They say time heals all wounds. Do not ask me who ‘they’ are, but this is probably true. The trouble, however, is what happens when the wound is fresh. Waiting for the cut to heal isn’t easy. Especially if the injury is a broken heart and you’re a 17-year-old and these feelings are new, wonderful, and terrible.
We’ve all been there, right? To add insult to injury, the memories from the love spell haven’t faded yet. Okay, maybe that’s the part where things get less normal.
But this is what happens in my latest paranormal romance Instalove.
In Avery Ward’s case, he’s a regular guy who happens to come from a long line of witches and warlocks who bring real magic into the world. He’s just learned magic might be the reason he’s totally crazy about soccer player and smartie Chris Reyes.
But knowing a spell is happening and being free from its effects are two different things. And he hasn’t really begun the healing process yet. This scene is Avery sitting in his family garden, trying to process the new revelations in his life while his mother checks on him.
Mom found me outside and sat with me on the bench next to the aster.
“The gardenias are coming in nicely,” she noted.
As a licensed therapist, she’s usually all about healthy communication and sharing feelings. I had zero desire to share, so I watched her for the trick but found none.
“Really, that’s all?” I asked.
“You don’t want to talk. You don’t want me to talk at you.” She shrugged. “What else is there to say?”
Huh. I relaxed as we enjoyed the relative quiet together.
This was my happy place. Okay, time to feel happy. Anytime now. Go. I looked around. The garden was a lovely place, but it depended on one’s current prerogative.
The nearby larkspur meant lightness, yet it also meant fickleness or haughtiness. And talk about fickle, there were carnations in the next row over, and they had about 93 meanings attached to them depending on the color.
The daffodils over Mom’s shoulder needed company. Several meant happiness and joy while a solitary flower meant misfortune. That was probably a metaphor.
“Sure you don’t want to talk?” she asked quietly.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
As she rose to leave, Mom placed a hand on my shoulder. “The spell will be undone, and you’ll laugh about this someday.”
“But not today.” There was a fountain just to the right of center in the garden. When we were quiet, I thought I could hear it.
“Not today,” she agreed quietly.
The iris grew next to me on my right. I was afraid to look at it. Irises symbolize hope.
— the rest is available here.