Get Witch Quick

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Soupy, humid Boston air wraps around me in a damp hug as soon as I open the door of the coffee bar. Behind me, cool, refreshing air conditioning strokes my back, tempting me to close the door and declare this my new home. I can text Andrew and have him forward my mail care of Angry Archie, the world’s crankiest barista. He’s the troll who lives under the bridge, but the iced coffee is too good here to pass up. Plus, it’s the closest place to the brownstone. If I have to travel farther than half a block, I might melt into a squishy puddle.

“Close the door or I’ll make you pay our utility bill,” Angry Archie shouts across the tiny space.

Without turning and acknowledging his anger, I step outside, jostling my tray of coffees.

A drop of rain hits the crown of my head before his cousins join the party, plopping on my shoulders, pinging off of the plastic coffee lids, and splatting on the sidewalk by my feet.

“Well, this is delightful.” I say to the thick gray clouds above me. “Can you wait five minutes until I get back inside?”

The rain falls harder, like someone has adjust the pressure in a shower.

“You’d listen to Andrew!” Using the tray of coffees as a rain hat, I mumble out a few curse words as I weave through the morning crowd on Charles Street.

Despite the rainy May morning, men and women dressed in expensive business attire jostle for sidewalk space with their enormous umbrellas as they walk to work or to the nearby T station. My cotton dress with red cherries on a black background, along with the tray of multiple coffee orders, screams intern or at best, office fledgling.

I don’t belong on this street with the go-getters and gotten-theres of Boston.

If they only knew how different I am than any of them.

I bet none of them can see ghosts.

Or have a boyfriend who can start fires with his mind.

Or a friend who manipulates emotional energy, but only for good.

Always for good.

Never for evil.

Checking the one way traffic, I step off the curb to cross the street, saving myself at least three minutes of sweating by not going to the corner crosswalk. I slip between two parked cars, ready to make my dash across the street when a large, black vehicle blocks my jaywalking route.

“Of course you stop right in front of me. Of course.” I mutter to myself, pausing to let the pretentious car do its thing.

The rear passenger window slides down, releasing a cloud of chilled air. My body leans forward, seeking out the cooler air like a bee drawn to an irresistible bloom.

“Miss Bradbury.” A male voice speaks my name from behind me. “A pleasure to see you again.”

My shoulders tighten, every muscle seizing with two realizations. First, I’m trapped between the parked cars and the monstrosity of privilege idling in front of me. Second, my escape to the safety of the curb is blocked by Stanford Bradford, estranged father of my boyfriend and suspected plotter of nefarious deeds.

For a glorious, but all too brief moment, I imagine myself tossing the coffees in Stanford’s face while simultaneously leaping onto the sedan’s hood and running down the row of cars from hood to roof to truck in a real life version of the lava game.

I’m a street width and half a block from the Society’s front door. If I run there, our number one nemesis will know the building.

That can’t happen.

Instead, I turn to face the man crowding me from the curb. Faking friendliness, I force my lips to curl into a wide smile. “Mr. Bradford, what an unexpected surprise.”

“Isn’t that redundant? Aren’t all surprises unexpected?” He scoffs. Or laughs. It’s difficult to tell.

“You make a good point. Well, I don’t want to keep you. It’s raining and your suit must be extremely busy. I mean your suit is getting ruined in the rain.” Embarrassed by my rambling nonsense, I rotate my body to slide past him in the narrow space between bumpers. “I’ll be on my way.”

“We’ll give you a ride. You’re already soaked. We wouldn’t want you to become unwell.” He takes a step forward.

Panic skitters over my skin. Stanford is I eye the height of bumpers on either side of me, contemplating if I can jump high enough to clear one. Who am I kidding? The best I could hope for is an awkward scramble onto either the hood or trunk. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m fine. Only a few blocks from the hospital. Where I’m heading. To Mass General. The hospital down the street.”

“I believe that’s on our way. Hop in.” He gestures past me to the waiting car.

If his destination were the hospital, he wouldn’t be driving down this stretch of Charles. Mass General is behind us. I’m certain we both know this and yet he’s stepping off of the curb, and I’m forced to shuffle backward.

“A short ride will give us the chance to catch up. I barely spoke to either you or my son at the graduation ceremony.” While he speaks, the passenger door opens.

Never get in the car. Make a scene. Do not leave the location.

The wisdom of every on campus self-defense class blasts through my brain as I feel the gentle pressure of a hand on my shoulder.

“Here, let me take your drinks so you can sit down. I wouldn’t want you to spill the coffees.” Reaching around my side, Stanford removes the tray from my hands.

I’m being ridiculous. Andrew’s father might be a stuffed-shirt and an asshole, but he’s not going to kidnap me off of Charles Street in the middle of a Tuesday morning. Such things aren’t done on Beacon Hill.

Glancing down the street, I try to reassure myself my brain is prone to exaggeration, especially when under-caffeinated.

I’ll text Andrew, Tate and Sam from the car and let them know I’ve made a short detour to Mass General.

With a last peek across the street to the plain, four-story brownstone where my friends are working, I duck my head to slide into the backseat.

Only after Stanford joins me and closes the door behind him do I realize three things.

One, there is a woman in the front passenger seat next to the uniformed driver.

Two, my cell phone is sitting on my desk, left plugged in and charging because I didn’t need it to pick up our morning coffees.

Third, Stanford’s hands are empty as we drive away. The bastard threw away my coffees. He truly is a monster.