Page 30 of A Heart On A Sleeve

seventeen

Olive

Ghosts in the Graveyard

The door jingles as I walk into Black Kettle. It’s early, and the shop is closed, but I have plenty to catch up on after missing a couple days this week. I’m hoping I can make headway on this local legends book so that when Beau gets in, he’s less mad at me and more thrilled with my progress.

Flipping the light switches and locking the door behind me, I make my way toward the back of the shop, passing dusty shelves as I approach my worn but sturdy desk to set down my bag and get busy.

“Hello, Olive.” Beau is perched at my desk, arms folded, sitting in the dark as if he was waiting for me.

“Beau, I didn’t realize you’d be in yet. I’m so sorry about this week. I never would have wanted to put you out, it’s just my parents can be a bit—”

“Relentless? Arrogant? Demanding?”

“Yes. All of those things and so much more. They don’t take kindly to me saying no, and I didn’t know they were coming so I couldn’t schedule around it. But I love this job, and I plan to spend all day catching up so I can be ready to take on the week.”

“We can’t choose our parents, but we can choose who we surround ourselves with, Olivia. I’m glad you’re making up for lost time, but please do not put me in this situation again.” His brow is furrowed, his tone stern.

“I promise.” I smile at him as he extricates himself from my workspace, allowing me to slide into my seat. His joints crack audibly, and I’m reminded how this isn’t just his store, it’s his life’s work.

“I’m going to get out of here. Mr. Pickles doesn’t like to be left alone for very long. But let me know if you need anything before I’m back.” With that he’s off to spend quality time with his cat, and I’m left with a mountain of work.

I’m grateful he’s a forgiving man. Losing this job would not be ideal, especially in my current predicament.

When I woke up this morning the tattoo had grown again, the permanent pieces still intact but the vines wrapping nearly to my elbow now.

There were hearts popping up as I thought of Sam and dark, stormy creatures that looked like Death Eaters from that one movie about witches and wizards. I’m assuming those are my parents.

Seeing those ghastly figures made me wonder, at what point did I start resenting them for who they are?

I was loved as a child, I certainly had everything I physically needed.

I just can’t pinpoint when exactly their push to be perfect changed from something I wanted to attain to something I loathed.

It was probably around the time my mother started trying to find me a husband.

I want to say it was a singular moment that made the difference, but it was really more of a slow trickle.

A crack that festered and grew over time into this momentous divide.

I wonder if maybe I had let them see the sides of me that they hated a little sooner or if I had exposed them in small doses, if things would be different.

My mom had to have had these same aspirations at one point; she wasn’t raised with a silver spoon in her mouth.

As I wrestle with the thoughts the Death Eaters gobble up the artwork on my arm, almost like they are eating away my soul.

My phone pings, alerting me to a new text. It’s a voice message from Sam.

“Hey. I hope you slept well and enjoyed your run this morning. I promise I’m not a creep, but you ran by my house while I was drinking my coffee and you’re distracting, I couldn’t help but watch. I can’t wait to see you tonight.”

He’s funny. I ran by his house on purpose, but I don’t know if I want to admit that.

What if he thinks I’m the creep? Like a zap of electricity, my arm explodes with butterflies, their cornflower-blue wings flapping about.

I guess there’s no denying how I feel. It’s exciting and nauseating at the same time.

There’s freedom in not having to say it out loud, in knowing my feelings manifest on my sleeve.

But there’s also terror in knowing that someone else might see it, they might know my inner workings.

I’m closed off for a reason. There’s always a chance that whoever knows the truth won’t like what they see.

My parents didn’t, even when I had straight A’s, was crowned Miss Alabama, and got voted the kindest person on campus in college.

I decide to send Sam a voice message back. I find it to be a superior form of communication. My thumbs don’t go numb from all the typing, and I don’t have to volley the conversation as much as I would during a standard phone call. Tapping the microphone on my text app, I hold it down.

“Morning, Sam. I ran by your house on purpose. I’m also not a creeper.” I laugh at myself before continuing. “I wanted to make sure I knew where it was before our date tonight. Want to play a game while I’m at work?”

Not even ten seconds pass before I receive a response.

“Always, but wouldn’t I be distracting you? Don’t you have work to do?” he asks, scolding me playfully.

“Listen up, buttercup. I’ll determine when I’m too busy for you,” I chide him back.

“Oh, I see. She’s sassy today. I have a client coming soon, but I’ll play until then.”

After fixing my cardigan so none of my arm is showing, I send him a video of me rolling my eyes. Another quick response comes in.

“Do I need to show you what happens to naughty girls who roll their eyes?”

Heat tickles below my panty line. I take a leap out of my comfort zone.

“I dare you to try. Now, come on, let’s play a game.

We never finished our twenty questions, so I propose that we continue that, and if there’s something that one of us doesn’t want to answer, we owe each other a dare on our date.

I’ll go first. I can’t get a tattoo. That’s the answer from the other night. Now, what’s your favorite food?”

While I wait for his reply, I open the book I’ve been working to restore and get started.

Light is beginning to trickle in through the front window, and casting a warm glow across the bookshelves up front.

It’s beautiful, but the wait for his reply does weird things to my belly.

On one hand I don’t want to get too attached when experience tells me it likely won’t work out.

On the other hand, there’s something about him that’s so soothing, it’s like a part of me knows I can trust him even if it’s hard to.

A few minutes pass, and I’m starting to think he doesn’t want to play when a message comes in.

“I would have to say the pumpkin ricotta tortellini you tried at the festival, but that will be changing very soon, I hope.”

I snap a photo of my face with one eyebrow tilted up and my finger on my lips in confusion and send it his way along with a text that says:

Huh?

Maybe I’m naive but I have no clue what he’s talking about. I hope he doesn’t think I’m cooking him dinner tonight.

“Babe, I have a feeling you are going to be my favorite thing to eat very soon.” His message rings out, and I start to fan my face. Holy moly, I’ve never had a man be so sweet yet so forward in my life. My insides are melting and the space between my thighs is slick.

“Hoo boy, was there a question in there somewhere?” My voice shakes as I reply, and little sparks fly all over my arm. It’s actually pretty amazing to watch as I pull my cardigan sleeve up a bit higher to look.

An incoming message pings on my phone.

Sam

As much as I want to play this game, my appointment just walked in. See you at seven. ??

The kiss emoji makes me smile as the sparks on my arm fizzle into ashes falling toward my wrist. I guess my emotions are fizzling out at the loss of our game. Back to work.

With the crisp fall air and earlier sunsets, the light is waning as I make my way down my steps toward Sam’s.

My leather tote bag is slung over my shoulder, chock-full of candy and DVDs for a date night at his place.

I figured it was casual enough, and it’s not like we watched even a few minutes of our movie the other night.

I’m calling this a redo. I pull my peacoat a little tighter as the wind picks up.

Looking back at my cottage, I can’t help but feel overcome with the beauty of fall and all the decor Sam carefully placed. I pick up the pace after checking my watch, hoping to get there right on time.

I spent the remainder of my day reading and carefully treating each page of a book on old Mage Hollow legends.

There were plenty of details on Irina’s life, along with her sisters, but nothing that would lead me down the path of finding her.

The book mostly covered the trials that took place and detailed how this little town became a safe haven for the magically inclined.

The only semi-helpful fact was that Irina lived out her days here. There weren’t details as to where she lived exactly, but there are plenty of homes around town that date back far enough. It’s possible that hers is still standing and could potentially lead to a clue.

As I step over fallen leaves and carefully navigate the uneven terrain, I find myself looking around each tree or corner waiting for something to pop out.

A black cat, a goblin, a ghost . . . it could be anything.

My skin prickles and the air feels a tad thicker as I approach the cemetery.

I chuckle to myself as I think of holding my breath as I pass.

I remember my friends saying that when we were kids.

Whenever we would drive past a cemetery, you had to hold your breath the entire time or you were destined to be haunted.

Maybe I slipped once or sucked in air a little too quickly.

Is that why I’m in this situation? No, but it makes me feel a little less crazy to consider the possibility of it even for a second.

“Olivvviiiaaaa,” a whimsical voice calls out like an echo reverberating against the walls of a cave.

I stop still in my tracks, turning furiously to find the source of the noise. It’s dark enough out that there could be someone hiding just about anywhere.

“Olivvviiiaaaa.” Again, the voice rings out.

Speeding up my pace in case this is some sort of sick joke or setup, I make it halfway to the cemetery when I spot her.

Under the arched metal gate leading in, Irina stands with her hands on her hips.

Her hair is flowing in the breeze, a thick cackle echoing across the distance.

She waves at me then turns toward the cemetery, seemingly floating inside across the grassy path.

I run, full speed, with everything I have.

I need to catch her. This is the chance I’ve been waiting for, and I refuse to miss it.

As I round my way through the gate and onto the brown dying grass, her voice rings out with my name again.

She’s taunting me. I pick up the pace even more when I spot her leaning on a tree halfway across the expansive plot of land.

As she floats to the left, leaves whoosh into the air like fall-themed confetti, raining down on the gravestones below.

I dodge one of the marble grave markers, dropping my bag so that I can dart after her.

A few more paces, and I’ve almost made it when she lifts up into the air and flies right over my head.

Astonished, I stand looking up at her, sucking in breaths with my hands on my head.

“Please, Irina. Just make it stop. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

A wicked cackle rips through me as my arm screams out in pain.

I claw my coat off, ditching it while my fingers work furiously to undo the button at my wrist and roll up my sleeve.

My skin is on fire, and I need to see what is happening.

This feels different than the sensations I usually have; it hurts more.

It’s too dark for me to see anything. Shoot.

I pull my phone out of my back pocket and flip on the flashlight to reveal the image.

In bold red letters are the words Yes, you can.

Open up, Olivia, or be miserable alone. There’s an hourglass with sand trickling out and numbers scribbled below it counting down: 22 days and 10 hours .

My hands are shaking. I accidentally drop my phone. This has to stop.

“This is what you wanted, Olivia. The clock is ticking. Make your decision on Halloween.” Irina’s shrill voice rings out in my ears, and pain shoots up my neck.

I lunge toward her once more, desperate to grab hold of her.

I don’t need to wait to decide. I already know that I want this gone.

That I don’t want to be so vulnerable that every thought I have is shown to the world.

Even if I can cover it with clothing, I can’t hide it forever—at least not from Sam. It’s too much. I’m too exposed.

My fingertips are inches from reaching the bottom of her skirt when my toe catches on the edge of a flat gravestone.

I’m tumbling forward, unable to stop the inevitable impact with the ground.

As my body connects with the soft grass, my head hits last, striking the edge of another headstone with a loud crack.

I groan from the searing pain in my skull. Reaching up to my temple, hot sticky blood drips down my cheek. I pat my pockets for my phone, I need to call Ari. Shoot, I dropped it.

Willing myself to move, I take a deep breath before pushing up onto my knees. I attempt to crawl back to where I came from, but my vision is blurry and the throbbing in my head intensifies. Each time I pick up my knees to move forward, I get a bit woozier.

Blood is mixing with fresh tears as they stream down my face. This is it. This is how I die. Anne will be so disappointed at the utter lack of grace that I’m exhibiting in my final moments.

Sam! He’s going to think I stood him up, that I ditched him once again. It was one thing to forgive what he believed to be bathroom troubles—not showing at all is a completely different story. An unexpected sob rips out of me.

“Irina, help me. Please,” I beg, pleading for assistance from the very individual who got me in this mess.

Instead of swooping in to save the day like she did the first time, I’m met with deafening silence.

She’s gone . . . I know it in my bones. Forcing myself to push forward, each shift of my body aches. How hard did I fall?

It feels like it’s been an hour, and I haven’t made it more than a few feet. I give up, lying down for a second, praying that the pain will subside. If I can just rest for a minute, think in peace, I can come up with a plan. But as soon as I’m flat on my tummy, the world goes black.