Chapter 7

Chapter

Seven

The humof the highway under the wheels feels all too familiar, yet the landscapes flashing by are nothing like the bustling streets of LA I"m used to. Iris navigates through the evening traffic with a calmness that somehow soothes my frazzled nerves, her focus unyielding despite our conversation.

"I can"t believe I just up and left," I murmur, my words barely above the sound of the road. "Quitting my job, running away like this..."

Iris casts a quick glance my way, her expression softening. "Claire, you didn"t run away. You took a step back from a toxic situation. There"s a difference."

My phone lights up, Tomas"s name flashing on the screen. My heart skips a beat before feeling like it's been stabbed with betrayal. Without a second thought, I decline the call.

"I wish I could just... erase him, you know? Start fresh without the baggage," I confess, watching the screen go dark.

Iris smiles, a hint of mischief in her gaze. "Well, you"re in Mystic Hollow now. If there"s any place to start over, it"s here. Remember those summers? Just like old times."

A pang of nostalgia hits me. Mystic Hollow was my haven, a place of endless summers and carefree days. Growing up in foster care, I didn't have a lot of those. If I hadn't been placed with old Mrs. Meyers, I wouldn't have had any childhood. Unfortunately, I was already sixteen when I landed on her doorstep, and she died two years later, which is when I headed to California. "I'm sorry I haven"t visited more," I say, guilt lacing my words.

"Don"t be. Life's been busy," she says, but for me, I know that's not the truth—not the whole truth, anyway. For far too long, I've let myself be defined by the chaos that seems to follow me, from one foster home to another, until Mrs. Meyers. She gave me a semblance of stability and taught me the value of finding peace in the little things, like baking. It became my escape, my way to create something beautiful and good from the raw and messy. But after she passed, I guess I was just trying to find something that felt like belonging again. I thought I found that with Tomas in our shared dreams of opening a patisserie. But, it turns out, some dreams are just mirages, shimmering in the distance until you get close enough to see they were never really there.

"Busy is one way to put it," I continue, a half-hearted attempt at lightening the mood. "Between the bakery and...everything else, time just slipped away. But I"m here now, and Mystic Hollow hasn"t changed a bit."

Iris nods, understanding more than she lets on. "Mystic Hollow has a way of keeping the important things constant. It"s the people who change, who grow. You"re not the same girl who used to run wild through these woods," she smiles.

Iris's words, though comforting, can"t entirely dispel the shadow that lingers at the edge of my thoughts—of never belonging. And who can forget the paralyzing fear of flying that has, in more ways than one, clipped my wings? The irony isn"t lost on me, a bird shifter afraid to embrace the very essence of her nature. The embarrassment of it is a bitter pill to swallow, a secret shame that I"ve carried quietly, letting it dictate the contours of my life.

I think back to the flight here, to the stranger with kind eyes and a calming presence. Without him, would I have even made it to Florida? The thought sends a shiver down my spine. More likely, I"d be in some nondescript hotel room near LAX right now, nursing a bottle of red wine in an attempt to drown out the what-ifs and the echoes of my own cowardice.

It"s a sobering realization, one that casts a long shadow over the flickering joy of being back in Mystic Hollow. As the car winds its way through the familiar streets, the laughter and lightness of my reunion with Iris are steeped with a silent resolve. Maybe it"s time to face this fear, to confront the chains I"ve allowed it to wrap around my life.

The car turns onto another tree-lined street, and I let out a long breath. "Iris," I start, my voice barely above a whisper. "I've been thinking… about learning to fly." The words hang in the air, heavy with years of avoidance and unspoken anxiety.

Iris glances at me, her expression softening. "I remember you talking about it, even back when we were kids. But you never mentioned it again after..." Her voice trails off, and I know she's thinking about the foster system, about all the times I moved from one home to another, never staying long enough to call anywhere home.

"Yeah," I say, looking out the window as the scenery blurs by. Her words echo in my ears, stirring up memories of a childhood marked by a string of temporary homes and the kind of loneliness that clings to your soul.

It was during those long hours of solitude that I discovered what I was, a shifter, though I had no idea what that meant at the time. Without a family to guide me, to teach me the ways of our kind, I was left to figure it out on my own. The first time I shifted, it was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. But learning to fly? That was a different story.

I remember sneaking out to a nearby hill, convinced that if I could just get high enough, I could force myself into the sky. The fall was brutal, a cruel reminder of my naivety and isolation. That fear of heights wasn"t just about the physical distance from the ground; it was about the fall, about having no one there to catch you when you stumble. No one has ever been there.

I shuffle uncomfortably in my seat, the seatbelt suddenly feeling too restrictive. "I"m just... I"m afraid," I confess, the admission feeling like a confession. "I hate that I am, but I can"t help it." I shrug. Even after coming to Mystic Hollow and learning all about witches and shifters, it wasn't enough to erase that initial heart-stopping fear.

"Everyone"s afraid of something," Iris muses, her gaze briefly meeting mine before she looks back at the road.

I raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Like what? What could you possibly be afraid of?" My tone is half-teasing, half-serious, the question hanging between us like an unspoken challenge.

With a soft chuckle, Iris"s eyes sparkle with a mix of humor and hindsight wisdom. "You're talking to the witch who didn't use her winter magic for over a decade because of a broken heart."

A pang of guilt nudges at me. "I stand corrected. Sorry," I offer, my voice softer now, laced with a newfound understanding of the depths of her past struggles.

Iris waves off my apology with a graceful flick of her wrist, the same nonchalance she applies to most things in life, except for her magic and the people she loves. "Don"t sweat it," she reassures me, her tone light yet layered with an unspoken depth. "Facing fears, it"s a journey, you know? Mine just happened to include a little magical hiatus."

I"m struck by her casual acknowledgment of what must have been a difficult time, her strength evident in the ease with which she discusses it now. "But you came back to it," I observe, "your magic."

"Yeah," she sighs, a distant look in her eyes as if she"s revisiting that period in her mind. "It was love that made me realize I'd been denying a part of myself. It"s like I was half-living before, you know?" She glances over, and there"s a raw honesty in her gaze that speaks volumes.

The notion of "half-living" hits too close to home. I find myself nodding, a slow, thoughtful movement. "I keep thinking about today, on the plane. If it wasn"t for that guy..." My voice fades, the edges of the memory softening with the warmth of his unexpected kindness.

"He helped you through it?" Iris prompts, her voice a gentle nudge encouraging me to acknowledge the moment of connection, however fleeting it might have been.

A small, almost shy smile finds its way to my lips. "Yeah, he did," I admit, the acknowledgment bringing a lightness I hadn"t realized I was missing.

Iris"s grin widens, mischief dancing in her eyes. "You should've let me hunt him down!" Her tone is playful.

I can"t help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep, a release of tension I hadn"t fully acknowledged. "No, I shouldn't have."

Her smile takes on a knowing quality, a hint of teasing that feels like a shared joke between old friends. "Who knows, maybe he'll be on your return flight?" She suggests, the idea presented like a possibility plucked from the pages of a story yet to be told.

"Who knows, maybe he will be," I reply, but I've never been that lucky before.