The Magic of Untamed Hearts

1

My great-aunt Nadia says that in order to seduce a man successfully, one needs:

The scent of roses (somewhere in the vicinity of the copulation location, I presume);

Fresh-ground cinnamon in the kitchen molcajete (with a pinch of salt if one feels particularly kinky);

And lastly, a pitchfork (stuck right into the black garden dirt).

The Pacifica's Persian Rose perfume (stolen from my sister Sage) I have sprayed on my barely there cleavage should work, I think, for the rose part. Check.

I couldn't find any sort of cinnamon besides a jar of already ground cinnamon from Value Vince's Corner Store, so that's what went in the molcajete. And since I'm feeling not just particularly kinky, but more like insanely kinky, I went ahead and dumped a tablespoon of salt right on top of it. Check.

The pitchfork was the one task that I couldn't complete. I literally spent all morning looking for it. I even asked the pigeons to help me look for one-yes, they can help with that sort of thing, as I am, as my family says, the Witch of Criaturas, or Creatures-but nada. I called my sisters, my tía, but everyone had a different place for me to look, and it wasn't in the garden shed, or leaning next to the side door, or next to Nadia's flower-potting station on the porch. I finally gave up after two hours of relentless searching with a bird on each shoulder, each one cooing little warm pigeon-songs beside my ears.

Long after Grayson Baker-a twentysomething real estate agent who I've gone on exactly four and a half dates with-arrives, long after we've made out on my bed, over my new, fancy comforter printed with watercolor woods, and he's breathless and hard and saying (sort of) sweet things like "Damn, you're hot" and "Damn, this ass" I'm still wondering where the hell I'd last seen that damn pitchfork.

It's on the tip of my tongue, the periphery of my memory, and then . . . as Grayson's mouth hovers over my right nipple, it finally hits me.

"Wait, wait," I say, gently pushing him back and jumping up off my bed. I grab my fuzzy pink Juicy Couture robe from one of my bedposts. "Just a sec. I'm so sorry. I need to do something super quick."

"Uh." Grayson sits back on the bed, looking me over as I tie the robe across my belly super tight with a double knot. The last thing I need is one of the neighbors to see my tits. They already think I'm a little bit-or a lot, rather-nuts as all hell.

After all, it's not every day that a woman goes into a magical, Rip Van Winkle-esque sleep in the woods for eight whole years.

It's not every day said woman is awakened by her sister and great-aunt and returns to the Land of the Living-what Nadia calls this realm-telling the town only the truth of where she'd been.

So, naturally, everyone in Cranberry just calls me a liar and wants nothing to do with me except, on occasion, to spy on me so they can spread nasty rumors.

And the last thing I want to hear while I'm shopping at the supermarket this week are whispers about how I kidnapped Grayson and had my way with him, then ran around my yard completely topless while waving a pitchfork around. Hell, by the time that gets through town, they'll claim I had Grayson's body dangling on that same pitchfork and then I'll be literally banned from all two grocery stores in Cranberry. Not to mention arrested.

Grayson clears his throat and stares at me without blinking. "What's happening right now?"

"I just have to do this one thing. Fast," I promise.

He tilts his head and furrows his brows. With his pink cheeks and tousled hair from making out, the whole effect makes him look adorable, actually.

I'd spent the last six months on a local dating app, swiping left and left and left, with only the occasional right, chatting with men who, with only a little bit of prodding, were all too enthusiastic about revealing how disgusting and sexist they were. I'd gotten so sick of it that I came to a decision.

Last month I told myself I would go on an actual, real-life date with the first man on the CDS (Cranberry Dating Scene app-terrible, terrible name) who didn't seem like a psychopath.

And I get it. That probably sounds pretty expected and kind of the way these things inherently go. Going on dates is literally the point of joining dating apps in the first place.

But honestly? Given the way I'm treated in this town? The prospect of getting dressed up and meeting an actual man in person felt like I was walking off the ledge of a cliff with nothing but long trails of misty, blue-gray clouds beneath me.

Willingly falling off a cliff, this time, I mean.

Almost immediately after I promised myself I would actually go on dates rather than chatting with the occasional sexting, Grayson's profile popped up in my search. Recently divorced, he'd written in his bio. No kids. Looking to have fun as well as deep conversations.

I swiped right and then messaged him with Do you like women who might be considered a bit strange? After only eight minutes, a notification popped up. I love strange women, he'd responded.

His skin was a little bit tan and covered in freckles, his eyes as dark brown as the fur of the sweet deer who like to come to the kitchen windows in the morning to say hello, and his hair was a golden blond and cropped short. He took me to restaurants downtown by the beach, requesting romantic, candlelit tables in the darkest corners, "so we can really get to know each other," he'd explained, winking. Last date, we kissed by his car, parked so near the ocean, I was distracted by the seagulls the entire time. Their calls sounded like warnings, somehow . . . but when I turned my head toward them after, I saw nothing but the sun being swallowed by the blue watercolor of the sea.

The "deep conversations" he'd promised weren't exactly deep at all, unless you counted the depth of his capacity to talk about how much he lifts (Two fifty? Three hundred? Somewhere thereabouts).

But overall, he was . . . nice. He never called me The Girl Who Lies, or Freak, or any other unkind name that's been thrown at me weekly in this town. Grayson was ripped, employed, and, most importantly, not once did he proclaim that he was looking for a tradwife who didn't mind deep-throating at least twice a day. Which was not even close to the worst thing a man had told me via these apps.

While it's true, Grayson doesn't seem super enamored with me . . . it's not like I'm crazy about him, either. And I don't consider that a bad thing, to be honest.

Ever since coming back from a years-long supernatural sleep, I've felt like a stranger in my own skin. In my own life. I don't understand the Land of the Living anymore. I was sixteen when I left it, twenty-four when I returned, and twenty-six now. I've had two whole years to adjust, and yet everything I do is motivated by a very specific desire to stop feeling like the loneliest woman in the world.

Hence, seducing Grayson literally right now.

Maybe if we have sex, we'll both become enamored with each other.

And even if not, I'd like to have good sex. I've never experienced it before. If nothing else, orgasms sure would relieve some stress. I just need to ensure those orgasms first. Magically speaking.

"Just give me a second," I tell him, lifting up my pointer finger. "One second."

Grayson huffs just the slightest bit and then shakes his head. "Are you seriously leaving?"

His tone is more than a little annoyed, which is bothersome. Annoyed men are not good lovers. I don't know this from experience, but it seems like common sense. Which is why I really need to complete the pitchfork part of this ritual before intercourse occurs.

"I will be right back. I swear. This is important."

And it is. Rose is for romance. Cinnamon is for heat. And the pitchfork is for orgasms. The pitchfork pins them on your land and all those orgasms find their way to you. Nadia'd laughed at me as I took notes. With the way most men are in bed, mija, you need all the help you can get.

Romance, I can do without. Heat, whatever the hell that refers to, doesn't seem important. But orgasms are essential to me. I'm not about to have sex for the first time in almost ten years without ensuring my own completion.

For all I know, Grayson will ghost me after this. His annoyance right now certainly isn't making me think he's going to become enamored with me after all. At the very least, the universe-the Land of the Living, let's say-owes me. Preferably in many instances of completion.

I run down the stairs, slip on my little outdoor booties at the front door, and race toward the back of the house. It's a sliver of a backyard, if one could even call it that. We live on a cliff that, in the distance, overlooks the Virginian Atlantic shore. If I stare at it too long-the dazzling glitter of sunlight bouncing off the water like fine quartzite on the side of a carved mountain-I can feel the fish and plankton and whales and seagulls that all inhabit that space.

Sometimes, late at night as I'm falling asleep, I can sense what feels like every single creature in this town, Cranberry, from the pink-edged sulphur butterfly babies in their cocoons to the green-wing teal ducks, tiny and shimmering and curled in on themselves, asleep on the edges of the lakes, to the great horned owls, eyes wide as moons and looking for their nighttime breakfast.

This is the life of the Witch of Criaturas.

A few feet to the left of my sister Sage's blue rose, there lies the pitchfork, halfway tucked into some bushes. I grab its wooden handle and find the nearest patch of grass I can and stick it right in there. Luckily it's rained recently, and so the clay beneath the sod is soft enough that the prongs go in with only a little bit of effort. I clap my hands together once when I release the handle and it stays perfectly upright.

"Okay," I announce to the fox who has reached my side. This little guy, I like to call Coffee. His eyes look just like Nadia's Turkish brew that she pours into the dirt for the old gods every morning-one shade between the deepest brown and black. He cocks his head up at me. "It's time for orgasms. Do foxes even have those?" I frown thoughtfully. "I guess I could google it later. But wouldn't that look kind of suspicious in my search history? People don't like me enough as it is . . . and if they thought I was . . ." I shake my head as I get a glimpse of my elderly neighbor, Janie, spying on me from between her curtains. "Go hide," I tell Coffee, and he rushes into the pine trees.

I stare Janie down, but she doesn't slap the curtains shut until I give her a little wave involving only one of my middle fingers.

I rush back in the house, kicking off my slippers at the entrance, and begin to run upstairs. When I hear Grayson's voice, however, I pause. What the hell is he talking for? He's not chatting with Nadia, is he? She's supposed to be at church literally all day. I didn't see her car up front, did I? God, that would be so incredibly awkward.

I tiptoe up, praying I don't hear my great-aunt's voice echoing from my bedroom, where there are no less than three extra-large multipacks of ribbed, super-ribbed, and tropical-flavored condoms piled up in the middle of my dresser. She would have to be incredibly drunk in order to miss that, highly unlikely on a Sunday morning after church.

But as I creep up the stairs-as soundless as Coffee when he stalks chipmunks and squirrels-another male-sounding voice echoes toward me. It's someone he's talking to on speakerphone. The muffled and electronic tone of the other side of this conversation gives it away.

My first thought is Grayson has answered a call from his dad or tío or something. A distant part of me realizes how badly I'm clinging to the idea that Grayson is a Nice Guy. I even come up with a wholesome scenario in seconds. His family member was worried when Grayson didn't show up to brunch and was just calling to check in. Grayson just answered to reassure them that he was fine, and then he'd hang up and soon I would be having multiple orgasms before kissing him on the cheek goodbye, then getting on with my day.

But then the disembodied voice asks, "So have you bagged the freak yet?"

Grayson laughs. It's a much different laugh than the one he'd used when we'd met up for an early breakfast at a sandwich spot nearby, before he followed me back here, to Nadia's, and I offered him water or tea or coffee before I pulled him into my bedroom, ripped off his shirt, and pushed him onto my mattress.

That laugh was polite and restrained. This laugh is cruel. Its edges are as sharp as the thorns of pinecones protecting its tiny seeds from those who would devour them.

Only I don't think Grayson is protecting anything precious. Because his next words are "Not yet. But I'm about to. Then we'll find out if she's got antlers growing out of her pussy."

This time the cruel laugh bursts from his phone's speaker. "Dude. I bet you anything she doesn't shave, either. I bet she's like a bearded collie down there."

Grayson snorts. "I bet she barks when she's getting pounded."

It's strange how the pain of this situation doesn't hit me until the voice adds next, "Well, we'll have to head to Lost Souls tonight, man. I'll get you a beer or two for taking one for the team."

It's not the commentary about antlers . . . or barking . . . or dog hair that makes my heart and stomach feel like they've been split in half with a cleaver. It's "team." It's that the word team indicates more. More people in on this joke. More people laughing and snorting as they muse about whether there are antlers reaching out of my vagina as though I were perpetually birthing a stag.