Free Sweetly by Jackson Pearce Page B

throw open the windows behind the couch. I duck into my bedroom and grab a magazine, and Ansel elbows me softly as I head downstairs.
    “Seriously, Gretchen. Thanks,” he says.
    “Be quiet. I’m trying to think of how you’re going to repay me for this.”
    Sophia is stocking orange caramels in the storefront. “Reading the latest on makeup styling from”—she pauses to peer at the magazine in my hand—“ooh, six years ago. I should throw those things out—not like we have those fancy stores that carry the models’ clothes out here anyway. Or I could find you a book, if you want? Surely you’ve finished all yours by now.”
    “Don’t worry about it. Besides, with hair like this,” I say, motioning to my rainbowed tips, “advice from six years ago is probably better than none at all.”
    Sophia laughs as she pulls out a candied lemon and takes a bite. “My grandma said these give you courage,” she explains with an embarrassed chuckle. “It’s a southern thing. We love our food.”
    “Understandably. But if that gives you courage, maybe you should take a few to Ansel,” I tease her.
    “Trust me, I haven’t been on a date in… I don’t know. And then it’s Ansel, and I just… You really don’t care? I’m scared you care and just aren’t telling me,” Sophia says so anxiously that I understand why she needs courage. “I don’t want you to be mad. If it makes you mad, I won’t do it. Really.”
    I smile—a little forcefully—and shake my head. “No. It’s fine.”
    “It’s just… he asked me out and I was afraid that if I said no, he’d leave and you’d leave and I just… I kinda freaked out. I mean, I like him and all, I just…” She chews her lips nervously.
    “It’s fine, Sophia. I’m just going to read for a while, I guess. Care if I drink that last can of Coke, by the way?” I ask as I dip into the kitchen.
    “Nope, help yourself,” Sophia answers. I hear her shut the glass display case and the creaking, groaning sound of the stairs as she walks up to meet my brother. I grab the Coke from the fridge and coat myself in bug repellent, then head to the porch to slide down into one of the rocking chairs.
    The yard is brightly lit from the porch lights that stream out over the grass and fade to darkness where the forest begins—I keep my eyes away from the trees. I’ve been practicing being close to the forest without panicking, but at night it’s scarier, trickier to convince myself that those are fireflies and not yellow eyes looking back at me. I can hear the murmurs of Ansel and Sophia talking, voices drifting down from the upstairs windows. If the date goes well, what happens if they eventually fight? Break up? Stop talking?
    I peer through the screen door and up the stairs. The steady rolling sound of the rocking chair on the wooden porch, the gentle clicking of the fan, the cries of locusts, swarm my senses. I gaze through the yard, between the trees. The fear in my chest spikes, but I smash it down, stomp it deep into my heart.
    I don’t have to be this way. I don’t have to hide anymore.
    We didn’t have a choice before, my sister and Ansel and I. We didn’t know the witch was really there, didn’t know it would chase us, didn’t know it would get a choice: which of us to take forever.
    I shut the magazine.
    I have a choice now. The words are half joy, half sigh. I have a choice now, and I need to make one.
    I rise and set my magazine down on the porch floor. I am not Layla, Emily, Whitney, Jillian, Danielle, Allie, Rachel, or Taylor. My name is Gretchen, and I am starting over.
    There is nothing in the forest to scare me, to make the remaining half of me vanish. There are no witches. I duck into the chocolatier, open the display case, and snatch a lemon peel from inside. I chew slowly, focusing on what I want to do, while the tart flavor explodes along my tongue. I hope Sophia’s right about the courage.
    I slip into the kitchen, where I rustle around in a