The Past-Life Chronicles

11

Milagro "Miracle" Romero's new age shop, Ash and Oak, smells like cinnamon and pumpkin spice-everything. Like at home, Samhain decorations dominate with artificial autumn leaves framing the front windows and pocket-sized jack-o-lanterns grinning on the cash register. Comingling with the seasonal aromas are the scents of Persephone's sandalwood incense and Amethyst's cigarettes. I breathe in the familiarity of it all. It's like nothing's changed since I was nine years old, when we used to meet once a month at the tiny Unitarian Universalist chapel downtown before it closed.

I'm sitting in the book section with a couple of titles stacked on the coffee table. One of Miracle's cats sashays my way, and I stroke his silky head. "All the food's downstairs," I tell him. With a proud flourish of his tail, he flattens his chin for one last petting, then disappears around a corner.

"Hey."

I look up, and my heart does a funny little snare drum thing.

Mason grins at me. "You came." He's wearing a proper winter coat for once, and a pair of muddy combat boots that look like they've spent too many seasons volunteering at a horse farm or something.

"Yeah." I indicate the pile of books on the coffee table. "But I'm not really in the mood to do the ritual tonight. I thought I'd just chill up here and read."

"You're so antisocial." He plops down onto the sofa next to me. "Besides, don't you want to help banish terrorism?"

Before I can remark about leaving that to the CIA, I hear my name. Among the women filing down the basement stairs is Persephone, Mason's mother, who waves at us.

"You guys coming down?" she wants to know.

"We'll stay upstairs," Mason answers.

I hold my breath, silently begging my mom not to comment. She only makes eyes at Seph, and the two disappear down the steps together, grinning.

We wait until everyone's gone. Faint strains of music from the stereo trail up to us. Mason unzips his coat, leaning back more comfortably, and I become aware how dimly lit and private it is back here.

I lower my feet from the coffee table, feeling the need to sit up straight, keep my knees together. I've been alone with Mason before, but this feels...different. I don't know why. I trust him. But I feel his eyes on me and it's like I suddenly don't know how to act.

"So if you didn't want to do the ritual," he shrugs his coat off and lays it aside, "why'd you come?"

"Because you asked me to?"

His jeans swish against the faux leather sofa as he moves closer to me. "There are no wrong answers here, Willow."

He's wearing a casual, black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and it's kind of making the back of my neck hot. Wishing I'd brought a hair tie, I sweep my hair off my neck and around my shoulders.

Unspeaking, he finishes the job for me, brushing my hair aside. He lets his fingers linger, half-buried in my thick waves. I try not to breathe too deeply. The last thing I want is to start panting in his face.

"Do you have a boyfriend, Willow?" he asks.

"No." The drummer in my heart performs double-time. "Do you?" I wince. "I mean..."

"No." His goatee stretches as he smirks. "I can't say that I have a boyfriend."

"I meant a girlfriend."

"I don't know." His hand falls away as he searches my eyes. "Do I?"

BZZ. BZZ. BZZZZZ...

"What the...?" My butt is vibrating. "I'm so sorry." I dig into my back pocket, pull out my phone, and jam my finger against the side button to silence it. But the name on the screen keeps flashing up at me.