Page 23 of Of Poison & Pumpkins
We? I jerk to a stop. Of course, Rynn is taken. I should have known. She’s already engaged or even married. I’ve been acting like a froggin’ fool this whole time and she’s been falling asleep by her partner every night. That should’ve been the first question I asked when tumbling back into her life at full speed.
“A boyfriend’s shirt?” I ask.
She stops. Turns. Faces me. I swear a devious expression flashes across her face. What I can’t tell is if that’s a good or bad sign.
“Maybe. You’ll need to investigate.” Her voice carries a challenge that I won’t back down from.
Fine, if she wants me to play games, then here we go. I dart to catch up.
“Where would I sleep? Will they care you invited a stranger into your shared home?” I bounce a little next to her, almost certain that she’s messing with me. “Or are you into threesomes? I appreciate the invite, but I don’t share who I care about.”
“You’re making an awful lot of assumptions, Chatterbox.”
She guides me up the stairs to her apartment again. Sunlight streams through the windows this time, creating stripes across her hardwood floors. There are even more knitted projects noticeable than last night. As I scan them, I wonder which one she’d save in an emergency?
Details stand out that weren’t visible by the light of the moon before. She’s decorated with a collection from a famous feminist abstract artist who paints with soft, curvy pastels that clash against harsh lines and edges.
“I’ve heard her artistic statement is to represent all the ways to be a female.” I nod towards one painting where light pink waves smack against rigid black streaks with angled corners. In a way, the piece reminds me of Rynn—a woman of many shapes and dimensions.
“Yeah, that’s actually correct.”
I run a fingertip over a knitted hanging flowerpot that swings from the ceiling. “How did you learn to make all these?”
“My aunt,” she replies, clicking a few buttons on her phone until soft music plays from speakers mounted on her walls.
I recognize the female Indie band but don’t know the lyrics. Attempting to be casual, I wait on pins and needle to learn if she hums along or belts it out or holds the words close to her heart.
“Aunt Felice taught me the basics when I was a senior. After I moved away, we called once a month to chat and practice new stitches. She’s the one who?—”
I stop examining her projects and catch the unsure expression on her face before she turns away.
“What? You can tell me.”
She sighs, but it sounds like defeat or resignation. “Aunt Felice taught me what it means to be a Fuzer. No one else in my family had the gene before me except for her. My mom hadn’t spoken to her in years because … well, Fuzers had been treated like demonic witches by my grandparents. So, my parents had kept the topic hush-hush for as long as possible. My aunt was the only supportive one.”
I don’t dare speak, shocked that Rynn’s opening up. A hundred comments and questions play dodgeball in my brain, but I swallow them down.
“I remember when Aunt Felice first told me she was a Fuzer. I was six and wouldn’t mature into my powers for years, but I remember thanking Mother Nature herself that I was like my aunt. I loved feeling that powerful. Then when my sixteenth birthday hit, the one thing I always desired became my heaviest burden.”
I want to ask questions, but am afraid of scaring her off. The beat of silence continues too long until she points to my stained shirt. “I know the perfect nickname! Mr. Poopy!”
“Okay, that’s it. Time to shower.”
Rynn gestures towards the only door, yet my eyes linger on her giant bed.
“Alright, well, if we’re sleeping together, I have ground rules,” I say, tugging my shirt off in one swift motion.
“There will be no sleeping together!”
Heat swarms my blood as her gaze devours my chest, across my tattoos. Then her attention returns to my eyes. Furgit! Failure isn’t an option when she looks this addicted to me. I want her to look at me this way for a long time—when I teach her how to row, when we step off a plane to explore Caracus together, and when she peeks at me over the top of her book with a thirst in her eyes.
“You think you get to set the ground rules?” She licks her bottom lip. “It’s my house.”
“Yes, well, I am the one with the dazzling smile, so I get to make three rules.”
“First rule”—she throws a folded towel at my chest, interrupting and declaring her own— “you always wear clothes.”
“No, rule number one is nothing sticky.” I shiver, unwilling to ask if she owns honey, syrup, or jelly in her cabinets.
