“Dad! What?”
He grimaced. “It’s just, well, we thought you were going to be, well . . . boys.”
For a moment, I didn’t say anything. In the huge silence that followed this surreal announcement, all you could hear was the beeps and whirrs of Jo and Henry’s video game coming faintly up the stairs.
“Boys?” I said finally. Then again: “Boys?”
Before my dad could answer, the doorbell rang. Simultaneously, I felt a buzz in my pocket. I pulled out my phone and saw a text from Trent.
Ringing ur doorbell. U home?
I don’t know why, but I jumped up.
“Mardi?”
“I’ll be back!” I said quickly. “I just have to . . .” I didn’t finish my sentence, just ran downstairs to answer the door, running right past Jo and Henry, who didn’t look up from their game.
As I pulled open the door, I was all ready to confront Trent, a.k.a. Tyr, my dad’s old party buddy, to find out if he’d known anything about how his girlfriend and her sister were supposed to have been born male, but the look on his face stopped me in my tracks. His jaw hung open slackly, and his eyes were wide with confusion.
“Trent?” I said, my own confusion overshadowed by concern for him. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head in bewilderment. “We just got thrown out.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “From Fair Haven?” The house had been in the Gardiner family for hundreds of years.
He nodded dumbly.
“Your, um, mother bought our house, and she just kicked us out.”
9
GONNA FLY NOW
From the Diary of Molly Overbrook
Here, Moll, drink this,” Freya said to me, pushing a frothy brown concoction down the bar. “Looks like you need it.”
I sniffed at the effervescing foam, inhaling whiffs of chai, cinnamon, honey, and something I couldn’t place.
“Is that . . . nutmeg?”
“Close. It’s called shahi jeera, also known as black cumin. An Indian spice. I infuse it in the rum. It’s very centering.”
I glanced at the clock. It was three in the afternoon, but I could use some “centering,” and although I was usually a vodka girl, rum would do. I bent the tall straw toward me and sipped. The drink had a dark, tealike taste, and I could feel it as it slid all the way down my throat and then—magically, no doubt—spread out through my limbs, making me feel as if I was a bag whose air was being sucked out by a vacuum.
“Wow, that really is”—there was no other word for it—“centering.” I took another sip, bigger this time. “Would you call that taste ‘umami’?”
Freya laughed. “If you’re a foodie, I guess. I prefer something like ‘earthy.’ Now, go slow,” she admonished as I took another sip. “It’s got two shots of 120-proof rum in there. It’ll knock even a goddess on her butt if she’s not careful.”
I took another drink. After all, I was already sitting down.
For the next few minutes, Freya continued measuring out her powders, seeds, leaves, and tinctures for the evening shift while I nursed my drink. At first, the surface of my skin felt flushed even as my intestines seemed to be flowing with icy water. But then my skin cooled and my insides warmed up, as if I was an oven turned on full blast, but sitting outside on an iceberg. At one point, I exhaled a long sigh and was surprised when smoke didn’t come out of my mouth.
“So,” Freya said from down at the other end of the bar. “Want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know how to describe it,” I said glumly.
“I get it,” Freya said. “He’s your dad. It’s scary to see him like this. I mean, whether he’s Thor or Troy Overbrook, you’ve grown up thinking of him as this invincible figure, and now all of a sudden he looks almost human.”
“What?” I asked, trying not to look too guilty. “No, I’m not worried about Dad, although that was really freaky what happened to him.”
“Well, we still have to figure out where that whale came from. It’s not Loki, since he’s made his peace with us. And this has outer worlds magic written all over it. But if it’s not your dad that’s bothering you, then what is it?”
I shrugged. It felt silly to say it out loud. But I did anyway. “It’s that flight attendant. The one who died in my arms.”
Freya nodded sympathetically. “I’m so sorry. You know it wasn’t your fault.”
I shook my head. “It’s hard to explain. It’s not her death that’s bothering me. It’s . . . it’s that I suddenly realized that I would never die.”
For the first time, I was face-to-face with my immortality, and it was overwhelming. It had never bothered me before, but it did now. Our friends, our lovers would one day pass, but we would go on. I felt sickened. “Does it ever get any easier, watching them die?”
In true Freya fashion, she didn’t even try to soften the blow. “No,” she said bluntly. “But that’s a good thing. If it got easier, it would mean that you were detaching yourself. Numbing your feelings. Life is precious. It should be celebrated while it’s here and mourned after it’s gone.”
I was starting to think that Freya was less in aunt mode than in wise-bartender mode, dishing out the secrets of life with each drink. I could appreciate what she was saying, but it was still a lot for the middle of the afternoon. At the same time, I didn’t want to leave. Freya and Ingrid were two of the few examples Mardi and I had to show us what it meant to be immortal—goddesses locked out of Asgard, our eternal home, witches here in Midgard, but restricted in the use of our powers, which, in our case, we barely knew the extent of.
I took another sip of my drink.
“I tried to save her,” I said.
“You were amazing,” Freya said. “You dove into fifty-degree water and dragged a grown woman—and the forty-pound chair she was attached to—up to the surface. I can’t tell you how proud we are of you.”
“But that’s not all I did.”
Freya looked up from her apothecary bottles. “You mean magic?”
“Not exactly. Not mine anyway. I called on Joanna.”
Freya’s eyes went wide. “You called my mom?”
Since this is a diary and I’m doing my best to tell it like it is, I have to admit that I didn’t like the way Freya said my and left out me and Mardi. I mean, I know Joanna isn’t our mom, but still. It was almost like she was saying Joanna was her property, not ours. Her family. Not ours.
“I remembered what you guys did on the boat last summer, with that little boy. I thought maybe she could do the same for that woman.”
“Okay.” Freya laughed a little, nervously. “Honestly, I’m a bit taken aback.”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” I said, my voice as uneasy as Freya’s.
“Honey, you can’t just go calling on the goddess Skadi to pull a soul from Niflheim every time a mortal kicks the bucket. For one thing, death is a natural thing. It’s part of the cycle—that soul has other things to do, in other realms, and it’s not our job to get in the way. For another, Helda, Skadi’s sister, is seriously territorial. Believe me when I tell you she does not give up her subjects easily.”
I nodded glumly.
“I know that,” I said, and I could hear the petulance in my voice. “But even so . . .”
“What?” Freya’s voice wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t nearly as sympathetic as it had been before.
“It shouldn’t matter why I called on her. I’m a goddess, for Pete’s sake. I’m the newest member of this family. This was the first time I’ve ever had to confront something like this, and Joanna should have been there for me like she was for you and Ingrid.”
For a moment, Freya didn’t say anything. Then she shook her head angrily. She began grabbing up her various bottles and beakers and vials and stowing them for the evening shift.
“Look, I know
you’re new at this. This is your very first incarnation, and in many ways, you’re just a typical seventeen-year-old girl. But it’s time to face up to who you are and what that means. You’re a goddess, Molly, and your father is one of the most powerful gods of them all—one of the most loved, but also one of the most hated. And that means that from time to time you’re going to get caught up in plots to kill him, imprison him, or otherwise get him out of the picture so that evil beings can do the evil things they like to do. And the plain truth is that sometimes humans get caught in the cross fire when the gods go after each other, and however sad it may seem, it’s not our duty—or even our right—to save every individual life that gets snuffed out too early. Our job is to protect Midgard as a whole.”
“Wow,” I said, pushing Freya’s drink away—a hollow gesture, since it was pretty much empty. “Thanks for the tough love, Aunt Freya.” I stood up to leave.
“You can call it whatever you want,” Freya said, still angrily putting things away. “Sometimes there’s no point in sugarcoating the truth.”
“It’s not like I asked for the dose of reality. You were the one who slipped me the drink and started asking questions. Whatever,” I said, ignoring her opened mouth. “I’m taking off. You can save your charms for your customers.”
I stalked out of the bar. I’d have slammed the door behind me, but it had a spring-loaded hinge that kept it from banging, so I had to content myself with turning around and flashing Freya a dirty look instead. Then I pivoted on my heel and stormed out—
—and crashed right into the chest of a some guy heading into the bar.
“Whoa, there,” he said, and I felt his hands on my arms, steadying me.
Stupid mortal, I thought, shrugging him off. I guess in my anger I must have magicked it up a little because he went flying back about ten feet and would’ve landed flat on his back if he hadn’t been wearing a huge overstuffed backpack. Only then did I recognize who it was.
Rocco McLaughlin. Rocky. Let’s just say that he was even cuter IRL than he was in his pictures. Way cuter.
“Holy crap,” I said, running to him to help him. “I didn’t see you. I’m sorry.”
Rocky shook his head a little dazedly, and a fan of bangs swept off his face, revealing a pair of glowing blue eyes. He looked at the door, ten feet away, and then at me.
“Ever thought about playing football? That was some tackle.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said again, dusting off his shoulders, which weren’t actually dusty. I offered him a hand, but he waved it away and stood up on his own. He patted himself clean, and then held a hand out to shake mine. His handshake was strong (and a little gritty). Most guys give girls these weak handshakes as though if they actually squeezed, their fingers might break. I guess Rocky knew better.
“I’m Rocky McLaughlin,” he said, “and you are officially the first person I’ve met during my summer in purgatory, besides my cabdriver, I guess.”
“McLaughlin, McLaughlin . . .” I repeated, as if I didn’t know who he was. “Like Sal McLaughlin, the owner of the North Inn?” I jerked a finger at the sign behind me, as if I’d only just realized I was standing in front of it.
Rocky frowned at the mention of his dad’s name, which surprised me.
“I’m his son,” he said in a flat voice. “Although in name only.”
“Oh, right!” I said, pretending to remember. “He’s mentioned you a couple of times?” I added in a questioning voice, as if I wasn’t sure.
“Really?” Rocky said doubtfully. “Because that’d be a couple more times than he’s called me in the past eighteen years.”
I must’ve made some kind of grimace because a guilty look flashed over Rocky’s face.
“Sorry to dump on you. Sal and my mom were married for a hot minute in the late nineties. Just long enough to make me, and then they went their separate ways. I grew up with her. Sal left when I was a baby. And I’m pretty sure he would have preferred to remain ignorant.”
“Oh, Sal’s a great guy!” I protested. “I’m sure you two will get along.” I pointed at his bag. “Judging from the size of that backpack, I take it you’re staying for a while?”
“The whole summer.” His voice didn’t sound happy at all.
“C’mon, lighten up.” I waved my hand, gesturing at the lush greenery, the scattered beach houses and the wide, cloudless blue sky, which felt like an extension of the ocean, just out of view behind the rolling dunes. “A summer at the beach. It can’t be so bad.”
“No, I guess you’re right,” Rocky said, though he didn’t sound too convinced. “Anyway, I guess I should go in and tell him I’m here.” He started toward the front door of the Inn.
An image of Freya popped into my head, standing behind the bar, whipping up her love potions. She was probably still annoyed from our conversation, and if there’s one thing I know about Freya, it’s how she likes to work off steam.
“The Inn doesn’t open till five,” I said quickly, stepping in front of Rocky to bar his path. “And Sal doesn’t usually come in on weekdays till eight or nine, if at all.”
Rocky peered around me, trying to get a glimpse through the window set in the door.
“But doesn’t he live, like, upstairs or something?” Even as Rocky said that, he was looking at the roof of the one-story building for an imaginary second floor. “Around back maybe?”
“Um, no, this isn’t a Victorian novel. The innkeeper doesn’t live with his wife, six children, and three pigs in a barn out back.” I laughed to take the sting out of my words. “Sal lives in a very comfortable beach house about a mile, um, yonder,” I said, pointing in the distance. I knew where Sal lived, but only by sight.
Rocky looked doubtful, as if I might be trying to trick him. “1762 Dune Road,” he said, looking down at his phone again.
“Yup, that’s the Inn,” I said, pointing to the battered brass numbers nailed to the shingles.
He sighed heavily and shifted the straps of his pack, which suddenly seemed to be biting into his shoulders.
“You wouldn’t happen to know his home address?”
As he asked, it popped into my head: 409 Pfenning Road.
“Sorry, no idea,” I said. “But if you want, I can walk you there. Like I said, it’s only about a mile.”
I wasn’t sure, but I thought I saw a flicker of a smile cross his face.
“Okay,” he said simply.
It was the nicest word I’d heard all day.
• • •
“You’re lucky I’m wearing flats today, or you’d be on your own,” I said as we started out, holding up a leg to show off my espadrilles. “So what made you decide to spend the summer on the East End anyway?”
Rocky sighed again.
“I didn’t. Sal did.”
There was a hint of warning in his voice—more than a hint—but I chose to ignore it. We had a mile to go, after all. And you know, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“He thought it was time for some father-son bonding?”
“I guess so.”
We trudged on another dozen steps in silence. I was beginning to think that talking was going to be even more painful than not talking.
“I wanted to stay at college this summer,” Rocky said finally, “but Sal said he couldn’t afford it plus tuition in the fall, so all things considered, I figured I’d better come here.”
“Why not stay with your mom?”
We walked another dozen steps before Rocky answered.
“My mom died in March.”
“Oh,” I said hollowly. “I had no idea.” In my head, I yelled at Mardi, who was the one who’d looked Rocky up on social media: How could you miss that, sis?
“Cancer,” Rocky continued. “I knew she was sick, but she said it wasn’t serious. Otherwise I’d never have gone to college in the first place. I
would’ve spent her last months with her. In the end, when she finally told me what was going on, she said she’d kept it from me because she knew I’d lose my scholarship if I deferred for a year, and she was afraid I wouldn’t be able to afford college without it. She was right about that anyway. Even after I sold the house, there was barely enough to pay off her medical bills.”
“Gods,” I said. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“‘Gods,’” he repeated with a little bit of a grin. “What are you, some kind of pagan?”
“Oh, you know, just covering all the bases.” I laughed. “I’m really sorry about your mom,” I said again.
“Yeah, some guys spend spring break in Ft. Lauderdale or the Caribbean. I spent it at my mother’s bedside, watching her die. And you want to know the kicker?”
At this point, I was pretty sure I didn’t, but since I’d opened the floodgates, I couldn’t exactly refuse him.
“I lost my scholarship anyway. It was dependent on my GPA, and after I found out my mom was terminal, I kind of lost all interest in studying. Go figure.”
“That really sucks. I’m sorry.”
Rocky stopped suddenly, turning to me with a confounded stare. “I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “You can dump on Molly all you want.” Ew. Did I really just say that?
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Molly. Is that your name?”
With a start, I realized I hadn’t properly introduced myself. “Molly Overbrook: offensive tackle, shoulder to cry on, and all-around tour guide, at your service.”
“I read about you didn’t I?” he said. “The girl who pulled the flight attendant out of the water? It was on BuzzFeed.”
“That was me,” I said. “I tried to save her . . .”
“It’s not your fault she died. What you did was pretty freaking brave.”
“It didn’t feel brave,” I said. “It felt like I didn’t do enough. It felt like—” I cut myself off. There was no way to explain to this mortal I’d just met that it felt like the goddess Skadi, who just happened to be my grandmother/aunt/sister-in-law/cousin ten times removed, had turned her back on me when I needed her most.