Stunned, I watched as Tanner’s back and shoulders undulated under his short-sleeved shirt. Whatever was happening with his face had an effect on Doug. My ex went from raging to a quiet whimper. Tanner’s body returned to its normal size, and he let go.
To his credit, Doug didn’t back down. “What makes you think you can walk in here and interfere with my sons’ lives?”
“They are smart young men, fully capable of making decisions regarding their education,” Tanner answered. “I merely informed them they had options outside of public school.”
“You’re forgetting something. They are my sons—mine!” Doug yelled, spit flying. “And no other man can replace me.”
I’d had enough of Doug’s bottled-up anger years ago, and watching the two of them posture on my driveway was more than a newly anointed witch with a Priestess’s crown and a wealth of untapped potential should have to bear. I turned the handle on the outdoor faucet, grabbed the end of the deck hose, and sprayed the back of Tanner’s bare legs and the front of Doug’s chest.
The look on my ex’s face was priceless.
Tanner laughed and spun around, his face split by a broad grin.
“Perfect timing,” he said, his turned back a dismissal to Doug. Tanner took the stairs in two steps, ruffled my hair as he passed, and muttered his intention to locate a towel.
I turned the faucet to off and dropped the spray nozzle and the hose. “Do you think you can be civil? Or am I going to have to insist you leave until you’ve cooled off?”
Doug plucked at the soaked front of his form-fitting T-shirt. The muscles in his face fought for dominance until a forced version of a polite smile won out over the ugliness seething underneath. “I’m leaving. I have a ferry reservation. But mark my words, Calliope, this is only the start.”
“You at least going to say goodbye to Harper and Thatch?”
He glared at me over his shoulder and continued to march down the driveway, making it a point to slam the door to his SUV and accentuate his departure with a squeal of tires.
Men.
Twelve hours ago—was it only twelve hours?—I was in a tent, asleep next to Busy, surrounded by trees and birdcalls and other witches. I heaved a bone-deep sigh. I was exhausted from the excursion, in a good way, and now I had to deal with Doug’s shit. Again.
“Mom?” Thatcher’s quiet voice teased its way into my tiredness. “Tanner’s got us helping with dinner. Can I get you anything? Water? A beer?”
I turned and hugged my youngest son, a grateful heart rising and expanding in my chest. “I’d love a beer. And a snack. I’ll take whatever you can find,” I said. “Oh, and Thatch? I’m going to sit in the garden for just a bit. Your father—”
“I know, Mom. Dad can be an ass hat.”
He waved me off and went back into the house. I stepped off the deck and followed the footpath around the house and down the slope to my garden. The motherwort appeared to be settling into its new home, spreading inquisitive roots and sending up stalks.
I settled onto the old chair and scratched at the tattoo.
Thatcher appeared with my beer and a bowl of cheese puffs. “You okay, Mom?”
He stretched out on the narrow strip of trimmed grass running between the aisle of raised beds and crossed his arms behind his head.
“I’m really good, sweetie.” I popped a crunchy puff into my mouth and let it dissolve on my tongue. One day—probably later rather than sooner—I’d be comfortable with this swinging back and forth between the magical and the mundane. Until then, I would treasure moments like this. “I had a wonderful weekend. What about you?”
“Mm…Harp and I had a good conversation with Tanner on Friday, when he took us to the ferry. And we should have listened to you when you gave us that whole ‘don’t tell your dad’ spiel because we did. We told him we have magic—or at least, it looks like we have magic—and he lost his shit, Mom. He also hit Harper.”
My blood came close to a simmer. I suspected something like that had happened, but to hear Doug wasn’t able to manage his anger around our sons…that was bad. “Did Harper hit him back?”
Thatcher rolled his head in the grass until he could look back at me. “He wanted to,” he replied. “I could see that, but Harp’s a lover, not a fighter.” He pulled at the dried grass and let it flutter from his fingers. “It hurt though. Emotionally, not so much physically. It’s fucked up, Mom. Dad’s fucked up.”
“Did all that happen Friday night?” I held the cold beer bottle to my face to cool my cheeks, took a long swallow, and then let the bottom of the bottle rest on the irritated section of my belly.
“Naw, we had a good time on Friday and most of Saturday. Dad’s got this sweet condo in Vancouver, and he took us out for Chinese after we finished moving his stuff. They got in the fight this morning when Harper found an injured bird on Dad’s balcony.”
“Does the condo have a lot of glass?”
“A ton, Mom, and it wasn’t the first bird to end up hurt. Dad said other ones crashed before and he just tossed them over the railing. Harper lost it.”
I sipped at the beer. Both sons were tender-hearted. Toward four-footed and winged creatures and to each other and to me. I prodded Thatcher’s shoulder with bared toes. “Then what happened?”
“Harper spilled. Told Dad about you and Tanner and what he does. I think Dad assumed you and Tanner were dating or something, and then he lost it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, Mom,” he said, turning his head so he could look at me. “Want to know the good news?”
“Sure.”
“The bird lived.”
A series of
