102 - A Message Made From Bones

3

Faith and I feel Buffy's presence before she knocks on the door, already facing in that direction from our respective spots in the foyer. Oz must've as well, as he moves the exact time Faith does, both starting for the door.

Quickly noticing Oz's eagerness, Faith lets him get there first, perching on the arm of the couch next to Moira. Her eyebrow is raised suggestively as she observes him; his restrained anticipation mirrors that of a well-trained dog catching a whiff of its target and swiftly seeking it out.

He swings the door open, the wooden slab groaning on its wobbly hinges, but the hole busted in the center remains—from my palm.

The memory of kicking it down flashes, and I cringe internally, knowing well enough that it really wasn't my business to have interfered in the Whitlocks' dealings to begin with. That the door didn't need to be kicked down, but I had let my temper get the best of me.

I try to ignore the judgmental look Kai slices me, feeling her eyes like icy daggers from her post against the wall—perfectly positioned to monitor both the living room conversation and the one I was having with Jay.

Hey, but if I hadn't, the premonition would have come to pass, and Kai would be dead right now. And the idea of Jay having to mourn her...

My spaghetti feels like it's knotting in my stomach just imagining that.

From my spot at the kitchen island, all I can see is a glimpse of them at the threshold, mostly Oz: the afternoon light gilds his red hair in gold, and his usually calm demeanor is now tense and prickly—consider those werewolf hackles figuratively raised.

He steps aside, revealing the infamous blond slayer at the threshold. Her jade-green eyes linger on the hole, observing the damage, before they flick in my direction—for only a heartbeat, but her look is unmistakable: Really, Illyria?

Buffy's mouth breaks from its thin, unamused line when she turns to Oz, the corner of her lip lifting up slightly after taking him in. But her voice is soft, almost tired, as she greets, "Hey, guy." Then she wraps her arms around him, her red leather jacket stark against his dark flannel, offering a gentle squeeze before stepping aside to reveal Willow behind her.

The sight of the redhead has me fully twisting in my seat for a better look: Two old lovers, reunited after a ruff history. I'm too nosy not to see how this exchange goes down.

"Wil," Oz breathes coolly, but he seems stuck on getting the next word out.

"Oz," Willow greets, flashing a brief smile that quickly dissolves, washed away by the task at hand. Her tone is friendly, but her face—only business, determination—and the moment snuffs before it can ignite. No flicker of pain, of yearning, of regrets. Or at least she's easily mastered all that, despite having long gotten over Oz—and men in general—and follows Buffy inside without a stumble in her stride.

Well, that was anticlimactic.

Just as I'm about to turn my attention back to Jay, Oz moves to the side to let Buffy and Willow inside—and I catch a flash of brown, silky hair: River.

My eyes go wide, taking her in as if she's a ghost. "Holy shit."

's been nearly two years since I've seen all three, but my excitement peaks at the sight of my oldest friend. My best friend.

I've known her longer than I've known Moira, but communication has been limited to need-to-know exchanges since I came overseas—expensive international texts and lack of signal, yadda-yadda.

I can't contain my excitement, ignoring every twinge of pain as I rush to envelop her in a tight hug.

Everything about River feels like home: from her dark, gold-brown hair, which I remember being long enough to braid in high school, to the warm scent of fresh linens that seems to cling to her clothes permanently. Even the lingering smell of spearmint gum brings back memories of how our friendship began in first grade.