A Special Place for Women, Laura Hankin [brene brown rising strong .txt] 📗

She took a gulp of it, still all in on autumn. She wore a chunky sweater and a jaunty little knit beret, her hair in two thick braids beneath it. “Do you think anyone’s ever done pumpkin spice fizzy water before?”

“No, and I think there’s probably a reason for that,” I said, scanning the rest of the clubhouse. The ranks were thinning at this late hour, but I recognized all of the witches (or rather, women who thought they were witches), chatting in various groups, lounging on different couches, entirely casual. No indication that, soon, they’d be ripping their clothes off and chanting in tongues.

“Why have things been so crazy?” Libby asked, then looked at me still standing. She made a goofy face of concern. “What, your butt sore or something? Sit down!” So I sat and talked with her about how my week had been, like a millennial Judas. Eventually, she started showing me videos she’d taken of Bella the Rat Dog learning how to shake her hand. She scooted her chair next to mine and leaned in close as she grinned down at the screen, the scent of her coconut shampoo in my nose as the clubhouse cleared out even further and eleven p.m. approached.

“Oh, goodness!” she said at one point, temporarily interrupting her dog chatter. She grabbed my hand, peering at the scabbed, scarlet line that lingered on my palm. “What happened to you?”

“I was trying to keep up with Raf in some onion chopping. Clearly a fool’s errand.”

“Poor Jillian,” she said, stroking my palm with utter tenderness. Oh, that sweet little dumpling. How she would hate me if she knew.

Caroline walked through from the back office to get herself a tea. Libby sat up taller in her chair, waving, trying to catch her eye to no avail. She sighed and sat back. “Maybe I’m totally in my head, but I feel like Caroline’s gotten kind of cold to me all of a sudden. Have you noticed?”

“Hm, no,” I said.

“I guess it hasn’t been that long. Only since the gala, which is weird, since it seemed to go so well.”

“Maybe it’s just the comedown from all the excitement.”

“Although,” Libby said, tapping her fingers against her mouth, “I guess it started part of the way through the gala. Like we were having so much fun, chatting about all sorts of things, and then she asked me about Thanksgiving and it was almost like . . .” She was talking so quietly now, her gaze fixed on the table, that it was as if I weren’t even there. I wished I weren’t. “But I don’t know how she would’ve known.” The last few remaining women were filing out now, as the Coven surreptitiously arranged themselves near the door. “I just hope it doesn’t affect . . . well, you know.”

She shook herself out of it, noticing the time and the atmosphere. “Anyways! Should we walk out?”

“Oh, it’s okay, I’ve got to go to the bathroom, so you go ahead.”

“I don’t mind waiting, really,” she said. I hesitated, my eyes flitting to Margot, who was lingering by the back door. Libby followed my gaze. And then understanding settled over her.

“Oh,” she said in a quiet, heartbroken voice. “You’re going to stay.” She bit down on her lip, her eyes reddening, as I nodded. “Got it.” She swallowed, then attempted a smile. “Congrats—” She took a sharp intake of breath, and her expression hardened as she connected the dots. She had told me her secret, and now Caroline knew. “Yes, I get it.”

“Libby—”

Swiftly, clumsily, she began putting on her coat and gathering her things. “I should leave you to enjoy it, since it clearly meant so much to you.”

Libby wouldn’t like the Coven anyway. She had about as much of the dark witch about her as a tuna fish sandwich. And she was too concerned with pleasing others to want to impose her will on the world. Sure, Libby could get into the kitschy stuff. She’d gamely hold a crystal in her palm and imagine that she felt its vibrations, but the moment a knife came out, she’d get spooked and wish she were back in her apartment watching reruns of Real Housewives. (At least this is what I told myself at the time. Now I think that she would have raised that blade high in the air and thrilled at how it gleamed.)

Let me explain, I wanted to say, even though there were so many reasons that I couldn’t. Maybe, when the article came out, I could show up at her building. The doorman would wave me through with a genial, familiar wink, and I could knock on her door, and when she flung it open (too trusting for New York City, never looking through her peephole, assuming that each knock meant the delivery of an exciting package or an introduction from a friendly neighbor), I could stop her before her smile curdled and she turned away. Maybe I could make her understand that she’d been only collateral damage in service of the greater good.

Once, in fifth grade, I hadn’t finished my math homework because I’d stayed up too late watching The Breakfast Club for the first time. When my teacher had called me over to her desk to ask about the missing assignment, a story had come spilling out: My older brother had gotten into a horrible accident on his bicycle. We’d had to race to the emergency room, where I’d spent the night anxiously waiting as the doctors reset the broken bone in his leg. Details had bubbled up out of nowhere, details of the screams coming from passing gurneys, the way my mother had wept with relief when the doctors had told her that he would be able to walk again, how my brave brother had emerged from his hospital room, limping but smiling, in the early hours of the morning and, to show us he was truly okay, had stopped and pumped his fist in the air, just like at the