A RETELLING OF PRACTICAL MAGIC.
A 300-year-old family curse. A teenage witch with a broken heart. And a lone wolf determined to solve a missing person's case.
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For three hundred years, a witch family has endured a curse: any man an Owens girl d...
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Aunt Bridget says there is no such thing as a coincidence. Not when you're a witch.
Whether it's stumbling across two dead birds on the street, having the same dream twice in a row, or running into the same person for the second time that day, she'd argue that there is always a good (or bad) reason for it. It could be the Universe sending an omen, a warning, or a nudge in the right direction. All I know is I can't get Grant out of my head.
Usually I shake off coincidences, but ever since Michael died, I've been a bit paranoid about curses and omens. Sometimes I feel like there's no escaping who I am no matter how much I deny my magic. The longer I go without using it, the more it festers inside, weakening me like a wound. Like a magical abscess waiting to pop.
After my morning shower, I slide on some black jeans and a white shirt with a bleeding heart graphic. I braid my long hair into a fishtail with a couple of loose strands out front and put on a deep brown matte and mascara. Then I fiddle with my septum piercing as I think about Grant.
I know he told me to stay away from him—and I get it, I really do. Aunt Bridgett wants me to stay away from him too. He's a freaking wolf and should be feared. There's a reason he's no longer part of his pack. But New Haven's a small town and there are only a hundred and fifty graduating seniors. We're bound to have similar schedules.
I meet Ginger in the kitchen where we down orange juice like it's fuel and kiss Aunty Fran goodbye. She has no clue we snuck out last night, or if she does, makes no mention of it. It also helps that Aunt Bridgett already left to manage the store.
"Try not to break any genitals today," Aunty Fran teases as I exit the house.
Ginny and I grab our bikes and I wait patiently as she casts a protection spell around us so that if we crash, we're unharmed. It beats strapping on a helmet and knee pads.
As we pedal, Ginger talks incessantly about James Angelov. Including his hair and his intense gaze and how much he's into her. I still don't tell her about how I know he's bad news, even when she gushes about how he's taking her out for a real date this Friday night. My stomach churns with orange juice but I know that if I say anything, she'll just get angry.
I used to tell her my premonitions all the time but she told me to stop ruining her life with my gift. Like how the movie we were getting ready to watch would make her cry for three days or that she'd end up hating the meal she ordered at the restaurant. Stuff like that. She never received any of my spoiler alerts well so I stopped.
"Are you okay? You've hardly said a word," my sister says as we park our bikes on the rack at school.
"Uh yeah." I shake my head. "Just a little tired."
We begin walking up the steps and I find myself anxiously looking around for Grant.
"Sorry if we stayed at the party too late last night. I thought we left at a decent time."
