Page 14

T he Blue Whisper looked just like I remembered—dim, cramped, and humming with charm that refused to fade. Old wood, orange peel, and bourbon mingled in an aroma cocktail. This place had been exactly the same for two decades before I was born. I hoped it never changed.

A band played on the tiny stage. Bass thrummed low in the floorboards, the heartbeat of the jazz bar. The singer couldn’t be older than twenty, even though the smoky rasp of her voice suggested she had an old soul.

When I closed my eyes, I could picture a similar-aged Daisy, Tess, and me stepping into this place for the first time. I could picture Carson on stage with his saxophone, and the unreal lightness I’d felt as our eyes met.

My heart did an annoying little flutter as I scanned the crowd. No sign of Carson yet tonight. Perfect. I was early and could use all the prep time I could get.

A trio of college kids hogged the best booth, laughing over fries like heartbreak was a myth. My stomach clenched—not hunger, just nerves.

I slid onto a barstool, ordered a glass of cheap wine, and tried not to check the door every five seconds. This place—this whole weird, wonderful, sticky-floored dive—was where it had all started. Maybe, maybe, it was where something could start again.

From the corner of my eye, I caught someone slide onto the stool beside me. Hope and excitement ballooned in my chest. I turned to greet Carson.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Imogen Barrera. The crayon witch.

I looked over her short frame; her cute, gap-toothed smile; and her glittery leggings. And I said the first thing that popped into my head. “No.”

“Hi, Erika. I don’t think I’ve properly introduced myself yet. I’m Imogen Q. Barrera.” She held out her hand, with a wrist full of candy bracelets attached.

“No,” I repeated, this time more forcefully.

“You did right by Wendy, and I’m so grateful.” She smiled wider. “I just knew you’d be trustworthy after I watched some of your fluffy news pieces. You’re so good at making the news seem happy, which is a hard thing to do, I’m sure.

I turned my shoulders in, cupped my glass, and wished she’d go away.

Instead of respecting my rejection, she continued talking. “Plus, you don’t even need me telling you to keep your head down and pretend magic doesn’t exist. You have a friend at The Library.”

How did she know about Tess? And what did Tess have to do with any of this? I took a slow, measured sip from my glass even though I felt like downing it.

“They love smacking people down for stepping out of line,” she said. “They live for it.”

The Library’s enthusiastic clean-up matched Daisy’s werebunny experience. But if I was in any danger from them, Tess would have told me.

Finally I turned to face Imogen. “Since our business is concluded, there’s no reason for you to be here talking to me.”

“Sure there is. We belong to a wonderful secret magical world. We should be friends.”

Her smile was earnest. She really thought she could threaten me one minute, the next we’d braid each other’s hair like BFFs?

Clear, concise honesty was the only way I would reach her. “I have enough friends.”

She laughed. “No one has enough friends.”

This was going to be harder than I thought.

“You said I’m part of your world,” I said.

She nodded.

“I’m not. I’m not a witch. I’m completely ordinary. I’m not magical in any way.”

She wrinkled her nose. “That’s obviously not true.”

“I would like you to leave me alone. I am not interested in what you’re selling. I never will be, and we have no reason to speak further.”

“Okay….” Her tone suggested she didn’t believe me. But, she slid off her stool all the same. “Oh. I have to make a suggestion for your segment.”

I clenched my jaw and bit back the no, thank you.

“You should totally do a pet of the week. Like take a few minutes and highlight one of the shelter’s cuties. It could do so much good in helping the animals in need find their forever homes.”

That was actually not a bad idea.

But, it meant interacting with the witches again.

On a regular basis.

“I can see you’re hesitant,” Imogen said. “That’s okay. Think about it.”

She pulled a business card out of her purse. It was for Barnacles, with all of the information I already had, plus her name and number written on the bottom in sparkly pen.

When I looked back up to tell her not to get her hopes up, she was already gone.

I took a deep breath and tried to refocus. I needed my attention fully set on the reason I was here—Carson.

I spun around on my stool and scanned the bar again.

The band closed up their final song and packed up their instruments. A man rose from his seat to greet them—t-shirt, jeans, too-short black hair. I knew Carson’s back as well as I knew my own reflection.

My heart stammered. My heels flexed on the rung of my stool. I wanted to get up, cross the bar, and plant myself in his embrace. Instead, I stayed in place, twirled the stem of my wine glass on my thigh, and watched.

As the band stepped out of the spotlight, they looked even younger than they had before. Immediately I understood why Carson had chosen this place for us to meet. These were his students, possibly former by a few years at most.

Part of me hoped the musicians weren’t the only reason we were meeting at The Blue Whisper. This place was our history.

The singer grabbed Carson’s offered hand with both of hers. Her face lit up as she spoke to him with youthful jubilance. The bass player took his turn next, then the kid with the clarinet. Each of them looked like they were on cloud nine from the performance, and happier while talking to Carson.

He was a mentor, an inspiration, and the only person I’d ever imagined sharing a life with.

Our eyes met—his hazel pair shining particularly bright under the spotlights. My breath caught as he approached. Images flashed in the back of my mind.

Our first kiss.

Our last fight.

The what-ifs yet to come.

I put in too much effort to not fall off my stool, even though I was an adult competent in the use of seating.

I put too much effort into not fiddling with my wrap dress, even though as a person, I’d been completely comfortable in my own skin for years.

Tonight, my body seemed to forget all of that.

I felt like I was twenty-one all over again—hot, but with the gangly grace of a newborn fawn.

Carson slid his hands into the front pockets of his slacks, suggesting he was as nervous as I was. His choice in button down shirt over one of his typical music tees suggested he’d wanted to look his best for me, too.

His hazel gaze dragged over my skin. “You look nice. Emerald is your color.”

I pressed my lips together to hide my smile. “You look nice, too.”

He slipped onto the stool beside me and ordered a club soda—always Mr. Responsible. The predictability was comforting. Funny, it was the exact opposite of what had first attracted me to him when we sat on these same hard stools two decades ago.

He’d seemed so effortlessly cool, a hot musician I could play spontaneous with, one who I’d daydream fondly about later when I returned to my responsible, real life.

Carson hadn’t been my first kiss. But he’d been my first kiss that mattered. He’d been my first just about everything else. I’d been his, too.

After we’d made out in his hatchback that first night, he’d asked for my number. I never expected him to call.

But Carson was nothing like I’d originally expected, and everything I hadn’t known I needed.

“Sorry I didn’t join you sooner,” he said, pulling me back to the present.

“I was early. I got to see you with your…students?”

He nodded. “They graduated last year. I put in a good word for them here.”

“That was sweet of you.”

“They’re talented kids.”

“Clearly.”

He looked up at the lights above the bar. His chest expanded slowly and his shoulders eased back. “Does it feel strange to be back here?”

It felt like dipping into a swimming pool after spending a week lost in the desert. “It has been forever, but I don’t know, I think that’s why it feels so good. We made so many memories here. A-plus, maximum nostalgia.”

His gaze fell back to mine, twinkling more green than usual. “It hasn’t been as long for me, but it’s strange being here and not being the one on stage.”

“Do you miss it?”

He took a moment to sip his club soda before answering. “A little, now that I’m here. But my focus is on what comes next.”

My heart skipped a beat. “And what’s that?”

He lifted his broad shoulders ever so slightly, as if suggesting only the universe knew the answer.

More than anything, I wanted to forge a way forward for us. But being here, considering the possibility, I needed to know where exactly we’d gone wrong first.

I knew the gist of it—the white-outs. But I’d had them for our entire relationship, not just at the end.

If I asked, it could ruin everything good we had going now. If I didn’t ask, I could unknowingly repeat the same mistakes again.

The teenagers at our table left. I grabbed Carson’s hand and led him over to snag it.

It was our spot, a private corner. As the floorboards creaked under my strides, I tried to summon the nerve to ask what needed to be asked.

I felt like a Jenga tower of good intentions, barely balanced and breathless.

“This is better,” he said as we slipped into our new seats. “Nice work.”

“Thanks.”

The words lined up in my mouth, polite but persistent. I inhaled, slow and shaky, hoping maybe the warm air would turn to courage in my lungs.

A new band began to play on stage, this time piano and other strings, no vocals.

It was now or never. “I have to ask?—”

At the same time, Carson said, “I know it’s not something we’ve talked about, and I’m probably crossing a line?—”

Carson smiled. I smiled back, stomach filled with butterflies.

“You first,” he said.