Probably getting your heart crushed just makes you *more* likely to crush on someone, Charlotte mused. Because you’re looking for an object onto which you can project your truncated feelings.

HOW DO I MAKE IT GO AWAY??!!

Just stop seeing him, wrote Charlotte.

Aw, why do you want it to go away?

Because we have JUST established that I am a disaster romantic!!! Nothing good will come of this! My heart is already smashed. What if Ash, like, vaporizes it??

Well, it wouldn’t be Ash that did anything, it would be your own thoughts and feelings about the situation, Charlotte corrected.

Truman pictured Ash holding the šilpka that Clarion used in the Dead of Zagørjič. It emanated pulses of magic that turned an enemy’s mind inside out.

He shuddered and hugged himself. But then he imagined spending the next three and a half weeks on Owl Island, knowing Ash was near and not seeing him. Walking past Thorn to get groceries and avoiding him. He hated that thought even more than he hated the thought of getting his heart vaporized.

Shit, I do like him, Truman wrote.

You poor soul.

Eeeee!!! Germaine sent a screen of heart eye emojis.

I’m gonna go take a bath and drown my sorrows. In wine, I mean. Not in the bath. I mean, not literally in the bath. I mean…

We know what you mean. You’re not killing yourself. That is a good choice. Charlotte sent a thumbs-up emoji, then a bathtub emoji.

Germaine wrote, Good, take care of yourself. Things will look brighter in the morning! <3

Literally, Charlotte added. Sorry, sorry, ok bye.

Truman turned on the taps in Greta’s clawfoot tub. She had a jar of bath salts with thyme and rosemary in it that he sprinkled into the tub. The aroma rose around him as the herbs hit the hot water, and Truman took a deep breath, trying to relax.

“Ooh, Ash could sell flower-scented bath salts at the shop!”

The thought hit him, accompanied by a surge of excitement. He caught himself just before he pulled out his phone to text Ash. Then he realized it didn’t matter, because Ash had never given him his phone number.

“Ugh, pathetic,” he diagnosed. Suddenly the thyme and rosemary didn’t seem so relaxing. Instead, he pictured himself as a turkey about to be brined in savory herbs. He certainly felt like a fucking turkey. He found some lavender and added it to the bath, hoping to conjure a vibe of calm rather than poultry. He’d just take a bath, read, and go to bed. Alone.

Truman grabbed book two of the Dead of Zagørjič, The Heart Soars, and a bottle of wine and slid into the hot, herb-scented water.

Chapter 12

Greta