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Chapter Sixty-One

W hit rewrapped the second half of his turkey sandwich. The half he’d just finished sat like a rock in his stomach. For the last four days, he’d subsisted on Thanksgiving leftovers—when he felt like eating, that was, which wasn’t often. Pie for breakfast, half a sandwich for lunch, and maybe the rest for dinner. But none of it tasted quite right. It felt like too much flavor—overwhelming as it forced him to deal with reality.

He hadn’t heard from Clover since she’d asked him to leave her bedroom. She hadn’t come home, and he had no idea whether she would. Even with his grandfather back, the house seemed empty. Things had returned to exactly how they’d been not even two months before. Yet he felt like a stranger in his own life.

What had he even done with his time before, when he didn’t have to think about what or how Clover was doing?

Whit rubbed his palm against the uncomfortable burning that had settled in his chest—probably heartburn from eating pie for breakfast. He took a deep breath, then cleared his throat. But he felt no relief.

He didn’t have the capacity to worry about the fact that, after three days, Grandfather had still not revealed how he felt about Clover being a summer witch. He was almost grateful that the old man had masterfully evaded dealing with the topic. Whit didn’t ask. Then again, he hadn’t talked much at all.

His mind was too full—too full of memories and what ifs. He replayed every encounter he’d had with Clover. He wondered what he could have done differently. But it was the anxiety of what would happen next that truly tormented him.

Whit didn’t want Clover to leave, but he also had no right to ask her to stay. He couldn’t give her what she wanted. So he waited. He waited for her to work through her emotions, to come to her decision, to deliver a verdict that would determine the course of the rest of his life.

Sighing heavily, Whit looked down at the glass jewelry counter in front of him, where his deck of tarot cards sat beside his phone. He clenched his fist when his fingers twitched toward the phone to text Clover. Was it a bad idea just to see if she was all right? Surely, he was allowed to worry about that.

Instead of picking up the phone, he grabbed the cards and gave them a quick shuffle. He couldn’t trust his mind at the moment. He needed guidance.

Flipping the top card over, he frowned at the three of swords—a bleeding heart run through by three sharp blades.

Whit huffed, rolling his eyes. “You don’t say,” he muttered to himself.

Clicking his tongue in frustration, he tossed the cards down and picked up his phone. His fingers hesitated on the keyboard. Shaking his head, he typed his message and sent it.

Please let me know you’re okay at least.

He was staring at the screen, waiting for a response when the door to his shop opened.

Whit looked up to find Alexandre with a thermos in hand.

“No wonder your mom sent me,” Alexandre said, setting the thermos on the counter.

Whit had not told his mother Clover had left, so he had no idea what Alexandre was talking about.

“How was your Thanksgiving?” Whit asked, reaching for the thermos to look inside.

Alexandre raised an eyebrow. “Amazing as always, but is that really what you want to talk about?”

Whit peeked into the container before taking a sniff. Banana milk. Mom knows something’s wrong. Did Clover tell her?

“What do you mean?” Whit questioned, screwing the thermos lid back on.

Alexandre raised his lip in distaste. “Have you taken a look at your face lately? I mean, I knew something was up when your grandfather came to visit and your mom shut the study doors. But I thought they were just discussing your wife’s status as a summer witch. What happened? Did your grandfather come home early and disapprove? I told you it was a mistake to marry her.”

Whit’s stomach lurched. “It wasn’t a mistake,” he snapped reflexively.

Alexandre held up his hands. “If you feel so strongly about it, why do you look like the world is ending? You said you followed the terms of the pact. So you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Whit hesitated. Was that what he looked like to someone who knew him well? He thought he was handling it. He thought he could handle whatever conclusion Clover came to.

Whit swallowed around the lump in his throat. He didn’t meet Alexandre’s gaze. “She, uh, she left me.”

Alexandre blew out a loud breath, shaking his head. “See? That’s what you get from those summer girls. They’re flaky. It’s amazing that any of their relationships last. At least Faustina was honest. As much as I don’t like her, she didn’t play around.”

Whit winced. Clover and Faustina were polar opposites. How had he ended up in the same place?

“Look, man, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I just don’t like to see you like this. I don’t even know the woman. I’ve been busy, and you were still getting to know each other, so I stayed away. I didn’t think you’d get in so deep this fast. Go on. Tell me what happened. I’ll keep my mouth shut. Well, I’ll try to keep my mouth shut.”

Whit scrunched his brow—his mind pushing against his friend’s words. It wasn’t that he was in deep. He’d been in love before—with Faustina—and this feeling was nothing like that. Loving Faustina had been desperate and all-encompassing. She was everything, and he’d done the stupidest things to please her, to be with her for even a moment longer.

But being around Clover was never like that. He wanted to see her happy, to make her smile. Her laughter gave him joy, and her tears made him sad. She was simultaneously brave and strong—standing up to those she loved most for what she believed to be true, weathering the storm of their disapproval—as well as fragile and scared. At times, he wanted to follow her lead, try things her way and trust that everything would work out. But he also wanted to use his strengths to protect her. If it was stormy, he wanted it to be his coat that sheltered her. If she cried, he wanted it to be his arms around her. If she was hurt, he wanted it to be his fists defending her.

But that wasn’t love. That was merely what he’d promised to do as her husband. He’d vowed it before all the gods—both winter and summer—as well as the ancestors.

Faustina had made him vulnerable, exposed like a newborn left in the wilderness, and only she could provide him with what he’d needed. But Clover, she made him strong. She made him want to act, made him want to be more himself than he’d been before.

If Clover left for good, he would still be who he was. He just wouldn’t be as bright. He wouldn’t be as certain. He wouldn’t be as much himself as he was when she was around.

Whit looked up at Alexandre, who was patiently waiting to hear what had happened. But Whit shook his head. He wasn’t ready to tell his friend. In that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to relive it. He couldn’t bring himself to say that she loved him, but he didn’t feel the same.