Page 52 of The Bairwick Witches
“I know, right! Good to know we still got that chemistry.” Dev squeezed him tighter, before quickly throwing his free arm behind his back.
“Damn.” Dev sighed, breaking their embrace.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” Schuyler wiped his face and prepared himself for a second goodbye, a much harder one.
Hell of a night.
“Babe, there’s no need for anymore tears. Our evening is over, yeah, but that’s all. I’m not confined here anymore. I can visit in your dreams—and I mean, prepare yourself for some sexy-ass night terrors, you bearded hottie.” He got another small laugh out of Schuyler. “This isn’t a sad goodbye. This is likethose nights when we first started dating, remember? I’d see you home, like the gentleman I am, and we’d linger on the porch and kiss.
“Then the time would come when I’d have to turn and walk away, and that walk always sucked. But I knew I was going to get to see you the next day. That’s how we have to look at tonight.”
Time paused as they kissed—kisses that stretched from those nights on the porch, to the imagined future which saw them together in old age, still kissing like teenagers.
Dev pulled away, feeling the spell ending. “I could give it to you,” he said, cupping his hand at his chest, the spiraling chaotic sun appearing again, hovering in his palm. “Imagine what you could do with it.”
Schuyler looked at the ball of energy, a violent swirl of potential. He reached out; his hand slid under Dev’s and pushed it softly back to chest. “If I ever need that much power, I know where to find it.”
“I knew you would say that. Fun fact about the potion: it’s part old mortuary magic, used to bring badly scarred bodies back to the point before, so they could be viewed during their burial ritual. Though, when it’s over, the spell moves in reverse. I don’t want you to see that.
“So tonight, Schuyler Croy, the only man I’ve ever loved, it will have to be you who walks away from our date.”
Dev summoned the journal, which had gotten tossed around in the fray, to Schuyler, who clutched it to his chest.
“I love you.” He kissed Devion once more, a final taste of his lips, to see his face and reaffirm the image which would stay in his mind. It took him a moment to find the courage to turn around, but Schuyler summoned it.
“I love you more,” Dev called out. “I love you always.”
“Always,” Schuyler whispered, trying to hold himself together, refusing to break down, refusing the urge to turn around, to take one last look at the man he loved more than anything.
With his eyes straight ahead, Schuyler carried on moving forward toward down the cemetery’s path.
Chapter Nineteen
Beau fluttered about the sunroom, ignoring Marshall’s requests for him to sit down already. He’d set out of the freshly acquired dinner on the table: a large helping of pork fried rice, eggrolls, and sesame chicken. And now, Beau paced around with the bong, before he found the lighter on a worktable and swished the droopy sleeves of his brightly colored, vintage sixties caftan around until he sat down.
“Family,” he announced, “Tis time!”
With his flamboyant southern-lady movements, he lit the bong, taking a large hit before exhaling with a little cough and launching into a tirade about the day.
Schuyler worked with him, so the grievances of the day were already well known. Still, he was grateful for the grounding normality of a Wednesday night with his family. He had spent the days after the Dev/Issac affair locked away in his room.
Affair, makes it sound tawdry and cheap.
I was there, narrating it; it was.
Just continue the story.
The events of the past few days had taken their toll, and Schuyler needed a healthy dose of solitude to recalibrate body and soul. Dev gave him space, going off to explore all the facets of the afterlife he anxiously awaited, with promises he’d pop up in dreams soon; a promise he kept.
Schuyler took the bong and a hit as Beau finished up and Marshall shared his day; as usual, his was chill and drama free. He had remained at home, working on products for the shop. He shared, instead, the things within his day that made him grateful: Estelle, having all the tools he needed to do what he loved, food in the fridge, his family around him, and Schuyler being home. What else did he need?
Marshall’s outlook always made Schuyler appreciate the small things—a considerable feat for a brain wired by genetics to steer everything toward the overdramatic. A humorous coincidence as at that exact moment Beau flared his caftan out like a true diva, before diving into his plate of sesame chicken. Schuyler chuckled to himself as he took another hit and secretly prayed to the Goddesses to please not let him become Beau when he got older.
“Don’t be selfish, homo,” Beau sassed, holding his hand outstretched, demanding the bong back. “And it’s your turn.”
Reluctantly, Schuyler handed the pipe back and settled into the couch, his eggroll on a plate on his lap, waiting for the cannabis to kick in and make the meal taste even more amazing. Today was the first he had spent in the shop since before Dev’s brief resurrection—a nice break from the past few in his room.
He opened his share with the story of the frantic woman who’d come barging into the shop in the afternoon, dragging her husband behind her. “So, she’s moving in a line right for me and when she approached the counter, all she said, and quite loudly, was, ‘You gotta fix his dick!’”
