I arrange all the plants on the familiar worktable, grouping them by the methods of oil extraction. In one pile, I put the specimens that I will wrap in muslin and steep in sweet almond oil. In a second pile, I gather the ones I will run through our copper distillers. Plants in the last pile, larger than the first and second combined, require pressing through a vise-like contraption called a cold press. Those, I will save for last.
I work faster than I ever have, sniffing like a hound dog every few seconds to gauge any change in my nose. Soon, I lose myself in the physical work of prepping the ingredients. I shred ash bark and pommel pomegranate seeds, break yucca strips into fine threads and cut the bad spots off alder leaves with tiny scissors. Then I warm a kukui nut in my palm that’s the exact shade of Court’s eyes. The memory of our one kiss halts all other thoughts, and I replay it in my mind for a guilty moment.
One of the distillers begins to boil over. I dash to the burner and adjust it lower. Wrong way! The flame shoots higher and I burn my hand. Quickly, I switch it off and run my hand in the sink, cursing myself for spacing out. Mistakes happen when you’re not paying attention. I never seem to learn.
Groaning, I rub aloe vera onto my burned skin, then get back to work. With my left hand now, I mince pine needles. Sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes.
My nose begins to bleed, forcing me to take another break. The duller my sense of smell becomes, the harder I have to sniff. If it vanishes by tomorrow, I won’t be able to gauge the right proportions for the elixir. Might as well make a cake without measuring cups.
My breath comes in short gasps, and it feels as if someone is using my heart as a punching bag. More from desperation than logic, I cross the room to the computer.
“How to fall out of love,” I type.
My search generates forty-six million results. I click on the first link.
Tip 1: Make a list of all the reasons why it wasn’t meant to be.
My list isn’t long: loss of livelihood.
Tip 2: Remove all traces of him from your life.
Also easy, since I won’t be attending SGHS for much longer.
Tip 3: Practice thought stopping.
Every time I think about him, I should say, out loud, stop. Are they kidding?
I try calling Mother again. The line is still busy.
I wipe my sweating palms on my apron and rummage through the cabinets to find the lavender to calm myself. Even if I can’t smell it as well as I used to, it still works, in the same way loud music can damage your hearing even if you’re not listening.
My twitchy hands fumble the bottle, and with a clunk, it shimmers across the floorboards.
I pick up the bottle, managing to save a few last drops. The spill quickly transforms into a wet spot on the floor. I don’t notice I’m crying until I feel the sting of the salt water on my cheeks.
My knees scrape against the hard floor. I’m drowning in a sea of plant debris, staring at a stain that looks suspiciously like a surfboard. But unlike yesterday, there will be no rescue for me here. If only Mother and I weren’t the only love witches on the planet.
Wait a minute. Aunt Bryony.
Though she can’t use her nose anymore, my aunt was a love witch. Maybe she knows how to fall out of love. At the least, maybe she’ll give me a place to stay when Mother disowns me.
I go to the People Finder website. How many Bryonys could there be in Hawaii? I hope she didn’t move. How many Bryonys could there be in the United States? The world?
A man’s voice calls out, and even though it’s faint, I jump.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
I freeze as I remember. Dr. Lipinsky. I’m scheduled to do his intake, though I can hardly do that now with this bare excuse of a nose. For a moment, I’m tempted to hide out here in the workshop. But the poor man drove all the way from Santa Barbara.
“Coming!” I call back.
A stooped figure stands midway down the path of stones. I hurry to him.
Mother said Dr. Lipinsky was in his seventies. But this man before me couldn’t be more than fifty. When he sees me, he straightens his slim posture. He’s fit and neatly put together, with combed hair parted straight down the middle. His pressed pants break neatly over his shined shoes.
“I’m sorry, the gate was open.” He gestures behind him. “I’m Dr. Lipinsky.”
I paste on a smile. “That’s okay, we were expecting you. I’m Mim.” Welcome to my house of horrors.
“Nice to meet you.” He reaches out his hand, but I don’t shake it.
“I’m sorry, we’re not supposed to shake people’s hands. Contamination.”
An eyebrow lifts.
“How was your drive?” I quickly ask. Maybe I can convince him to give up his shirt, and then Mother can scent it out later. Or even a sock. He’d probably prefer driving home with a bare foot over a bare chest.
“My drive? Er, fine.”
He’ll think I’m crazy. Hello, nice to meet you, now could you take off your sock? My knuckles crack as I crunch a fist.
He straightens his bow tie. “See, the thing is—”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, on the verge of blubbering now. “I can’t help you today.”
His eyes grow a fraction, then he scratches his head. “Oh. Well, I think you have the wrong idea. Because I’m not the Dr. Lipinsky you’re expecting.”
“Oh? There are two of you?”