Page 89 of Scars Like Wings

“Are you feeling better, sweetness?” Quinn asked, bringing me back to the present.

I nodded. “I do actually, thanks to you. You have this way of bringing me out of my spiral and making me happy instantly. It’s hard to feel sad or anxious when I’m talking to you. You make it too easy to just smile and laugh instead.”

Quinn beamed. It was the opposite of her smolder. Instead of being hot, dark, and sexy, it was cute, bright, and kind of goofy in the most adorable way. I loved the warmth it sent through me as much as the heat of her smolder. “I love that. Talking toyou is my favorite thing. I cannot get enough of it. It’s like my latest hyperfixation or a new dessert that I want to keep getting delivered from Publix.”

Now, it was my turn to smile and glow. Before I could respond, though, Quinn said, “Oh, my mom is calling me. Can we go back to texting after?”

“Of course! I have to get home, anyway. I’ll talk to you later, starlight!” I waved.

“Bye, sweets.”

The call ended then. We had been talking for an hour, but it felt both long and like no time at all. My music started again, but I swiped to my music app to change to something to fit my mood better. I started up Sabrina Carpenter and got up from the bench. My heart swelled as I made my way home.

I didn’t feel the cold anymore, feeling warm from the inside out, but it felt temporary. I had a feeling my muscles would be sore from shivering again, my teeth achy from chattering, my whole body numb from the chill that seemed to come from somewhere within me.

Maybe Maisie had the right idea. A nice hot bath with some wine sounded perfect.

The Nest

The steam from the bath alone was enough to make me sigh. I loved a hot girl bath after a long day. An afternoon one seemed even more magical. Maybe because it was so rare it almost felt forbidden, like playing hooky from school to play video games or taking a day off work to read a book that just released. It just made me feel like a little kid again.

I spent several minutes wrangling my locs into a headwrap to protect them from getting wet. As the tub filled with water, I went to the kitchen and plucked an unopened bottle of moscato from the wine cooler along with my favorite iridescent wine glass. I poured myself a hefty glass while I made my way back to my room with the bottle in tow.

It felt necessary after today.

Closing the bedroom door, my backpack purse caught my eye as it hung next to the door. A corner of the grimoire peeked out from the purse’s flap. The sunlight streaming from my windows caught on the gems on the cover, emblazoning the room in a kaleidoscope of color. I should have wanted to hide the book and forget about it for as long as I possibly could after today. So, I don’t know what made me shift the wine bottle into the crookof my other arm and pull the book out of my bag, but I couldn’t resist its pull.

The bath was halfway full already when I returned. I tossed a few bath bombs inside along with some epsom salts and bubble bath wash to make the bath cozy. Candles lit up all around the tub. The scents of oatmeal and honey filled the bathroom, making it feel like I was inside of a freshly made cup of chamomile tea. I took a deep breath, and it felt like today maybe wasn’t so bad.

I arranged my wooden over-the-bath-tub caddy to the perfect spot over the lips of the tub. I positioned everything on top of it in their appropriate spots: my phone standing in a slot on it, the grimoire propped so I could lean back and read it while soaking, my glass in its divot, and the bottle in the extended part of the caddy. Once everything was perfectly in place, I got undressed. The water rose as I entered, but it didn’t overflow. The tub was deep enough for the water and bubbles to cover my boobs with plenty of room for me to move and remain comfortable. This was a huge selling point of this place. You have no idea how much of a rarity it was for someone with big yitties and curves like me to find something like this.

Instantly, the heat of the bath and the concoction I put within it pulled the tension from my muscles while I settled in and relaxed. I leaned my head back and allowed myself to soak the day away. “Ocean Eyes” by Billie Ellish started to play softly from the speakers with Cleo playing my favorite bath time playlist. I picked up my wine glass and took another sip of the sweet, tart apple wine. It was all such a vibe.

I let myself have this moment.

And another.

And one more.

Okay, seriously last one?—

C’mon, Byrd. It’s just a freaking book.I thought.Rip off the bandaid already.

Before I could change my mind or lose my resolve, I opened the book.

The smells of home appeared again and sliced through the oatmeal and honey. Immediately, I was a kid again, waking up early to watch Saturday morning cartoons and get ready to spend the day with my family… my family that was still very much alive. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the pages in front of me. I tried to take a large sip of wine to drown away the pain in my chest, but I could barely swallow it.

Feelings are just like eating, Baby Byrd. If you don’t process them, they are hard to swallow and they can strangle you. It’s okay to feel. It’s how you process them that can affect yourself and those around you.

You are emotional, baby girl. It isn’t a flaw or a bad thing. But your kryptonite is bottling it up. Feel it. Sit with it. Then let it go. I’ve seen too many bad people who don’t do that, and they let it consume them and those they love.

I choked out a sob at the memories, Mom’s and Pops’ voices waltzing together in my mind. I have always been sensitive. I used to get bullied for having so many feelings in school. I would come home in tears from being called a crybaby and for “whining” too much. Aunt Max and Uncle Everett used to worry about how soft I seemed, how sweet and gentle. They never expressed it out loud, but I saw it in their furrowed brows when I would come home crying about something a peer said. They didn’t realize I noticed their concern or took their teasing to heart. But Mom and Pops saw as I got older and tried to hold everything in instead of letting it go. Aunt Max and Uncle Everett took it as me finally growing that thicker skin, but my parents knew. They always did, even when I didn’t.

I closed my eyes a moment. I breathed in deep, allowing the smells of memories and a home I would never be able to return to fill my lungs. Then I exhaled and just let the tears fall.

When I opened my eyes, I had to blink away the blur to see the ceiling of my bathroom again. I sighed, shakily, before taking another sip of wine. This one went down easier, but mingled with that distinct taste of grief.

I refocused on the pages in front of me. There was the family tree looking back at me once more. I traced my mom’s floral handwriting curling out my full name before I hovered over her name and Pops’. When we had first opened the book, I hadn’t even paid attention to the other names connected to Mom and Pops. Now, I was able to see that those branches went on and on and on, even going off the page to keep continuing. I had no idea my family went back this far. It reminded me of my family’s song, the same song passed down from my ancestors to my mom to me. Were they connected? They were both older than I could imagine and like family heirlooms. Did they come from the same time, the 1800s as Izzy had said? Where had they come from? Could the same ancestor have created both? There was power in that song and in the grimoire. What did this power mean?