Chapter 10: Ezra - Entities to Lovers

I wake up to the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and the sweet sound of Rory humming somewhere in the apartment.

The couch smells like her perfume. I’ve been enveloped in her all night long, and frankly, I’m alarmed at how well I slept, all things considered. I shouldn’t have been cozy knowing a vengeful spirit has it out for us, I’m cursed to spend every second with my supposed nemesis, and the fact that I’m on a couch in the first place. But Rory’s apartment is comfortable, homey, and I don’t hate it.

I didn’t have much time to look at her apartment when I first arrived, but it’s so appropriately her it’s almost hilarious. With any other tenant, it might be a boring, poorly decorated studio with a surprisingly spacious kitchen, but with Rory living here, it’s her own little oasis. Her bed is shoved into the corner of the room with a purple and brown–printed comforter, several pillows Luna rearranged last night, and a zodiac tapestry hanging above the bed.

The back wall is lined with mismatched bookshelves all full, either with books or knickknacks, jars of herbs, or crystals. I scope the titles on the shelves. Self-help books, spellcraft books, even romance. The floor lamp beside her bed looks more like a leaning sapling than it does a light, with a small lantern hanging from the top.

My headache’s gone away, thankfully, but as I rub my eyes, I discover the bruising has not. Thank god I don’t have class again for a few days. Maybe by then we’ll be free of this damn curse, or at the very least, my kids won’t make fun of me. Considering the past day or so, I’m aiming really low.

I reach for my phone and check my messages. Marty from IT has gotten back to me and fixed all the class grades (finally), and at least half the class already turned in their assignments. It’s a level of proactive I do not usually see from freshmen in a gen-ed class. Maybe we’re off to a better start today, at least.

And the resident ghost of Rory’s apartment seems to be nowhere to be found, too.

I’m not scared of Luna, per se, but I don’t exactly love having a ghost around. I don’t like knowing I’m being constantly watched.

I find Rory milling about the kitchen area, as if I’m not here. She was so on edge last night about sharing space with me, but I hope I’ve made it easy enough. We don’t need to make this any harder than it is. Dare I say, we even had a nice time last night? Our conversations were snappy as always, but they weren’t the same level of combative as I’m used to from us.

She seems calmer this morning, settling back into a routine. She’s in a pair of leggings that hug her hips and thighs but swapped the oversized sweatshirt from last night for a rust-colored turtleneck. Her hair’s swept into a messy bun with baby hairs dangling at the back of her neck and ears. She’s on her phone, pondering and typing. With the way the sun shines into the dining area, her hair looks like threads of pure gold and the crystal suncatcher in the window flashes prismatic colors across her face.

One of my favorite parts of history is all the people who did things they didn’t think mattered much but stood the test of time. Moments like simple mornings with loved ones, final goodbyes, or etching the inklings of a crush with a quill. These have all prevailed because they were worth remembering. I want an image like this one of Rory to last forever, so I engrave it into my memory.

I’m so distracted watching her, I drop my phone…on my face. She stirs from the kitchen table. In an instant, the comfortable, relaxed Rory from mere seconds ago is gone. Now her back’s straight, her expression stern and serious, her arms crossed. My god, I just woke up. How could I have pissed her off already?

“Morning,” I mumble. My voice comes out sounding like it’s crawled through the desert.

“Morning,” she says. “How was the couch?”

I check my pants to make sure nothing unfortunate is happening down there and sit up. I slip the discarded rings and necklace I placed on the coffee table last night back onto my hands. “Not the worst couch I’ve slept on.”

I rise and join her in the kitchen.

“And how’s the head?”

I can’t tell if she’s genuinely concerned, but it’s nice to be thought of, I suppose.

“Also not the worst.”

“Good,” she says, shuffling her fuzzy socks on the tiles. “Uh. Bathroom’s all yours. There’s also an extra toothbrush, if you need it. I’m going to get ready for the day.”

We’ve got to plan how we’re supposed to conquer anything if we can’t leave each other’s side. Logistically, I could spend all day with her if I needed to, but I’m booked for a tour this evening. Unless Delia’s keen to let us do one together again, I might end up driving into Boston Harbor and taking everyone aboard with me.

But first, coffee.

Before I shut the door to the bathroom, Rory tenses up.

“Whatever you do, just…don’t be gross?” Rory grumbles.

I pause and rub the sleep from my eyes. “I have no idea what you mean by that.”

“If you have to ask…”

“Look, with you, the bar is on the floor. Do you mean to not leave beard shavings in the sink? Make sure I rinse the toothpaste down the drain? Or am I, like…not allowed to go to the bathroom?”

I mean, it’s all a valid question. If we’re stuck together, am I going to have to walk down the street to a coffee shop to use the bathroom? Is showering out of the picture? Is blowing my nose crossing the line? I hate mess, too, but some of these are things a guy just can’t help.

“Just make sure you have good aim,” Rory asserts.

“Awesome. Don’t pee all over the bathroom. Mastered that when I was four.”

I shut the door behind me, brush my teeth with the tiny travel toothbrush Rory left for me, and wash my face. In the other room, Rory shuffles her tarot cards. It’s a soothing thwiiip sound as she cuts the deck and shuffles the cards back into place. When I return, she flips one over and places it in front of her.

The Moon.

“That looks nice,” I remark, nodding at the card in her hand. There are dogs and a lobster worshipping the moon. “The lobster is…fun.”

“It’s a crawfish.”

“Forgive me,” I say, leaning against the wall.

“Maybe,” she tells me, tensing. “Why are you posing like that? This is not Tiger Beat.”

I genuinely did not think I was posing, but clearly, any of the progress we made last night has shriveled up quickly. “I’m leaning. Am I not allowed to lean either? I can’t pee. I can’t lean. I can’t snore.”

“I’d like if you didn’t complain so much, too, while you’re at it.” Rory stands from the kitchen table and moves into the kitchen. It’s surprisingly spacious for a Boston apartment, but with the two of us in here, it’s a powder keg ready to burst.

“There enough for two in there?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah, what’s mine is yours.”

I lean next to the fridge—deliberately, because now I know leaning is apparently one of the Seven Deadly Sins—and fidget with the silver hoop at the top of my ear. “It’s literally water. And coffee grounds. You’re just being bitter.”

“Yes,” she confirms. “I really am. I don’t like having you in my space. You’re invasive. Like a spotted lanternfly.”

“Never been compared to a winged insect before, but hey, there’s a first time for everything.” I hold my hands up in surrender. “You can pretend I’m not here. I’ll mind my own business. I think I’ve been on my best behavior lately.”

“I would hate to know what your worst is.”

“Likewise,” I retort. The coffee machine gurgles to a finish. “What about those teas you said you make?”

“I actually just ran out of Pain in My Ass flowers, so coffee it is. I’m going to need it if I’m glued to your side.”

Rory props a hand on her hip and rubs the bridge of her nose. Glued to her side does sound like a nightmare when her clothing shows off her body like that. Her figure is thin, but curvy with tantalizing hips. It took a mental cold shower to keep calm as she stood between my legs last night. Her waist would graze my thighs occasionally, leaning her body weight against my leg as she stood on her toes to see the cut. She was so close and the touch alone made me feel like I was going to explode.

Rory pulls two mugs from the cabinet. Hers is rust orange with a printing of Judith Beheading Holofernes and the message Support Women’s Wrongs. She passes me a plain gray mug, even though I see other expressive ones in the cabinet. I’ve been relegated to boring mug status.

“You did make enough for both of us,” I coo. “You do like me.”

“Oh, let’s not be hilarious.”

Rory fills her coffee first and steps out of the way to let me in. She pours milk and sugar into hers, and I follow suit, catching her off guard.

“You know, I figured you’d drink your coffee black—”

“Like my soul?” I suggest. “Because you see energies and all that?”

“Whatever.”

We sip our coffee in tense silence. I slurp a little too loud just to annoy her, and boy, does it. Her eyes go blank, like she’s attempting to dissociate.

“Anyway,” I begin. “This is day two of ‘Being Cursed.’ What are we supposed to do?”

“I need to go to work,” she says. “You’ll have to come with me, otherwise it’ll be bad for both of us. Then…we’ll have to do another tour together this evening if we’re both working.”

It’s not ideal. The lead-up to Halloween is always chaotic. We need all the guides we can get to cover tours this week, so forcing us together is a stress on Delia’s schedule.

“Yeah, because that went so well last time.”

“What other option do we have? You want to come up with a better idea and get hit by something worse than a street sign? I don’t like it either, but I think we’ve got to stick together until we have some kind of plan to fix this. We aren’t going to magically figure it out before I clock in.”

“Right. Well, if we’re stuck together for the long term, can I at least go to my place to get clothes? My laptop? My own toothbrush? I’ve got work to do.”

Horror floods her eyes, as she realizes I’m temporarily moving in.

“Fuck. Okay. We gotta get moving, then.” Rory finishes off her coffee in one long gulp and sets the mug in the sink. She looks back to the tarot card stack on her kitchen table. “You want to pull a card? See how our day’s going to go?”

I see this is some ritual of hers, but I don’t know what a tarot card is going to tell me that I don’t already know.

“No, thanks.”

Rory grimaces, like she’s about to lay into me, but instead she throws her hands up in surrender. “Fine, then! Let’s get you some other pants.”