When We Were Magic by Sarah Gailey (best books to read non fiction TXT) 📕

our hands clenched together tight. Gray bark hardens and cracks and splits and grows again. A gash opens in one side of the trunk; it oozes sap and then heals over within a few seconds.

“Holy shit,” Roya says.

“Holy shit,” I repeat, because there’s nothing else that either of us can say. With a rustle and a shake of acorn-heavy branches, the oak stops growing. It’s easily fifteen feet tall, with a huge, full canopy. It’s beautiful.

It’s ours.

“We did that,” Roya breathes.

“Are you scared?” I ask.

“Of what?”

“Of what might happen next. Of what you might lose.”

She shakes her head. “It’ll happen how it happens, and you’ll be with me for it, so why would I be scared?”

I don’t say anything at all. I just grab her by the shoulders, push her back against the trunk of our new tree, and kiss her.

We make a pile of our clothes in the grass as the sun goes down.

Roya presses me down into the flowers as the crickets start to sing.

I gasp her name as the first few stars appear in the dusky sky.

I kiss her, and I kiss her, and I kiss her. And she kisses me back.

20.

THE DRIVE HOME FROM ROYA’S meadow is soft-focus: she drives with one hand and gives me the other hand, and I kiss her palm, and we don’t say a word to each other. The windows are down and the crickets are singing so loudly that we can hear them even over the sound of the road passing underneath us.

By daylight the next morning, though, I wonder if maybe we should have talked. Maybe I should have asked her if what happened in the meadow meant the same thing to her as it did to me. Even though all I want is to see her and the way she laughs and the way she smiles and the way she messes with her hair when she’s thinking hard about something and the way she gasps when I kiss the hollow of her hip—even then, I don’t want to see her because I’m afraid she won’t meet my eyes. What if she’s embarrassed around me? What if she says that it was just a joke, or a fling, or—worst of all—a mistake?

I check my phone for messages from her while I try to figure out what a girl is supposed to wear to a search party. The announcement said to wear comfortable shoes and included dire warnings about ticks and dehydration. I decide on jeans and a tank top: it’s hot as hell, but I’m pretty sure that I heard once that long pants are good to wear when there are ticks around. I dig under my bed for my hiking boots, pushing aside the backpack with Josh’s name on it.

My hand freezes.

I do a mental tally.

The head. The arms. The legs. The spine. The liver. The hands. The feet.

All those parts are gone. I had gotten so used to the feeling of knowing that we had more pieces to get rid of—so used to the guilt and uncertainty and pressure—that I hadn’t realized we were done.

I tug the bag out from under my bed, and there’s no heft to it at all, no weight. Before I even finish unzipping it, I know what I’ll find. But I still have to see for myself.

I pull at the zipper tabs, and the loose piece of duct tape covering Josh’s name falls to my bed. My palm covers the J in Josh as I pull the backpack open and look inside.

I was right. I try to exhale, but I can’t seem to remember how. I was right. There’s nothing in there. I was right, and I have no idea what will happen next.

The backpack is empty.

The heart is gone.

The search party is up on the overlook where Paulie kissed me. I catch a ride with Maryam, who passes me a mason jar of something she calls an iced marshmallow latte. It tastes like powdered sugar and toasted breadcrumbs. I tell her to give her dad a C-minus from me. She laughs, and then she tells me about all of his recent culinary adventures. His attempt at homemade cocoa puffs. His basil obsession. I realize, halfway to the overlook, that she’s talking nonstop. It’s not like her—she’s big into listening and leaving room for conversation. I think she’s doing it so I don’t have to talk, and I’m unspeakably grateful.

When she pulls into one of the last open parking spaces at the overlook, I unbuckle my seat belt and turn to her. She waits for me with big, serious eyes. Her makeup is light, glowy, natural. She’s here to work today, and she’s here for me.

I finally get it. I trust her. I trust her with my secrets, and I trust her with my friendship, and I trust her with my gratitude. I don’t need to apologize for being thankful for her. I don’t owe her an apology—just gratitude.

“Hey, before we go out there. I just wanted to say thanks. I know that none of this is yours to deal with, and it means a lot that you’ve been here for me.”

She rests her fingertip on my chin and stares into my eyes, just like she did on prom night. “Always,” she says. “I’m always here for you. No matter what.”

I nod. “I know,” I answer. “Thank you.”

There are a ton of people at the tree line, getting instructions. The cop from school is there. I try to move away from her, but she waves me over. My heart pounds as I approach her. She’s watching me with those hawk-eyes. I try to keep my face still and calm, try to focus on the way that my breath moves through my lungs the way Iris always says. I try not to be scared.

And then I get to the cop, and her eyes pass right over me as she waves over the next girl. My breathing settles a little.