Page 76 of Big Witch Energy

“Dad, you’re brooding like the lead in a ’90s WB drama. All you need is artfully messy hair and a rain-splattered window to stare through.”

Ben scoffed. “How do you know about WB dramas?”

“Streaming wars, Dad. Streaming wars.” Josh crossed to the fridge and grabbed a bubbly water. He poured his dad a glass and slid it across the kitchen bar. “So, tell me your troubles.”

It was possible his kids were spending too much time at the Rose.

“I don’t want to drag you guys into my problems,” Ben told him.

Josh snorted, sounding far too much like Caroline. “Well, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say. And I once saw you try to order a pizza at that Burger Barn in Indiana.”

“Their menu is confusing. And I was really tired, son.”

Josh huffed, “Dad, we live with you. We know when you’re having problems. And it actually scares us more when you try to hide them than when you just admit that it’s happening.”

When Ben could only stare at him, Josh rolled his eyes. “We knew when you and Mom were fighting. We know you tried to keep it away from us, and we appreciated it, but we heard, no matter how loud you turned up the TV. We knew you and Mom weren’t OK. Some people just aren’t meant to be married to each other. But knowing how hard you’re trying to make a life for us, to make things easier on us, it makes up for a lot, Dad. We appreciate it. We appreciate you. And we know how weird it’s been, how much life has changed since we got here. Your job. The house. Your daughter having secret ghost magic. Hell, your son getting to talk to ghosts as a friend of the coven is probably still pretty weird.”

Ben snorted. “I’m sensing a ‘but’ coming.”

“But pull your head out of your ass,” Josh told him. “And go fix what you messed up with Caroline.”

The lack of even an ounce of sympathy or remorse had Ben sputtering. “Wha—?”

“Mina told me about Pastry-gate,” Josh said. “For some reason, you adults seem to think we don’t hear things or talk to each other. It was an unfair fight, Dad. What was the point of all that therapy if you aren’t willing to apply it real life? You brought up old stuff without warning, like it was something you just talked about. You told Mina and me that’s a crappy way to fight and outlawed it as part of the Dubstep-Screamo Conversational Conflict Decrees.”

Ben snorted at the memory of hashing out appropriate strategies to handle disagreements over music choices during their road trip.

“You brought Caroline into our lives,” Josh said. “Of course, she’s going to have advice for us. Hell, there are few people around here more qualified to give us advice, living here her whole life, having magic. And if her advice to Mina hurt your feelings, well, get over it. It’s not necessarily about you. Caroline is right. Mina is way too young to be settling her whole future right now, even if this boy is dreamy and noncreepy. You and Caroline were too young to plan your whole lives out when you left for school. You both had a lot of growing up to do. And if Caroline sounded a little too…vehement? Is ‘vehement’ the right word?—forceful, emphatic, whatever other vocabulary list word that means ‘making her point too hard’—in her advice to Mina, well, that should tell you how much it hurt to give you up. If it poked at a bruise in you, you need to process that in a way that doesn’t wreck your whole relationship, life, and ability to be a morning person.”

It was a humbling thing, to realize your kids were smarter than you. Ben reached up and fluffed Josh’s hair as his son leaned his head against Ben’s shoulder. Josh had to lean down to do it, which was even more of a blow to Ben’s ego, but he would process that later.

“It’s not wrong to want something for yourself,” Josh told him. “And if that happens to be Caroline, who is really cool and can tolerate you and your kids? And your kids like her? A lot? Well, that works out, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know if things are that simple, Josh,” Ben admitted.

“Dad, is it possible that you’re just being an incredible doofus?”

“Anything is possible, son.”

***

Ben wasn’t proud of how long it took him to work up the nerve to leave the house. He’d been wrong. He wasn’t too proud to admit that. But still, apologizing was going to be hard, even with the clear apology guidelines set forth in the Dubstep-Screamo Conversational Conflict Decrees.

He said goodbye to Josh and jogged down the stairs of Gray Fern. He stopped at the sidewalk between his gate and Riley’s. He realized he didn’t know where to look for Caroline. When they were kids, it would have been one place—the Rose. But now, she also could be at Shaddow House or her own house or Alice’s shop or even Petra’s bakery. He was happy for her, that she had so many options now, people to turn to—including his own children, whom he was starting to suspect would side with her in any future disputes.

That wasn’t going to save him any time or shoe leather, as his father would have said.

Plover didn’t answer the door, not that he would have been able to, Ben supposed. But the ghostly house father did stand behind the glass of the door and give Ben a silent, disapproving stare, which communicated all Plover needed to, Ben supposed. Searching the bakery, the cottage, and Alice’s shop yielded similar nonresults. The Rose was locked up and everything inside was covered with drop cloths.

He didn’t even see Cole inside, looking like the cover for a romance novel about a smoldering handyman werewolf.

Dick.

Calls to Gert, Alice, and Mina went unanswered. Finally, he had some luck, finding Riley and Alice outside of the courthouse-slash-police-department-slash-jail, talking to one of the locals, Dutch Hastings.

Maybe it wasn’t luck. He knew the moment he saw the set of Riley’s shoulders that something was wrong.

“I’m sure it’s OK, Riley,” Dutch was assuring her. “And you can’t talk to Trooper Celia like that.”

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