After Ben left, I spent a good half-hour wallowing in guilt. The cupcakes were consigned to the bin, where they belonged, which was a shame because they were both delicious and adorable, but, as I reminded myself sadly as their little paw-print patterned buttercream tops smooshed together in the trash, they were also dangerously enchanted.

On the one hand, I couldn't help feeling a little bit proud of myself (I'd done magick!), but on the other, I wished I'd never seen that lemon-cake recipe and thought of Ben. 

At last, I picked myself up, cleared away the remains of my favorite mug, washed my face, and realized I was late for work.

Since being slightly more late seemed hardly to matter at that point, I called Paul at the café and asked if he'd be okay handling the first shift alone. He was my newest employee, but he'd learned the ropes fast, and I had confidence in his sound judgement—at least when it came to the café. His choice of eyeshadow (he tended to gravitate towards peacock iridescence) was another matter.

"Course I can, sugar," he'd assured me, having picked up on something a little watery in my voice. "You take your time. Jus' make sure you're here by the time I get off—Ruby Larocque waits for no man."

Paul was a sweetheart, but his drag persona—Ruby—was actually a little terrifying. Fun and gorgeous (Paul's makeup skills were their own kind of magic) but terrifying.

"I'll be there," I promised. "I just need to...sort a few things out."

Ending that call, I made another.

Ben didn't pick up. I didn't expect him to (he never answers his phone when he's mad) but I left a long message in which I rambled about how sorry I was and tried to explain why I'd done what I'd done. Then I sent him a text, because I knew he'd see the preview on his screen whether he opened his messages or not.

I typed it out—

I'm sorry
I love you

—and hit send.

Then, as I stared at my screen, waiting for a reply I didn't really expect to get, I realized my words could be read as "I'm sorry I love you," and typed out another text:

I mean I'm sorry for what I did, and I love you

Then I thought that one looked a bit bland and pedantic, so I sent another with a bunch of crying emojis and hearts, but then that looked whiney and immature, and the hearts didn't convey repentance quite the way I'd meant them to.

A dozen or so attempts later, I finally felt I'd got my meaning across, changed out of my coffee-splattered clothes and into a fresh set, and headed to work.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 

"You look sadder 'n a seabird in an oil spill," Paul commented when I arrived at the café.

He was behind the counter, arranging the day's selection of treats—for humans on one side and canines on the other (we'd had to make the distinction clearer after people kept ordering the quiche pour chiens and eating it themselves. Honestly, it was perfectly acceptable for human consumption, but it did contain several ingredients that weren't part of most people's diets).

"Is it that obvious?" I asked.

Paul nodded, the overhead lights reflecting off the shiny brown skin of his shaved head. He was in his early forties, just on the padded side of plump, and had a heart big enough for the whole world and just about everybody in it. I'd seen him in the park one day walking about a dozen little wiener-dogs at once, got into a discussion with him about the proper way to make eclairs, and knew I had to hire him. Fortunately for me, he'd been in the market for a job (dog-walking was fun, he'd said, but fell short when it came time to pay the bills).

"Yeah, it's that obvious," he answered with the sort of patient sympathy reserved for slow children. "What happened, sugar-doll?"

Paul called me all kinds of silly names, which Ben didn't like, but I didn't mind. I knew it was just a little bit of Ruby slipping through, although she usually only directed such appellations at things she found piteous yet adorable, like abandoned kittens, or babies that had yet to master the concept of object permanence. Why I seemed to be included among such things, I still hadn't figured out.

I'd like to tell Paul everything—he's a very sympathetic listener, after all—but he doesn't know about the weirder aspects of my life.

"I baked some cupcakes," I said, "and I had to throw them out."

"Honeybuns, I burned a whole batch of chocolate croissants yesterday—and that's a real tragedy, because you know how long it takes to make that damn pastry dough from scratch—but I got over it and made another. You don't see me dragging my ass in here an hour late lookin' like a kicked puppy."

I sighed. "I got in a fight with Ben."

Paul's demeanor underwent a swift change. Where before he was chatting casually while giving most of his attention to his work, now he straightened, lips pursed, set aside the tray of biscuits he'd been arranging, grabbed two mugs, poured us each some coffee, and prepared it the way we each liked. Then he steered me to a table (we weren't open yet, but there was already a small crowd gathering outside—the good stuff tended to sell out fast), and made me sit down.

"All right, tell me. What he do?" he asked, leaning forward eagerly.

I sipped my coffee. We brew good stuff here—well, Paul does—and he always puts in just the right amount of cream, even though he takes his black with about a quarter cup of sugar.

"Nothing," I said, stirring my coffee with a spoon. "It was me."

"What? You? I don't believe that."

Paul seemed to be under the impression that, although not to be trusted to make accurate change without the help of a calculator, I was otherwise beyond reproach. I took another sip of coffee, buying myself time as I considered how to tell Paul enough to satisfy him without stepping in the supernatural shit.

"It's true," I said at last, shrugging. "Ben and I...Well, we've been having...differences, lately. I have certain...interests that he doesn't share."

Paul's eyes widened at that, his well-groomed brows climbing an impressive distance up his forehead. "What kinda 'interests'? Are we talkin' whips an' chains here?"

"God no," I laughed. "I've been scared of black leather ever since I got peer-pressured into watching Hellraiser in fifth grade."

Paul gave me a squinty look.

"It's more like...spiritual stuff," I said, and sighed. "It's like, things that I want to be a part of my life, but that Ben has no interest in and doesn't want to make room for."

"Oh lord..." Paul frowned. "Whips an' chains I could help with, but religion?" He made a face.

"It's not religion," I laughed again. Ben and I were both loosely agnostic, though we celebrated Hanukkah, Christmas, and Yule. I liked the festive spirit. "It's more like...lifestyle things—the basic outlook on life."

I sighed unhappily again.

"I like to live in the moment, and Ben's a planner. I like to try new things, and Ben likes his favorites. I...always see the frosted sprinkled donut, and Ben always sees the huge gaping hole."

"Shit. Sounds like some irreconcilable differences right there," Paul said.

"What? No," I protested, alarmed. "We're just...in different spaces right now—looking at the same thing but from opposite sides."

Paul reached across the colorful glass mosaic of the tabletop and patted my hand. "I guess you have to decide what's important to you," he said, "and how much of it you're willing to sacrifice for the sake of peace. When my daddy first caught me all dressed up in drag, tryna sneak out to a club, he told me, 'it's this, or us,' meaning drag or my family. For a while, I thought I could make that choice. I mean, I didn't want to be a woman—I just wanted to perform as one. I figured I could give that up for the sake of the people I loved, at least until I was old enough to take care of myself."

He stopped and shook his head, sucking back half his mug of coffee in one gulp.

"Didn't work. Ruby was a part of me, even then. Denying that part of me meant living a lie. Eventually I realized that and I've never looked back since. What you've got to decide is whether whatever's coming between you and your man is something you can live without, or something that you can't."

An eager customer banged on the door, and Paul checked his watch.

"Oopsie! Time to open!" he declared and hopped up to unlock the doors and admit the masses as though we'd been talking about nothing more serious than our preferred brands of French roast.

I thought about his words for the rest of the day, and by the end of it (thoroughly depressed after receiving a grand total of 0 texts from Ben) I'd reached a decision.

I liked magick and ghosts, the mysterious and the unexplained; I liked the excitement and romance, and the thrill of wonder. I liked our friends, and their unusual natures. But I loved Ben, and if he wanted nothing more to do with any of that, then I could give it up for him.

We could move out of Ari's house and get an apartment (a boring, certified haunting-free, apartment of course). We could make new friends that weren't vampires and witches (boring friends).

We could have absolutely nothing to do with magick ever again.

I loved it, sure, but it wasn't something I couldn't live without. It wasn't a vital part of me, the way Ruby was a part of Paul. It wasn't like magick was my life, or anything.

I'd call Ben again when I got home, I resolved, and this time I wouldn't just apologize. This time I'd give him my word.

No more magick. Not ever again.

For better or worse, that was a promise I never got the chance to make.