Bring Me Your Midnight(71)

I suppose it should upset me that Ivy gets to remember things I have to forget, but she’s right—she would never do anything to put our coven at risk. She believes in this life more than anyone I know, and if my memories are safe with anyone, it’s her.

I breathe out, heavy and long. “How can this be right when the thought of it is devastating?”

I close my eyes and picture Wolfe in the moonlight, remember what it was like to use his magic and feel like myself for the first time in my life. I see him watching me with awe, kissing my skin, touching me as if I was the answer to every question he’d ever asked. I hear the anger in his voice when I don’t give myself enough credit, when I apologize for who I am. I taste the salt on his skin from when we clung to each other in the water, holding on as if we could each save the other’s life.

And that’s when I understand. I won’t make the right decision if I remember, if I hold on to these moments with everything I have. If I think for a single second that he might whisper my name at midnight—if I know he’s out there, practicing his magic and painting his portraits and doing whatever it takes to ensure the survival of his coven—I won’t make the right choice.

We are the same, he and I. We believe in our ways of life, we are loyal to the ones we love, and we would do anything to give them the safety and peace they deserve. And maybe there’s beauty in that, knowing we will each be fighting for these things in our own way, doing all that we can to hold on to what we care about most.

Apart, but together.

“Okay,” I finally say, looking at Ivy. “I’ll take it.”

“You’re doing the right thing.” She meets my eyes when she says it, but there’s no fire in her. Not like there used to be. Maybe I put it out when I saved her life with dark magic, or maybe she won’t let her guard down around me anymore.

“I’ll tell your mother. We should have it ready later today.”

She stands and walks to the door, then backtracks, grabbing Wolfe’s sweater from me. She leaves, and the door slams shut behind her.

“Ivy, wait!” I yell, jumping from my bed and rushing out of the room. She’s halfway down the stairs when I pull the sweater from her and clutch it in my hands, bringing it to my face so I can smell him again. My tears soak into the fabric and leave tiny wet spots that will soon dry. Maybe they will end up in the memory eraser.

Ivy looks at me as if I’m breaking her heart, but I can’t help the way his sweater trembles in my hands, the way I hold on to it as if it’s my whole world, the sun and moon and stars.

I shove my face into the fabric, hiding from Ivy and her memory eraser, my entire body shaking.

Then, ever so slowly, Ivy pulls the sweater away from me.

And ever so slowly, I let her.



* * *



I’m downstairs with my parents when Ivy returns with a colorful tea tin. She doesn’t say a word, just walks to the kitchen and begins preparing the drink. My parents give each other a meaningful look as I watch Ivy’s back.

“Tana, just a reminder that Landon and his parents will be joining us on Wednesday to discuss wedding preparations. They’re very eager to see you again,” my mother says.

I’m not sure why she’s bringing this up now, but I nod anyway. “I haven’t forgotten.”

The words hang in the air between us, illuminating the magic Ivy laced into her tea. She scoops the leaves into a ceramic pot, the sound impossibly loud, screaming Wolfe’s name. And suddenly I’m terrified of forgetting him.

I want to believe there are some things that are stronger than magic, that Ivy’s tea will be worthless, nothing compared to the bond I have with him. I want to believe I can drink Ivy’s tea and that Wolfe will still linger, hidden in the corners and alleys of my mind until I’m ready to remember.

I want to believe.

The kettle whistles and I jump. Ivy pours the boiling water over the tea leaves, and steam rises into the air. She sets a timer and lets the leaves steep, making sure every drop of magic makes it into the teacup.

Makes it into me.

Images of Wolfe flood my mind, and I squeeze my eyes shut, desperate for them to leave. Desperate for them to stay.

What should scare you most about tonight isn’t that you’re about to use high magic, Mortana. What should scare you most is that you’re going to want to use it again.

My mother says something about our upcoming dinner, but I don’t hear the words. I barely notice Ivy in the kitchen or my dad watching me with sadness and concern. All I see is the life I fought so hard for slipping through my fingers like grains of sand, impossible to hold.

Do you want to see me again?

Yes.

The timer goes off, and Ivy strains the tea. My parents are quiet, and my stomach twists itself into knots, tighter and tighter, suffocating my insides.

I hate you. And I want you anyway.

I think of the memory keeper I made for Wolfe, how self-conscious I was when I gave it to him. But I’m so glad I did, so glad that memory will linger somewhere outside of my mind, somewhere it will be safe and cared for.

Speak it out loud. I want to hear you.

Ivy puts the teacup on a saucer and brings it over. It clatters against the marble counter when she sets it down in front of me. The liquid is deep amber, the color of the fire reflecting off the walls of his room.