The Accidental Witch by Jessica Penot Read Free Book Online Page B

tight fit. I found matching jewelry and I put on a pair of sandals in time to realize I needed to paint my toes.
    When I was done, I looked in the mirror. I wasn’t half bad when I took the time to care. I would never be a natural beauty, or even a beauty, but at least I didn’t look like a bag lady. The doorbell rang. I looked at my watch. He was ten minutes early. Really? My ex had never been early. I had spent most of my married life waiting and I hadn’t known there were real men in the world who didn’t expect you to wait thirty-five minutes for a date.
    I opened the door and realized I had left my clothes on the stairs. Too late to fix that error in judgment. Aaron stepped over the threshold and looked around at my crumbling castle. He, of course, looked perfect. He had on shorts, so I could see his sculpted legs and I could see the outline of his perfect physique beneath his T-shirt. His T-shirt had an anatomical picture of a man with all of his parts labeled on it and the man was bent over as if waiting for something obscene to penetrate him from behind. The shirt said Test time again .
    “That is quite a shirt,” I said.
    “Yeah, the nurses love it,” he said. He smiled. His teeth were perfectly white and straight.
    “I’ll bet,” I commented.
    “You actually live here?” he asked. “I thought this place was abandoned.”
    “Mostly abandoned,” I said.
    “You’re doing a good job renovating it,” he said. “The inside looks great. You would never know it is so habitable inside by looking at the outside.”
    “Yeah, one thing at a time,” I said. “I have a landscaper that’s done some work, but I need electricity and, you know, a toilet more than I need flowers.”
    “I like the wallpaper. Are you trying to keep it historically accurate?” he asked.
    “As much as I can,” I answered. “It is a large undertaking.”
    “You’ve done an amazing job,” he said with genuine admiration. “The house is beautiful.”
    “Thanks,” I said.
    “Do you like Mexican?” Aaron asked.
    “I love it,” I said.
    It wasn’t a long drive to the little chain Mexican restaurant that was one of the five sit down restaurants in Dismal. It was a cute little place with all the usual faux Mexican paraphernalia an American would associate with Mexico without having actually been there. There were paintings of stereotypical Mexicans on the walls. The little place was hopping because it was Sunday and everyone liked to eat out on Sunday. Aaron and I got a table by the window. Since Dismal was a small town, I recognized almost half of the people in the restaurant. I was used to this, but I hated the whispers that followed us as we were seated. A few of the nurses from the hospital glared at me in jealousy and one of my father’s friends winked at me as I walked by. Everyone would know about this within twenty-four hours, including my heinous step-bitch. That would mean a phone call and a conversation. I hated talking to her.
    We sat down and Aaron ordered a beer and I ordered a margarita. There is nothing that lowers social inhibition and loosens the tongue like alcohol. The entire meal seemed more than a little unreal. My observations of Aaron up until that point had led me to believe he enjoyed talking about himself more than just about anything else in the world. Our conversation, however, felt more like an interrogation than a dialogue.
    “So, are you a counselor?” he asked.
    “I’m a clinical psychologist,” I said as I shoved chips into my mouth.
    “I thought they had to have doctorates,” he said.
    “I do have a doctorate,” I said.
    “Why the hell are you working as a therapist at Columbia Health?”
    “I never said I was a licensed clinical psychologist,” I said as I finished my margarita. “I can’t get my license.”
    “Why?” he asked.
    I waved to the waitress. “I think I’m going to need another one of these,” I said to her as I signaled to my empty margarita glass.
    The