Page 2 of Claimed By the Mothman
The man behind the counter hadn’t looked up. “That one’s yours,” he’d said before she even opened her mouth.
The price tag had read exactly seventeen dollars. She had exactly seventeen dollars in her wallet.
The moment the opal had settled on her finger, something shifted. Not dramatically—more like a radio finally finding its frequency. The constant low-level anxiety that had been her companion for months eased and softened into the background. The shop around her seemed to exhale, as if it, too, had been holding its breath. The man behind the counter looked up for the first time, his eyebrowless face creasing into what might have been a smile.
“Suits you,” he said simply. “Been waiting for the right person.”
Nell wanted to ask what he meant, but something told her she already knew.
After eight years of a failed marriage and the following slow drip of unraveling sanity, the weight of the ring grounded her. She told herself it was a self-engagement ring, instead of a security blanket covering the emptiness of her left third finger.
When she turned it now—a fidget that was quickly becoming a habit—the opal caught the café light and shimmered faintly. Nell brushed her thumb over its smooth surface, and looked out the window.
The street was quiet. A delivery truck idled at the curb. A man walked past with a leashed cat in a harness, which seemed to delight both of them. Across the café, a couple sat close, knees touching, heads bowed over a shared screen. Nell watched them without meaning to, her stomach tightening with something she couldn’t quite name. Grief, maybe. Or grief’s quieter cousin—emptiness wearing hope’s clothes.
She blinked hard and looked away.
Her chest hurt. That was new.
No, not new—returned. A kind of tightness behind her ribs that came and went these days. It usually flared up when she was lying to someone. Or herself. And today she was doing both.
She wasn’t just here for tea and a reunion. She was pretending the library gig was already hers, when all she had was a once-friend’s promise.
Her last job had let her go quietly after the divorce became public knowledge. Restructuring, they said, though her manager couldn't meet her eyes when he said it. Since then, she’d scraped by on freelance editing jobs and half-hearted applications, pretending she wasn’t circling the drain.
And the divorce itself?
Gods. It had been final for three weeks, but grief still rang throughout her body. A wrong number on her cell could knock the air out of her lungs. The sound of someone else’s toothbrush tapping porcelain in the hotel room adjacent to hers could bring her to her knees. The heartbreaking way that no one around her said her name out loud, like it had become cursed by association, made her soul shrivel a little more each day.
She’d left behind a full set of matching plates, a cactus they’d treated as their first child, and a version of herself she couldn’t recognize in photos. One that smiled wide, wore lipstick, and held Edward’s elbow like it was a hot air balloon lifting her to new heights.
Baby steps,she told herself sternly, spinning the ring once more and taking a deep breath.One day at a time. This is just—
The seat across from her squeaked. A flurry of scarf, copper curls, and radiant chaos crashed into the booth like a very glamorous thunderstorm.
“Nell Townsend, as I live and breathe!”
“Goldie,” Nell said, already smiling before she looked up.
Just like that, the years folded in on themselves and Nell was transported back twenty years: Parkview High, bad eyeliner, and late-night tarot spreads on Goldie’s bedroom floor. But it wasn’t just nostalgia that tightened her throat—it was relief. A sudden, aching rush ofoh, thank gods, someone who remembers the “me” before everything fell splendidly apart.
–
They’d reconnected three weeks ago, during one of Nell’s lowest nights. The divorce papers had been filed that morning. She’d had too much boxed wine, too little food, and even less restraint. She told herself she was just checking her emails, but somehow ended up on Edward’s profile.
His new picture was him andher—the intern. Elinore.
Nell stared at Edward’s new profile photo for a full minute before closing the tab. Then reopening it. Then zooming in on her. Elinore. Twenty-three to her thirty-six. Tall and slim to her short and needs-to-lose-ten-pounds. Sleek blonde curls to her frizzy brown hair. Sparkling blue eyes to her faded green ones.
Perfect skin. Perfect resume. Perfecteverything—and now, the perfect life that Nell had once believed was hers. The same girl Nell had walked in on six months ago, naked in their bed and giggling like it was all just a sitcom misunderstanding.
She shut her laptop. Opened it again. Angrily refreshed her Facebook feed.
A familiar name caught her eye. Marigold “Goldie” Flynn. Her face beaming in the “People You May Know” box. Older now, but unmistakable. Goldie always had that look like she belonged somewhere more glamorous than reality. Goldie—the one who seemed to be meant for bigger and better things, whether that was a national scandal or a Nobel Prize. They’d been best friends throughout high school, but then time, distance, and life eroded connections until they were, well, names on a Facebook feed.
Feeling bold, Nell scrolled Goldie’s profile. Tarot memes. Vintage typewriters. A blurry photo of Goldie in a velvet jumpsuit holding a cat and a cocktail. Cheesy platitudes that somehow seemed authentic coming from her. Goldie had emerged from high school asmore than, and was embracing life with an enthusiasm that made Nell’s stomach churn, but in a good way.
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was grief. Or maybe it was the soft, desperate whisper in her chest that said,Please don’t let this be all there is.
