I gave her a smile and went back to my book. But the next day, based solely on Ayana’s instincts, because I still didn’t fully trust my own, I declared English as my major.
Seasons changed, the years passed. It seemed Zakai was everywhere—on magazine covers at the grocery store, on billboards in Times Square, and in commercials during television shows I tried to watch. Entertainment shows published paparazzi pictures of him on yachts with groups of half-naked partiers, and entering dark clubs with a bevy of fawning fans. I gave my television away and I averted my eyes from the places I feared I’d see his cruel midnight gaze staring back at me, making me hate, making me yearn, stirring up my grief so I couldn’t move past it for days.
I graduated from college on a warm spring day in May. Ayana took picture after picture of both me and Carly, and teared up when I told her it was because of her I’d stuck it out. Perhaps she hadn’t saved my life, but she had been a part of keeping my soul intact. I counted three women mother figures in my life. The first I barely remembered, the second had left me far too soon, and the third had helped to mend my broken heart, though I still hadn’t divulged the details of my past to either her or Carly. They’d stop loving me if they knew, and I needed their love desperately.
As we were exiting the auditorium where the graduation ceremony had taken place, a familiar figure approached, hands in his pockets, his head tilted, nervousness in his gaze. “Hi, Karys.”
“Uncle Braxton.” I stopped, glancing at Carly and Ayana. “I’ll catch up with you in a minute,” I said to them. Ayana appeared as though she was going to argue, but eventually began to move toward the car after sending Braxton a narrow-eyed suspicious glance.
“Congratulations,” he said, offering a tentative smile, his eyes moving to the rolled diploma I held in my hand. “You did it.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
He squinted off behind me for a moment. “I’m sorry, Karys. What I did was inexcusable. You’d think after all this time I’d have better words, and I tried to come up with them, but that’s really the guts of it.”
“I’ve forgiven you, Braxton.”
“I appreciate it,” he said, grimacing, digging his hands more deeply into his pockets.
There was an awkward silence between us. “How’s Claire?” I finally asked.
Braxton let out a humorless chuckle. “Oh. Uh, we broke up years ago actually. I’m dating someone else. We’re getting married this fall. I thought you might want to come . . .”
I shook my head. “No, thank you. I wish you well though.”
Braxton released what sounded like a pent-up gust of air. “No, I, yeah, I understand. Your dad would kick my ass. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been doing the job for him ever since . . . that night.”
I glanced to where Carly and Ayana were waiting for me at Ayana’s car, both of them standing against the vehicle, staring as I talked to Braxton—a couple of mother hens. My heart warmed. I focused back on Braxton. “No, that doesn’t make me feel better at all. You made a mistake. I’ve made them too.” I paused. “I appreciate the books you’ve been paying for all these years. It helped a lot.”
“God, yeah, it’s the least . . . well, I wish I could do more. If you ever need anything at all . . .”
I held out my hand and after a brief pause he took it. I smiled at him. “Be well, Braxton.” Another goodbye.
“You too, Karys.”
I walked toward Ayana and Carly. I had been truthful with Braxton—I forgave him for kissing me that New Year’s Eve. But I couldn’t forget that he’d run Zakai off not only because he thought it was in my best interest as he’d said, but because he’d been jealous of Zakai.
Zakai had seen that but I had not.
It seemed to be a running theme in our relationship.
Not that it mattered anymore. Braxton had made his choices. But then, so had Zakai.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I stepped out of Ayana’s Eatery for the last time as an employee three months after I’d graduated from New York University. I’d taken a job at a large publishing house doing glorified grunt work and I was perfectly thrilled. I loved my new job. I loved that my entire work day—grunt work or not—was filled with books. No one paid me to read, but just to be surrounded by novels and others who loved them with the same intensity that I did, lit a fire in my belly.
Authors came into the office to meet with their publishers or to sign copies of their latest title, and I gazed upon them with stars in my eyes. These were the creators of stories, the weavers of spells, and to me they were magical creatures on par with elves and fairy godmothers.