Love and Other Wicked Things

Three

Rhia was not having a good day.

First, she had overslept. Then, to make it to work on time, she'd needed to take her bike, only to discover that it had a flat tire. (Holly: I told you the Uranus transit was going to impact your short-distance travels!) When she was finally on her way, the light drizzle that had been going on all morning turned into a full-blown rain shower, leaving her drenched by the time she made it to Sugar & Spice. And as if all of that hadn't been bad enough, her first task was to shelve the books that had arrived earlier that week. 

Usually, Rhia loved her job. She did. The café was tucked away on the first floor of an old building with creaky floorboards and old chandeliers, containing a cluttered mix of beaten-up couches and newer coffee tables. The second floor was Rhia's favorite area: it served as a bookstore, where comfy old armchairs were hidden away between the tall rows of shelves. She could remember countless afternoons spent curled up in one of them as a kid, flipping through any book that caught her fancy while her mother had coffee with a friend downstairs. 

The sheer nostalgia of the place, plus the fact that she got to work with Tristan, her best friend for over a decade, was enough to make her prefer this job over any other. She dreamed of owning the café one day, with her own cakes and pastries on the menu, her favorite books on the shelves . . . and someone else to do the tedious work of shelving. 

Tristan and Rhia took turns with every new delivery, despite her constant complaining that it was much easier for him, as he was at least four inches taller than her and, being a lacrosse player, had muscles. Her nagging never got her anywhere, though—in the three years they'd worked here together, she'd only gotten out of shelving a handful of times, mostly through bribery. Once, she'd threatened to put a hex on him, but to no avail. As it turned out, it was kind of difficult to intimidate someone who had seen her with braces at thirteen and shared a bed with her during countless sleepovers. 

Today it was her turn once again. Rhia grunted as she carried a box of picture books over to the children's section, almost tripping over her own feet in the process. She felt unbearably hot under her woolen sweater, which was still wet to the touch from the rain outside. Her hair—which she'd spent two hours on just yesterday, for crying out loud—was already starting to poof up, straining against the hair tie she'd used to pull it back. 

She swore quietly as she set the heavy cardboard box down in front of one of the shelves, glad there were no children around to hear her. Her grumbling became even more heartfelt when she realized that most of the books had to go on the very top shelf. Cursing the existence of every author who had the audacity to have an A for their initial, she got on her tiptoes to sort them into their respective places, only to almost drop all of them when a snicker sounded from somewhere behind her. 

"You know, I would feel sorry for you, but it's kind of hilarious that you're making this so difficult for yourself." 

Rhia spun around to face Tristan. He seemed to have made it to the café before the rain had started, his unruly mop of blond hair blessedly dry, the only stains on his hoodie caused by his inability to eat anything without mild spillage. Even several years after Tristan's infamous eighth-grade growth spurt, Rhia still resented how far she had to tilt her head to scowl at him. "How am I making this difficult for myself? It is difficult!" 

"You could always just . . ." Cheeks dimpling, Tristan waved his hands around in a dramatic gesture that clearly indicated lifting the books through telekinesis. "You know?" 

"Tris," groaned Rhia. She briefly poked her head around the bookshelf to make sure no one was within earshot. "I'm not Holly. Earth magic, remember? I can't move things. And even if I could, I wouldn't. Someone might walk by any moment and see."