Under Her Spell

Under Her Spell

1

Now

My fiancé was standing too close to the train tracks.

I’d only stepped away for a minute to toss my empty water bottle and then there he was, the toes of his dress shoes on that pimpled yellow stripe. I could tell from the set of his back and neck that he was scrolling through emails. A subtle line of fuzz edged his neck below his neat haircut. Glimpsing that vulnerable part of him made emotion well inside me.

It would be so easy to push him.

A gangly stranger jostled me in the crowd, stumbling a bit before righting himself. It was enough to snap me out of my bad thoughts.

“Careful!” I snatched Noah’s hand and pulled him away from the tracks, unsure if the warning was for him or for me.

Noah moved toward me obediently, eyes still on his phone screen. A beat later, he looked up, and his crinkled gray eyes made my heart plummet. With my opposite hand, I rotated the ring I wore on my right index finger—the one I’d designed to look like a spiny bird’s nest out of wire—and pressed the pad of my thumb into its sharp edges.

Bad Liv.

Noah smirked, reaching for my hand. “You’re cute when you get all mother-hen on me, you know that?”

I smiled through a tide of anxiety. Anxiety, yes—that must be why I was having these unwelcome thoughts again. I felt for the heart-shaped outline of Sam’s letter in my pocket, itching to unfold the worn piece of notebook paper right there in the terminal and read it for the umpteenth time. No use in telling Noah how on-edge I felt—he’d never understand why a letter from my childhood best friend was freaking me out. I’d breezily told him I was taking the train into Guilford for an impromptu get-together and he hadn’t asked for any more details. This wasn’t quite a lie. It was an impromptu get-together. It just happened to be with someone who’d been ignoring my pleas to reconnect for eight years.

With a shriek, the train materialized in the dark, glowing headlights like insect eyes. Noah squeezed my hand and I gave two quick squeezes back. It was our secret code we’d developed freshman year of college. Love you. Love you, too. Noah was a Midwestern brand of cute with a heartrendingly shy smile; the moment his broad shoulders cut into the doorway of the dorm common room I’d had a singular thought: Mine. My suitemates had groaned about what a disgustingly cute couple we made, but I didn’t miss the glint of envy in their eyes. I knew they could scarcely believe I’d somehow—on a campus swarming with entitled man-children fixated on getting into as many girls’ pants as possible—locked down our dorm’s most eligible bachelor. Sometimes, I had trouble believing it myself, even after all this time.

Noah drew me into a kiss and I leaned into it, hoping to blot out my unease. Then I forced myself to be the first to break away and slipped onto the train, sending him a little wave from the door. I’d woken that morning with dread pulsing through me, in that weird way you can sometimes feel your heartbeat in your muscles. Just thinking about winding below the dark canopies on West Lake Avenue toward Sam’s house set my blood simmering.

What could she possibly want to tell me?

I chose a seat by the window and settled against the fabric headrest, wrapping one leg around the other twice like a vine. I spotted Noah on the platform, watching a family wrangling two small children into their double stroller. It was something he’d started showing more of an interest in since we’d gotten engaged. Don’t get any ideas, I warned the first time I’d seen his eyes go soft and wistful watching a toddler chasing a gaggle of pigeons. We’d both laughed off the sharpness in my voice. Yes, I was insanely lucky to have Noah, but sometimes he needed to be reminded to pump the brakes. I wasn’t even twenty-seven; I wasn’t even used to the term fiancé yet. On good days, it raised my heart rate in a not-entirely-unpleasant way; on bad days, it made my whole body stiffen, like a cobra preparing to strike.

Across the aisle of the train now, a forty-something man folded an empty wax paper bag in half, eyes flickering away from me. The train jerked to life and slid from the platform. It was only once we’d built speed that I turned my hands palms-up on my thighs, studying the pad of my thumb I’d pressed into my ring. Dark blood clamored under the skin.

Good.

Once, over happy hour, a coworker had grabbed my hand at the wrong angle. Her wine-stained lips had cinched tight with shock as she recoiled. Jesus, Liv. Was that your ring? Do I need to get a tetanus shot now? Later she’d joked about how brilliant I’d been to design jewelry that doubled as a weapon out in the city. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’d only ever turn it against myself.

I slipped Sam’s note from my pocket. She’d folded it in the same heart configuration we’d used for countless notes to each other senior year of high school. I shivered, smoothing the worn paper against my thigh. I could still remember the little thrill I’d feel after noticing the bulge on the outside compartment of my backpack: my best friend was stealthy, and had always insisted on dispensing her notes in secret. I’d make myself wait for the most mind-numbing of classes—U.S. history—to unfold and savor them. And they never disappointed. Sam’s notes would spill outside the confines of the page, crawling up into the margins like ants. They were always in metallic gel ink, and filled with her signature scathing commentary of our peers that made me alternately fight down snorts of laughter and thank my lucky stars to be on her good side. The memories made this note, penned in clotted ballpoint ink, all the more chilling:

Liv,

I know it’s been a while, but I need to talk to you. I need help and don’t know who else to turn to

I’d studied those words for what felt like hours. Two stark lines. No period or sign-off. It was almost as if Sam had written this in the midst of fleeing. Was she being stalked? Running from a vengeful ex? Of course, I’d gone straight to social media to contact her. Our “correspondence” was a string of my own desperate attempts to break her silence, dating back to the summer after our high school graduation. They’d tapered to about once a year by now, all unanswered.

Found that set of stacked rings you made in my old jewelry box! How’re you doing?

Omg, did you see who just got engaged from GHS??

Thinking about you. Let me know if you ever want to catch up.

But this time, every one of Sam’s accounts had gone dark. I tried texting the old number I had, but—no surprise—my text bounced back as undeliverable. On the outer envelope she’d sent me, there’d been no return address, just the zip code. There was something ominous about those stark five numbers, staring up at me.

Yes, my relationship with Sam had been complicated, but weren’t all teen-girl friendships? It had taken me well into college to recognize that what we’d had was special. Sam’s ferocious loyalty, our shared passion for jewelry making: I probably wasn’t going to find that a second time around. Leave it to me to have ruined it all. What could have possibly compelled Sam to reach out to me, after what I’d done?

Mom picked me up in the same gray Corolla she drove when I was in high school. There were new dents on the passenger side. When her eyes picked me out in the dark, she made a move to exit the driver’s seat and help me with my suitcase, but I waved at her to stay inside. I could handle the luggage. Plus, I wasn’t prepared to see how frail she’d gotten. The last time I was home—months ago now—I’d been blindsided by the knobbiness of her knees poking out from her burlap dress, transparent skin giving way to the blue neon of her veins.

I threw my suitcase in the trunk and climbed into the passenger seat. The semi-darkness of the train station carved deep hollows under Mom’s eyes. She’d always been slender, but it hadn’t been until Dad moved out that she started looking gaunt. It seemed she still hadn’t recovered.

“Hiya,” she said, leaning over to wrap her arms around me.

The smell of sandalwood essential oil came with the embrace. I pressed my face into Mom’s shoulder. Guilford was one of the last places I’d wanted to be these past eight years, but by seeking refuge in Boston, I probably hadn’t helped Mom any.

“Thanks for picking me up.”

“Don’t be silly. I got us a big vat of pad thai but I ended up caving and having a plate before you got in. The rest is waiting in the fridge for you. Sorry.”

“Mom, it’s past nine. Don’t apologize.”

A smile quirked over her lips. “Okay, then. I won’t.”