I knew I was being unreasonable, but my feelings were hurt. This was the guy I loved, the guy who'd always said he loved me. Not only had he decided to move halfway across the country without even telling me, he was moving for a job that would advance his career. Advance him far beyond my own pathetic hopes. Without me.
"Kelly," Rob said. He sounded so miserable that I almost reached out for him, almost slipped into the familiar circle of his arms.
Arms that were going to be 1,500 miles away, come tomorrow. "Leave me alone!" I curled my fingers into a fist, hoping the motion would stop my voice from shaking.
"We should talk."
"Now you think we should talk?" I whirled toward the pantry shelves behind me, fumbling for the nearest solid object—a canister of salt. This was eerily like New Day Dawning; I was slipping too easily into the role of jilted wife. Not that Rob and I were married. Yet.
In the play, I threw a book at my onstage husband. In real life, Rob ducked out of the pantry before I could find out if I would actually throw something at him.
Even as the door slammed closed, I shoved the salt back onto the shelf. The motion jostled the brass lamp that I'd hidden away. I barely caught it before it could clatter onto the floor.
I hadn't realized I was crying until I saw a tear shimmer on the tarnished brass. I bit my lip and scrubbed at the metal, trying to eradicate the watery proof of my emotion.
My fingers buzzed as they connected with the lamp. Pain jangled up my arm, burning like a thousand bee stings. I swore and dropped the metal, not caring as it clattered on the pantry's bare floor.
A cloud began to pour from the brass spout. Glints of light swirled in the air around me—sapphire and topaz, ruby and emerald. The shimmer spun in front of me, coalescing into a sparkling mist roughly the size of a human being.
Astonished, I blinked.
And when I opened my eyes, I was staring at a ballerina.
She was six feet tall, and her body seemed carved of alabaster, long and lean and strong. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, framed by a diamond tiara that shone even brighter than the jeweled cloud. Those diamonds were echoed in the severe lines of her leotard, in the froth of her tutu. The classic perfection was offset by an unlikely tattoo around her wrist—a brilliant wreath of flames.
"What—" I started to say, but I couldn't finish the question.
The dancer looked around the pantry and arched one eyebrow in wry amusement. "So now I am trapped in a grocery store?" Her words were heavy with a Russian accent.
"Who are you?" I managed to choke out.
"Jaze," she said, extending one perfect hand. "I am your genie, molodaya devushka."
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