No—this pain has everything to do with the fact that I’m separated from my Connection. Scratch that—Connections.
Being a Magical has its perks; most of my kind might believe they’ve hit the jackpot if Fate deems them lucky enough to have a Connection, which probably only three-to-five percent of our population has. It’s a permanent bond that ties two people, two soul mates together. A Connection is your best friend, your lover, your confidant, and your comfort. You feel things, both physically and emotionally, that cannot ever be felt towards another person. But with the good comes the bad, because when you fight or are separated, your body and soul wither into a half-existence, filled with pain and sorrow. Which doesn’t make it sound so desirable after all, does it?
Now, because I purposely left my Connections behind, I’m a mess. I’ll be forever a mess. But it’s for the best, and because of that, I’ll work my butt off to ensure that it wasn’t done in vain. Jonah and Kellan have a chance to rebuild their relationship. I have a chance to live without feeling like I’m being torn in two every time I pull air into my lungs. I hurt, and I miss Jonah—and Kellan—more than I can articulate, but it’s something I can live with if it means we all get a chance at having a normal life.
The bell above the door jingles, letting me know Frieda’s surprisingly on time. Today, she looks like a cross between a Goth and some kind of tragic heroine out of a Regency novel. I can’t help but admire how fiercely she refuses to conform to be anybody else but exactly who she is. This is one of my goals lately—be who I want to be, not who I’m expected to be or who I’m told to be. I’ve spent most of my life trying to be a Creator. And I am one, there’s no doubt about that. It’s just . . . I don’t want to be only a Creator. I want to be Chloe. Or, rather, Zoe, who must surely be an improvement upon my old self.
“Keep Gin away from me today.” Frieda grimaces as she ties on her half apron. “I’m hung over and not ready for her brand of sunshine this early in the day. As a matter of fact, keep everybody away—but most especially Paul and Gin.”
It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Amused, I say, “Paul isn’t here yet.”
She mimics back my words, but it’s not done in a cruel way. Just a typical, mocking Frieda way. “I left him at his house. He wants us to get back together. Can you believe that? Asshole.”
I don’t even know how to respond to that, especially since there’s no way in hell I could ever label Paul an asshole.
“Hey you two!” Ginny sing-songs, bouncing toward us like the pogo stick she is. Her shift is over, and she’s ready to leave, purse in hand. “Isn’t today glorious?”
“Glorious?” Frieda snorts. “Jesus Christ. This girl in love is nauseating. Zoe. You’re fired. You didn’t even try to stop her.”
Normally, comments like this wound Ginny, even though she’s known Frieda and her bristly personality her whole life. But today, she’s adding clapping to the bouncing. “Can’t bring me down, Miss Sourpuss!”
“Fine.” Frieda glances around the diner; half the tables are filled, but all the meals are out. “Tell us what has you acting like a ray of mother-effing sunshine on this snowy day.”
Ginny clasps her hands together and presses them against her heart. “I met someone.”
Ginny meets a different true love on nearly a daily basis, so this is nothing new. Even still, I ask kindly, “What’s his name?”
Her eyes are practically glowing, she’s so excited. “Brent! He’s so handsome, girls. He’s just the best. The very best. We’ve been talking for a couple of weeks—”
Whoa. Now this is different, because normally Ginny tells me and Frieda every small detail of every guy.
“And I decided last night to give my heart to him. After I came home from our date, I found three-dozen roses in my bedroom. Can you imagine how dreamy my room smelled?” She sighs. “It smelled like love.”
Seven months ago, my bedroom was filled with roses. So was a street in Annar after Jonah found his ring. I couldn’t help myself. It was one of those rare moments in my life where I was so blissfully happy that I lost control of my craft in the best of ways.
Ginny is right, though. Love—at least that night, at least to me—smelled just like roses.
“And here I thought love smelled like sweaty sex and vodka,” Frieda snarls.
I cough and scratch the back of my neck. Ginny merely wags a finger. “Uh-uh! Not even your sexual innuendos can ruin this for me!”
Frieda’s affronted. “What innuendo? I’m pretty sure that was a straight-forward comment.”
“I think that’s great, Gin. I’m really happy for you,” I tell our friend. I’m pleased my voice is steady, even though inside, I’m dissolving into a blubbery mess. I miss him. Gods, I miss Jonah so much that it’s hard to even see straight.