be somewhere you feel safe, seen, loved.

Growing up, I wasn’t ever in physical danger, but my yearning for acceptance ran deep.

I spent most of my time wishing I could be more graceful, more poised, more perfect.

But I never seemed to measure up. Despite my crowns and achievements, my brain was always too engaged for my mother’s liking.

I read too much and cared about things that should be a man’s concern.

I know from being well-read that my mother is completely and utterly wrong in her assessment.

But isn’t it unfair that I couldn’t have had a mother or father who liked my thirst for knowledge?

A parent who would for one small beat put their own agenda second to the dealings of their daughter’s heart?

And maybe that’s why I struggle so much with opening up; it seems pointless when the result is always the same.

My cottage last night didn’t feel like the safe, euphoric place I’ve come to adore the past week.

The cozy sage cabinets with ethereal sparkling white quartz counters morphed from decadent and homey into over the top, with too many places for a ghost to hide.

The wide-plank pine floors creaked under my footsteps, alerting me to potential hidden compartments rather than the worn mystique of a well-used space.

What I saw as character changed in an instant to something else. Something darker.

After losing hope that sleep would find me, I turned on reruns of The Office and drifted off to the voice of my favorite overzealous leading man, Michael Scott. His celebration over Holly’s nonengagement rocked me gently away.

Ugh! I need water or an IV. Maybe both. I didn’t drink that much yesterday, yet my mouth is drier than the Sahara.

The tea . . . there had to be something wrong with that tea.

Tossing the covers back, I settle my feet on the floor, but not before glancing to make sure it’s free of traps.

I make my way into the kitchen, filling a glass with water, chugging it down, and filling it again.

Looking around, I see my humble abode is back to being warm and appealing.

The velvety soft green sofa beckons me to lie down as I grab my phone and begin to scroll.

I shouldn’t do it, but I find myself compelled to learn more about Sam.

I open my social media app, searching for the one and only Sam O’Reilly.

Spoiler alert: There are 12,382 people with that name using the internet to document their lives.

I attempt to narrow the search with filters, giving up after a ten-minute deep dive yielded little results.

I can look up his business. I type in “Eerie Ink, Mage Hollow, Massachusetts”—it pops right up.

Holy shit . He is super talented. Like Ink Masters –level work.

(Yes, I spent a semester in college binge-watching every episode in an attempt to eliminate what Ari referred to as my “snooty” tendencies.)

To many people’s surprise, I’ve never actually hated tattoo artwork itself, it’s more a lack of exposure multiplied by an intense fear of my mother.

There’s also my insane fear of needles and my tendency to pass out.

That’s the biggest reason why I’ve never, nor would I ever, consider marking my own body.

Peeling myself off the couch, finishing yet another glass of water mixed with electrolyte powder, I throw on a sports bra, running shorts, and sneakers, avoiding the mirror and my appearance at all costs.

I need to run, it will give me clarity. Selecting my Bad Bitch playlist, I’m pounding the pavement in under five minutes.

Thirty minutes flashes by as I’m lost in thought. I can’t help but wonder what Irina meant when she said it was done. What was done? I don’t feel any different.