Page 1 of The Summoning Spell (The Holiday Glitch #1)

Late-night Regrets

H ow did she end up here?

He acknowledged its existence, but he never attempted to try it.

“You good?” he had asked, right before peeling down her underwear like he was opening a granola bar, not undressing a person.

* * *

Earlier in the day, Blair stood in the kitchen, which smelled of stale coffee and her pumpkin spice wax warmer.

She had on one fuzzy sock, her bathrobe, her brown hair wrangled into something resembling a messy bun, and was poking a cold croissant with the same energy she used to swipe through dating apps: half-hearted and already disappointed .

“Ah, yes,” she muttered. “Breakfast of emotionally stunted champions.”

Her phone buzzed.

A memory notification from three years ago.

A photo: her on a boat, drink in hand, flashing a real, actual smile, one with teeth. One where it didn’t look like it was trying to convince the world she was fine.

She remembered the trip, the guy, and the disappointment that had followed it.

Swipe.

Next notification.

Her ex had posted a soft launch of his new girlfriend. A hand, a perfectly manicured hand, with a gold bracelet, rested on the wheel of his Jeep.

Blair stared too long.

Of course, she drives barefoot. Of course, she listens to indie-folk playlists curated by men who journal, and of course, she’s the kind of girl you bring home to mom. Not the one you sneak through the back door of a bar.

Her finger hovered, and then she dropped her phone into her cereal bowl.

“Real Classy,” she said aloud, wiping milk with her sleeve.

She tossed the phone onto the couch, already dreading the next notification.

Then she saw it, the T-shirt. Still balled up at the end of the bed like a ghost of bad decisions past. Gray, faded because she lived in that thing after the breakup—a stupid concert tee from a band she hadn’t even liked until he made her a playlist.

She didn’t wear it anymore, not really, but she hadn’t thrown it out either.

Because a part of her still picked it up sometimes, held it like an apology that never came.

Blair grabbed the shirt, hesitated, then shoved it deep in the trash under yesterday’s takeout and a wine bottle she’d meant to recycle.

“Finally,” she muttered. “Not everything old is worth keeping.”

* * *

Later, she FaceTimed Maya while folding laundry she had no intention of putting away.

“I’m fine,” Blair insisted, balancing a wine bottle between her thighs and a wrinkle-free shirt on her lap.

Maya squinted through the screen. “Are you?”

“I mean, no. But also yes. But mostly, spiraling with dignity.”

Maya took a long sip from a mug that read Hex the Patriarchy.

“I think we need a change,” Maya said. “Like a trip, or a tattoo, or burning your ex’s new Jeep.”

Blair laughed, hollow. “Do you ever get tired of telling me I deserve better?”

“Yes. But I also get tired of watching you hand your heart to men who don’t know how to hold their own dick.”

“I’m not looking for forever,” Blair said too quickly. “I’m just distracting myself.”

“You’ve been ‘distracting yourself’ for three years, babe.”

Blair shrugged. “Some people do yoga. I collect red flags.”

“Maybe try collecting orgasms instead,” Maya said. “From people who know where your clit is.”

Blair smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Her mind flashed back to six months earlier, when it was her birthday.

She sat at a bar with a slice of cake Maya smuggled in her purse and a balloon tied to her wrist like an ironic hostage situation.

The guy she was seeing, Jake, or was it Jason?, had texted three hours ago:

sorry babe work exploded. rain check

No emoji, no punctuation, and absolutely no effort.

Blair had smiled at the text like it didn’t gut her. Like it hadn’t taken her a week to work up the nerve to say, I want to celebrate this with you.

Maya watched her across the table.

“You okay?”

“Totally,” Blair lied. “This cake is amazing.”

“It’s smushed. It was in my purse.”

“If it has frosting, it counts.”

But later that night, after Maya left, the dishes were clean, and the candles were blown out, Blair stood in her bathroom staring at herself in the mirror and whispered,

I might be simply too much, or maybe not enough; I have no idea which one.

* * *

Her mind went back to the present day, and Maya was still on the phone while she got ready.

Blair stared at her closet, as if it held the answers to everything, at least she hoped it did.

She pulled out the costume: a tight black corset, a short skirt, and a maid headband.

“Perfect,” she muttered. “A visual metaphor for how I clean up everyone’s messes and still get treated like I’m disposable.”

She sprayed on perfume she couldn’t afford. Pulled fishnets over knees that remembered being kissed once, soft and slow, before that guy ghosted too.

Her phone buzzed—a text.

“Here :) ”

That was it.

No “looking forward to it.”

No compliments.

Only the word here, and a smiley face.

Blair stared at the screen. She could cancel, order tacos instead, watch bad horror movies, and pretend this year didn’t exist.

Instead, she took a deep breath, threw on her coat, and muttered,

“Let’s go get disappointed.”

Again.

Maya’s voice crackled through the speaker as Blair applied her lipstick like it might shield her from disappointment.

“Wait, before you go,” Maya said. “Try it.”

Blair arched a brow. “Try what? Not sleeping with emotionally constipated men?”

“Manifesting, bitch. It’s trending again. You write a list, light a candle, say what you want out loud, and boom. Magic, or algorithm, or whatever. The universe delivers.”

Blair snorted. “The last thing the universe delivered me was BV and a playlist of sad indie covers.”

Maya was unfazed. “Still, say it out loud, what do you want?”

Blair stared at her reflection. The black corset had her girls perking up, and snatched in that little extra weight around her middle. Cat eye-sharp enough to kill a man-just like Taylor Swift had taught her. Her hazel eyes held the ghost of one too many letdowns behind them.

“I want,” she hesitated. “I just want someone who doesn’t make me feel like a placeholder.”

Maya nodded. “Good. And?”

“And maybe, good sex. ”

“Thank you,” Maya said, raising her mug like a toast. “Now write it down. Or whisper it to your houseplants. Or throw glitter in the toilet. Just try.”

Blair rolled her eyes, grabbing her keys. “Spells, prayers, manifesting. It’s all the same. And none of it’s ever worked for getting me good sex.”

She clicked off the call before Maya could argue.

Then, just before she walks out,

She grabbed her bag, muttered, “Amen to poor judgment,” and stepped into the night like a woman headed straight for karmic chaos.

She didn’t know it yet, but the universe was finally listening.

* * *

And that’s how she ended up here after all. Life, bad choices, and karma, probably. The stupid text had come in. The low effort alone should’ve stopped her, but the thing about having low self-esteem? It makes one hell of a wing woman for bad decisions.

She slid into the Civic, instantly hit with a scent cocktail of Monster energy drinks, vape juice, and male entitlement. There was a faint undertone of Axe body spray and something sour, like old gym socks fermenting under the seat.

The passenger seat was shoved forward to make room for the backseat gym he lived out of. Crumpled hoodies, protein bar wrappers, a resistance band, and for some reason one single Croc.

He drove them somewhere romantic, as he called it; really, it was just some parking lot in a local park. They didn’t even get out of the car to enjoy it. It was too bad, because in the Midwest, fall is one of the most beautiful times to go exploring.

“Nice costume,” he said, smirking like he hadn’t been the one to tell her to wear this, and begged for pictures all week.

“Thanks,” she muttered, crawling into the backseat like a woman entering a grave.

The vinyl seat was freezing and sticky against her thighs. The windows fogged, trapping the heat of two bodies and none of the pleasure. Her head thunked against the door with every jackhammer thrust like he was trying to split her in half, emotionally and otherwise.

Why do men think this is what we want? The jackhammer. She blamed porn.

Maybe she should take comfort in the fact that he wasn’t big enough to hit her cervix. Honestly, for a man who boasted about how big he was, someone should have told him that four inches wasn’t a brag by now.

Did she even have to count this toward her number? Like, shouldn’t a man or woman have to make you orgasm at least once to count as a sexual partner?

Listening to the sound of the heat wheezing out of the vents, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine she was on a beach somewhere, sun on her face, drink in hand, but it felt more like a trip to hell.

Hot, cramped, suffocating. She wondered if it was possible for her night to actually get any worse.

As his sweat dripped down her body, she grimaced. She could feel every inch of his skin, damp and smothering, like a too-wet bandage after he leaned down to kiss her forehead.

She guessed that part was kind of sweet .

Maybe this guy wasn’t the worst.

After he came, he lay there like he’d just conquered Mount Everest. They always do. She lay there as if she’d survived a car crash.

She thought she needed to go take some ibuprofen and rethink her life choices.

The guy, with his dark black hair and a cute little smirk. At least he was attractive, she tried to tell herself. Like a discount Timothée Chalamet with the moral compass of a half-charged vape pen in a college bar.

But he wasn’t always a disaster. Once, he brought her soup when she was sick.

Just showed up with a plastic bag full of microwaveable soup and sat on the floor next to her couch like it was nothing.

And once, he told her she was the funniest woman he’d ever met.

That was the thing that made his words feel like promises. She should’ve known better.