Spellweavers

Chapter Five

Samuel

I pull into the parking lot outside the small apartment complex right as the clock hits noon. I walk up the stairs to the second story and down the hall to Océane's apartment. I raise my hand to knock on the door, but it swings open before my fist hits the wood. Océane stands there with her blue hair pulled into a sloppy bun, wearing ripped skinny jeans, a red flannel button up, and a pair of black boots. She doesn't say a word, just steps back, making room for me to enter. I walk past her, stepping into the living room. She shuts the door quietly and follows me, standing with her arms crossed.

"So I take it you've made your decision," I say plainly. I don't even have to ask her what it is. The apartment is clearly much tidier from her packing, and I can see a duffel bag and a backpack sitting on the table in the kitchen.

She takes a deep breath, like she's composing herself. "I'm going," she finally says with a nod.

I smile. "Well then, let's get going," I say as I walk past her to the kitchen. I pick up the duffel bag from the table, and start to reach for the backpack, but she grabs it first.

"I can take that too," she says, pointing at the duffel bag slung across my shoulder.

"It's fine. I've got it," I say, heading to the door. She follows behind me, locking the door once we exit. We then walk downstairs to my car, dropping her bags in the trunk. I slide into the front seat and lean across the car to unlock the passenger's door. She opens the door a little and leans down.

"I'll be right back," she says, taking off away from the car and into a room on the first floor. She is gone for a few minutes before returning, her lanyard now missing all of its keys. She slides into the seat, buckles her seatbelt, and gives me a small smile. I return her smile with a grin as I start the car and pull away from the building.

She stares out the window as the apartments grow smaller in the distance, lost in thought. Soon, however, she shakes her head as if to pull herself back to reality and turns on the car radio, flipping through the stations to an annoyingly loud punk rock station.

"Hey, driver picks the music," I say as I flip the station back over to my favorite alternative station.

"No, that's not how this works," she says, turning it back. "The driver needs to focus on the road, not the music." She smiles, clearly pleased with herself, and leans back, closing her eyes.

I roll my eyes and lock my eyes on the road. This is going to be one long drive back to Salem.