Page 8 of Hopelessly Teavoted
She didn’t want him to leave, even if he did have a cat, of all things, to get back to.
But like he had after the unfortunate happenstance in college, Az turned away too soon and left her wanting.
He was not the accomplice she had counted on in childhood.
The friend she had valued so much in high school.
He was just the man she’d made a mistake with in college.
Pushing the thought out of her mind, she told herself that it had been years, several flings, and an entire asshole boyfriend since that incident. It certainly did not deserve to occupy this much real estate in her mind, however titillating it was to sometimes turn it over.
No. She would not keep thinking about this.
She closed the shop, ready to give Priscilla a piece of her mind for failing to mention Azrael’s return.
The last she’d heard, he was still in California, probably relaxing on sandy beaches with a lover on his arm.
Perfect and mundane and totally magicless, the way he’d wanted it when he fled as far as he could get from Hallowcross, Vermont, as fast as possible.
She set her phone on the counter and pressed Priscilla Hart’s number, switching it to speaker.
“Priscilla Hart, reluctant devotee of an electronic device with too much control over my life.”
“It’s just a cell phone, Prissy.”
“Victoria! How’s the leak in the shower ceiling?”
“You fixed it perfectly—thanks for that. You failed to mention, though, that Azrael was back in town.”
“Did I? That’s odd. Must have slipped my mind. He’s here to stay, you know. Has he been by the shop?”
The flat brightness of her tone was not fooling Vickie; her old friend had been scheming.
Priscilla barreled on, “Prickly and suspicious, Azrael. And always so worried. I’m sure it was nice for you two to run into each other again organically.”
Wiping down a counter, Vickie rolled her eyes, glad she had not opted for a video chat.
It was true that Azrael took a while to warm up to people, but once he did, he bloomed like the roses his mother used to grow in her garden in shades of crimson, scarlet, and black. Gorgeous and fragrant with a loyalty worth waiting for.
Azrael had once been witch roses to her, magical and blossoming in colors uncanny to the human world.
The angles of his face were obscenely sharp, breathtaking to some and distasteful to others, but she had thought that she could see him, really see him.
The way that long ago, in his mother’s gardens, she had seen that the thorn beneath the shiny flesh of the bloodred flower was as delicate and lovely as any mundane thing.
“Victoria? Are you still there?”
“Yes,” she said. “Just cleaning up here, lost in thought. Anything else major you need to tell me? Another sibling I don’t know about? Did you call my disastrous college girlfriend too? Maybe you could dig up an old high school flame to show up next week and embarrass me.”
She picked up the teacups that had been drying in a rack and began to stack them in the cabinet. Priscilla’s mother had such charming and eclectic taste in the servingware here.
“Actually, if you must know, I do have other news. I’m seeing someone delicious and delightful.”
“All right, joking aside, tell me everything,” said Vickie, careful not to drop any of Persephone’s legacy of bat and cat and witch mugs.
“Hold on, let me get comfortable. This is a great story.” The sound of rustling over the phone must have been Prissy settling into one of the plush armchairs at Hart Manor.
The memory twisted, just a little bit sharp.
It was the cozy furniture she missed so much.
Not him. “So,” said Prissy. “Her name is Evelyn Vishwakumar, and she lives in the most gorgeous condo, temporarily of course; she’s here for Witchery Council business.
She has the dreamiest Disney princess eyes, and I am just fucking obsessed with her. ”
Vickie smiled as she swept the floors.
“Go on.”
“She could be the heroine in a romance novel, Victoria. I went to an honest-to-goddess film festival with her. I wore an outfit that wasn’t black.”
“Sounds serious.”
“I burn for her,” said Priscilla, her voice grave. Good for her. Prissy Hart deserved some happiness after all that tragedy. “Listen, about Azrael.”
“The devil I will. Let’s not.”
“I don’t know exactly what happened, but he misses you. The two of you were so close. He would never want to hurt you.”
Vickie’s lips pressed tightly together at the memory of quite the opposite of that sentiment, but she said nothing, and focused on cleaning up. Priscilla had tried making a case for him a few times before, usually after a few drinks, via text message.
Once it had led to Vickie awkwardly texting back and forth with Az, but things between them had stayed strange.
“Az has always had a thing for you, really. Since we were kids.” Vickie’s mouth opened and then closed again.
She shook her head. “I don’t need a pity setup.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or an excuse for you to get him out of the house, if that’s what this is.”
Prissy went on. “Seriously, Victoria, he’s lonely. I’m worried about him.”
The thought of that loneliness softened her feelings toward Az, who had been her friend before that incident, and all the subsequent self-loathing. Not just a friend, but her best one.
She missed him too. As a friend.
“It’s weird to pimp out your own brother,” she mumbled.
Priscilla laughed. “It’s weirder to totally ignore your childhood best friend for whatever dramatic reason the two of you might have. You’re both adults.”
They were. And there was no reason they couldn’t be friends again now, especially as he was grieving. But she wouldn’t be foolish enough to think she could handle another no-strings situation with him.
As long as she could keep things in the friend zone, the way he was so clearly desperate to do, they could be solid. Like they were as kids. The thing in college had been a blip on the radar. A momentary, lustful mistake. She could move past it.
“I’m sorry, Priss, I have to mop up. I’ll talk to you later.”
“How about a drink tonight? You can meet Evelyn and gloat into my wine with me about how hot she is.”
Vickie paused, running through her prep schedule for the next day’s baking in her head. “Yeah, that would be fine. As long as there’s food.”
“Meet me at Kessel Run at eight?”
“You would be willing to go to a nerd bar for me? What about Free Spirits?” Vickie knew Priscilla preferred the upscale cocktail bar, where they’d met last month for Hopelessly Teavoted business.
“You sound like you need it more,” said Priscilla.
She wasn’t going to argue, if only for the sake of the Less Than Twelve Parsecs Nachos, which were absolutely the best bar snack north of Manchester. “See you at eight, Priscilla.”
“Talk soon!” Prissy’s voice was suspiciously enthusiastic, and between that and the concession in meeting places, Vickie didn’t doubt for one second that she was up to something.
She tapped the phone to hang up, and shook her head. Priscilla was mistaken; Vickie remembered what Az had said to her in college. There’d been a time when she’d thought he had feelings for her. But after what happened, she knew exactly where she stood with Azrael Hart.
Alone, in the pouring rain, crying her fucking eyes out and hoping he would come back.
In the end, he never did.
Enough years had passed that it shouldn’t matter, but the almost of the whole thing made her want to run out into the night to find him now and demand he tell her why.
She consoled herself by mopping the floors vigorously.
Her heart felt cracked and empty, but the floor sparkled by the time she was ready to swipe on some mascara, change her shirt, and head out to meet the second Hart sibling of the day.
The lighting was dim at Kessel Run, but she would have known her old friend anywhere.
Priscilla Hart sat at Vickie’s favorite table, the two-top all the way at the back, farthest from the bar, and yet, Vickie was unsurprised to note that at five past the time they were supposed to meet, she had already commanded a drink.
Like in high school, and the few times Vickie had seen her since, Prissy was clad in all black, hair sleek and shiny and brushing the lapels of a satin blazer with intricate dark green leaves patterned on the breast pocket.
Her black slacks were perfectly tailored, and she had traded her combat boots for Louboutins.
Vickie couldn’t help but think she was the goth garden version of Andy from The Devil Wears Prada , post–Miranda makeover.
Goodness knew there were enough actual devils in Vickie’s life to make such comparisons.
“Vickie,” Prissy said, holding up a hand, her expression inscrutable. “Welcome to my lair.”
“Prissy! It’s so good to see you!” The other woman got up to accept a hug, still holding a tumbler full of amber liquid. “What are you drinking?”
“An alcohol,” Priscilla deadpanned.
“Charming as ever,” said Vickie, picking up the menu off the table and sliding onto the tall chair across from her.
A smile flickered across Prissy’s face. “I ordered you those nachos with the stupid name. They look terrible, like heartburn in a starship-shaped pan, but I love you, so I ordered them anyway.” She took a long drink from her tumbler.
The corners of her mouth ticked upward. “Also, it’s good to see you on non–tea shop and apartment business. ”
Vickie sighed with relief at the thought of the food. It would be nice to eat something that wasn’t from a package or baked in her shop. Even if she really ought to save money.
“It’s good to see you, too, Prissy. Where’s your girl?”
Prissy’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment. “Council business. She’s very serious.”
“Yeah?” Victoria wasn’t sure if this was a good thing.
“She is extremely dedicated to her job,” said Priscilla, her face breaking into a smile. A good thing, then. “But she’s also hot and posh, and devil damn me, that British accent.”
“You love to hear a British accent.”