Sanford Pius is the fastest flyer in the world. His wing span is an impressive eight feet. When he was six, he flew from his hometown in Georgia across the gulf and landed safely in New Mexico. His parents then rededicated their entire lives to helping him succeed in the sport. Neither of them were particularly good flyers themselves. It was a delicate art form, you see, one you naturally excelled in or trained at intensely. To fly you needed to train your wings, and your lungs. The air above ten thousand feet gets so thin that, without proper training, will force your lungs to concave on themselves causing you to fall unconsciously back to earth. It’s the most dangerous sport in the world, which is why it’s the most rewarding.

Elijah Mann grew up in the inner city of Detroit. Born to a father and mother who worked blue collared jobs. His mother, Dorthea was a school teacher and his father worked at the industrial plant, breathing in chemicals all day and night.

Elijah was Sanford’s number one fan. He once begged his mother for a week straight to witness Sanford’s flight from Chicago to Las Vegas and back. Elijah remembers Sanford spreading his wings, the sun twinklying the waves of Lake Michigan below him. Elijah stood mouth agape as Sanford’s body rose higher, above the clouds, until his disappeared like an angel into the morning sky. It was his first time seeing an expert flyer in person.

You see, everyone “flies” all of the time. The ability to lift yourself at least four feet off the ground was as common as the ability to walk. It was human biology, evolved over millennia. Anyone could float from their sofa to their bedrooms as a party trick. Some advanced flyers even did 300K flights annually to prove they still had it. But to really fly, to truly soar, you needed special training. You needed discipline. It was a business. A machine. One that made sure your body wouldn’t betray you in the highest points of the atmosphere.

Elijah was the fastest flyer in his grade at Helios High School. For the presidential fitness test every year they force kids ages 6-18 to fly to the landing pad that stood ten stories above the school. Those who completed it the fastest time were then flagged for future military services or privatized flight academies. Elijah was the fastest and flew the highest every year.

Eli didn’t know any expert flyers. Where he lived, people gave up on flying. It was something the wealthy had more time to do. Dorothea once remembered an uncle who could fly from when she was a kid. But he took off one day and never returned. She was eleven.

At home Eli would test himself to fly further and higher. He’d measure his heart rate and his lung capacity on a machine gifted to him by the principal of his school. Everyone in town knew that Elijah Mann was the best of them, if he could fly, if he could escape, there was hope.

The recruitment came in late March of his junior year. Elijah received a letter for the American Flight Academy, the premiere school for competitive flying in North America. It was embossed in gold and held the symbol of Icarus. This was it. This was his golden letter to his dreams. Flight school. The A.F.A was what West Point was to military recruitment. It had an acceptance rate of less than one percent and almost every graduate flyer went on to compete competitively.

Flight School was the end all and be all for aspiring Flyers. By age seventeen, all adolescent flyers knew whether flying would continue to just be a hobby, a cool trivia fact for them in the future or if it was going to be a lifestyle. The life of a Flyer was the most elegant of the professions and the most gatekept. Important men met in expensive suits gathered in large boardrooms to talk about “The Flyers.” To decide which ones were given a chance, a golden ticket to the sky and which ones were left on the ground. Flying competitively wasn’t easy to do without special training and dieting, someone with a golden ticket to the A.F.A. would have.

* * *

Boulder, Colorado sat at 5,430 feet above sea level. The air was already so thin that they had special doctors on standby with IV drips for the Flyers. The Academy was carved in the mountainside, resting right above the clouds. It was nicknamed Mt. Olympus because people in the area describe it as witnessing Gods flying about the heavens.

The training regimen was unlike anything Elijah had experienced. And he was used to pushing himself further and further. Flight Academy was another beast entirely. Six hours of flying drills, two hours of conditioning, one hour of recovery planning. Oxygen saturation. Muscle fiber adaptation. These were words Elijah had never heard before spoken to him by world-class instructors. Most of the coaches at the Flight Academy were retired competitive flyers who had once pushed their bodies all the way to the brink, and now could help new Flyers do the same.

Coach Buck was Elijah’s mentor. He was a former expert flyer born in Budapest. He competed in the Junior Flying Olympics of 1992 before going on to break records at the official Olympics in 1996. He got sponsorships with Nike, Ferrari and Coca Cola. He was able to move his family out of the war-torn countryside of Ukraine and into a twelve room mansion in North Carolina, where he stayed for nine months out of the year. The other time was spent at the Flight Academy, turning amateurs into world champions.

Coach Buck had a wingspan of 7’6”. His wing tissue was worn and battered, carrying a large scar from the side of his abdomen to the middle of his spine from nearly avoiding a lightning strike while flying through a hurricane in 2005. Since then Coach Buck can’t fly more than a few thousand feet in any direction.

Flight is twenty percent genetics, eighty percent will, Coach Buck barked at Elijah and his cohort.

Coach Buck pushed them hard. They flew timed flight marathons through the Rocky Mountains to practice altitude endurance. Eli was good but not great. Compared to his other classmates he wasn’t as trained. These were kids whose grandparents grew up flying. Eli was an amateur. He couldn’t fly as far. He couldn’t fly as fast.

But he did have the will.

One day after practice, Coach Buck pulled him aside. He told Elijah to listen to his body, listen to his lungs, his heart. Hear where they wanted to go. Elijah needed to learn Flyer’s flow.

Eli had heard the myth of Flyer’s flow. When experienced Flyers trained their mind to disassociate from their body. When they fly it’s like they’re suspended in a transcendental state between existence and another world. Their body goes on autopilot and their wings take over.

Elijah buried himself in mindfulness meditations. He’d listen to his lungs and heartbeat. His mind and body were slowly morphing into one.

* * *

In October, Elijah returned home to Detroit for his father’s birthday. In the early morning after his twenty six mile flight, he checked the mail. He had received a letter stating that he was chosen for the Junior Flying Olympics in Athens that Summer. He didn’t tell his parents right away. He looked around at his house in disarray, his mother’s newfound limp, his father’s new cough from working late shifts at the factory and realized maybe his dream of flying was taking a secret toll on them. That they had fully sacrificed their lives, for his.

He decided he wouldn’t tell them about the letter. His father was sick, his mother needed help with the bills, he couldn’t leave for a month to compete. So he hid the letter under his pillow and started to imagine what it would feel like to fly around Athens. The next morning, Eli woke up to his mother cleaning his room and hovering over his bed with the letter in hand. Dorothea wouldn’t let him skip out on this once in a lifetime opportunity.

Even his father pushed, Eli must go, he must. Eli had to do all of the things they couldn’t. He had to show the world that there were still people in Detroit, and those people can accomplish great things.

* * *

Athens in July was hot. Heat was one of the toughest conditions to fly in but also proved without reasonable doubt, a Flyer’s ability. There was a reason the universal symbol for Flyers was Icarus. Because of how close one could try and fail to get to the sun.

The city had been hosting the Junior Flying Olympics for over sixty two years. Starting at the Acropolis and ending at the coastline near Piraeus, it was the hottest ticket in town. Recruiters from all over the world descended on Athens to witness the next generation of Flyers. Who was going to be the next Sanford Pius? Who will go to the official Olympics in two years?

Over three weeks, Flyers competed in various different flying sections. Formation Flying. Precision Landing. Altitude Sprints. Elijah saw his classmates from the Academy competing in their respective fields. Days passed as Elijah waited for The Circuit Race. The Circuit was the most complicated sport at the Junior Flying Olympics. A flyer was tasked to complete three full circuits throughout Athens, weaving through city buildings at the speed of a small jet, quickly navigating obstacles that could arrive at every corner. The entire city shut down from the hours of five to seven am just so The Circuit could be completed. It was less busy. But busy none the less.

The Circuit route not only required wing speed but knowledge of which alleyways held updrafts, which corners sharpened too quickly and would punish a Flyer for flying too close. Elijah practiced the circuit route in the dead of night. Like a bat, stealthily flew through the streets only illuminated by the distant moonlight hovering above him. Elijah believed that if he could memorize the circuit by night, he could reach Flyer’s flow during the day. It would be instinctual.

* * *

The starting line was at the Acropolis. High above the city of Athens, many crowded around the Flyers that were competing in the Circuit. Looking out into the crowd of many, Elijah felt a tinge of sadness. He wished his parents could be there. But his father’s lungs couldn’t take the long journey and even if they could, they couldn’t afford the flight. As Elijah stood at the starting line he started to hear murmurs amongst the other Flyers. They were whispering about Sanford Pius being in attendance. Sanford Pius was watching? Elijah’s heart raced harder and faster. Of course it was always a possibility that Sanford could be there. He was one of the greatest Flyers in the world. He quickly scanned the crowd for Sanford’s tan face but everyone’s faces were tan. The sun was slowly rising on the horizon and soon would burn everyone to a crisp. Elijah couldn’t worry about that. He couldn’t worry about Sanford. He had to remember why he was there. That he had trained his entire life for this moment.

He stood at the starting line. Took a deep inhale. His wings outstretched. He thought of home. And before he could think about it too much, the starting horn blared.

Elijah’s body took off. He darted into the sky like an arrow, reaching a speed of 100 mph in ten seconds. Below the city blurred. The cheers from the Acropolis faded. All Elijah could hear was his heartbeat and the wind that whipped passed his ear drums.

As he approached his third and final lap, a Flyer from Venezuela was hot on his heels. Elijah’s lungs burned. His wings ached. Coach Buck’s words echoed in his head. He pushed forward. And for a split moment everything faded away. All of earth stood still and it was as if Elijah was purely suspended between earth and atmosphere. Between victory and disappointment. Between who he was and everything he could be.

He landed at the finish line with a CRASH. Dust covered the landing pad. Elijah dusted himself off. A ringing in his ear. Everything was muffled. Cheers felt farther away than they ever had. In a rush of excitement the Olympic committee rushed over and adorned Elijah with a gold medal. Before he could even realize what was happening, a flash was taken. People were shaking his hands. He was overcome with many emotions. Proud of everything he had just accomplished. Sad, that his parents weren’t there to see it in person. And mourning the way his life would never be the same again.

He saw it all clearly. The Wheaties Box, the Adidas sponsorship, the next few years of his life would be dedicated to going to the real Olympics. He would train with the pros, be enviable amongst many and in the midst of it all, he would join the ranks of being the few distinguished Black Flyers ever.

He was in rare air. He saw how much it took to be one of the best and one of the few simultaneously. How lonely he felt in the midst of accomplishment.

He got what he wanted but at what cost?

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When we arrived at the creek, we were dried out and dirt-speckled from the droplets of gravel that hit us during our drive. Judah climbed out of his car like a walking stick as I took in the stretch of land around me. As advertised, a small creek snaked through a garden of birches before emptying out into a tiny lake. Two wizened oaks guarded the mouth of the water, stout and solid like the Royal guardsmen. A couple toddlers splashed around in rain boots and threw clumps of confetti into the air.

“So this is really it?” I asked dubiously. “This is where you guys hang out?”

“More or less,” My cousin Owen said. “It’s where we kill time before the real fun starts.”

There was an eclipse of madness behind his face as he spoke, mouth pulled into a crooked smirk. From that description alone I imagined the creek to transform into some harlequin horrorland the moment the sun went down — bare branches would turn into spears, spiders would hang from their leaves like acrobats, and the boys would take their brambled thrones on innocent tree stumps. With a couple war wounds and mud masks, they could be the protagonists of Where The Wild Things Are.

“What should we do first?”

“You wanna climb Old Haggard?”

Owen threw his hands in the air at the mention of that.

“Beam me up, Scotty!” He cried.

the three of us scaled a menacing pitchfork at the bend of the creek and settled in the highest crooks that could hold our weight. Owen, being the competitive spirit that he was, felt it obligatory to climb one extra rung, just to rule the world. As the boys bickered over who could climb the fastest, I closed my eyes and became one with nature.

Without anything visual to focus on, I found myself thinking about how good the wind felt slicing through the leaves and the way my feet could sway so freely. It had been a good ten years since I’d climbed a tree, and at least three years since I became too old to have “the perfect summer.” And when I say “perfect,” I’m not talking about the tropical getaways everyone muses over in their office break room for three hundred and sixty five days a year. I’m not talking about drowsy seaside afternoons melting into copper evenings or ivory beaches adorned with seashells and seaweed. I’m not talking about sipping pina coladas on someone’s rented yacht with nothing around you but the cobalt expanse of the Pacific. Sure, all those things sound lovely, but that’s never the type of summer I envisioned.

I’m talking about a Stephen King summer, a Hardy Boys summer — a summer spent on rusted bikes and dirt-caked riding boots. Late night escapades sprinting through crabgrass, midnight trips to 7-Eleven, skulking around with a flashlight and your father’s pocket knife that you swiped from his pickup. A summer sprinkled with mystery, wisps of the macabre drifting through the sky like dandelion tufts in the hazy, tepid air. Four ripened months spent with friends you would die for — despite the unspoken knowledge that none of you would face adulthood together — because everyone’s looking for the same thing when they’re seventeen. But then people move, get good jobs, get bad jobs, fall in love, fall into drugs, or move across the country, and nothing is ever the same.

Judah and Owen were now the reason that someone like me — someone who’s too old to egg houses and get scared by Howard Browne novels — can have a summer like that. Someone who no longer talks to ghosts because they’re too busy drowning in work and responsibilities. Someone who’s almost out of college. Someone who, God forbid, is considered an adult with a briefcase and a subway card and a favorite power suit.

And I think we all knew this too, because we stayed in that tree for almost an hour, taking turns swinging our legs and catapulting berries with Judah’s slingshot. They exploded on the dirt in plumes of unripe red and purple and disturbed the glass of the water below.

“Did I tell you Skylar’s on birth control now?”

“No, damn. I guess you guys are getting serious.”

“Yeah, but we can only have sex in my car because they won’t let guys into the girl’s dorms.” Owen explained. “I don’t know what we’re gonna do this summer, though. She lives an hour away. Hooking up isn’t worth the gas money.”

“You could always go see her on the weekends?”

“Can’t. I gotta get a job soon. Brown isn’t gonna pay for itself.”

“Well at least you have a girlfriend.” Judah kicked a loose scale of bark that tumbled down like a dead body. “I haven’t even kissed anyone since last summer. I’m like a fucking mormon.”

“Sounds like a sad life you’re living.” Owen threw his head back in laughter, clearly poking fun.

“Bars tonight?” Judah suggested in an attempt to change topics. The color had completely drained from his ruddy cheeks and I pretended not to notice. “We could go to Twisty’s? I’m pretty sure it’s half-price night.”

“Holy shit, yes.” Owen gasped and turned to me like a preschooler pleading for a playdate. “Will you come with us, Edie? You can get in legally and order us drinks. I’ll bet every penny in my savings you haven’t been to a bar since turning twenty-one. And how old are you now? Twenty-three?”

I rolled my eyes derivatively, not in the mood for my cousin’s inevitable heckling. “Really, Owen? I have to work early in the morning and I don’t wanna hungover on a fucking Monday.”

“Oh come on, I just vouched for you! I said you were fun, not a stick in the mud!” Owen turned to Judah and stabbed him in the side with his elbow. He nearly toppled from his wooden perch and fell head-first onto the grass. “Tell Edie to come, will you?”

In response, Judah simply offered a crescent moon smile, crooked and a tad flirtatious. I didn’t want to go to Twisty’s, but the sad truth was that nothing was quite right since college separated the three of us. Being around Owen and Judah again was so magnetic that being alone felt horribly empty, but perhaps that was just the curse of nostalgia. Because being a teenager is eight o’clock on a summer evening with dandelion seeds caught in honey-golden hair. It’s a swelling sun melting into creamsicle hues reflected on caramel skin, the trill and whirl of bike spokes, the sound once-white sneakers racing down burning pavement. It’s the anticipation of the moon, the tangible humidity still floating in the air. Carnivals and movie theaters are sanctuaries. Musty basements hold more secrets than a locked chest.

But I was well past that age, and Judah and Owen were rapidly approaching the big two-zero. I wasn’t sure how they would cope; when we’re young we want to gorge on everything foreign, overdose on everything new. There’s this insatiable hunger for experience that incubates in the pit of adolescent stomachs, nurtured by perspiration and sprouting up like a balmy weed. However, the problem with such vertiginous growth is that sometimes there’s no time to stop. After all, a rollercoaster cannot simply halt at the apex of its climb without casualty.

“So are we going or not?”
Screw it, I thought. This may be the last weekend we can all still pretend that we’re kids, because if we blink suddenly we’ll all be married with children and living on opposite sides of the country.

“Fine,” I said, hopping down from my tree branch. “Let’s go.”

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Waking up from a vision was much different than waking up from a dream. Whereas waking up from a dream seemed to solidify a grounding in reality, waking up from a vision felt like a fracture from reality. The vision always felt more real to Lauren than the white ceiling of her bedroom and the cheap sheets from Wal-Mart that her mom bought in a fleeting moment of sobriety. Taking deep breaths, Lauren hoped to reach toward the meaning of this vision. Was this woman looking for closure? Help? A friend? It was always so hard to know for sure, and not until the truth fully unspooled itself was Lauren able to capture the understanding that she craved in these moments of uncertainty. It was almost as if nothing she could do would help her grasp the meaning of a given vision more fully—she was powerless until they were ready—though not for lack of trying. Trying to understand was ultimately the amusement of it for her. Born with the gift of Sight, Lauren, now 17, was only starting to comprehend the depth of her clairvoyance, a gift passed down from her grandmother to her.

When she first started to have visions, around age 10, Lauren was greatly unsettled by their intensity. While visions occasionally occurred to her in short moments at waking hours, the majority of them appeared to Lauren in her sleep. And as a 10, 11-year-old girl awaking suddenly to another entity trying their darndest to communicate with her, Lauren was scared. Her very first couple of visions related to a young girl who was raped and drowned by her own father. The girl had been dead for eight years at that time, but for whatever reason, she had found a way, now, to come through to Lauren. She had given Lauren brief impressions of drowning, loss of breath, water up her nose. Those visions played out over the span of several weeks, leading Lauren to wake up screaming, crying, gasping for breath. Her mother Nancy would run into her room, attributing Lauren’s outbursts to a surge of night terrors. Yet night after night, despite any and all precautions taken by Lauren and Nancy (sleeping in the same bed, warm baths at night, a visit to a local social worker), the visions prevailed: that is, until the young victim was fully able to convey to Lauren what had happened to her.

In the last of those visions, the girl had enough of Lauren’s trust and attention to simulate the full episode of her murder. A man, tall and gray–her father–walks into a brightly lit bathroom. The girl, no older than six, sits among bubbles and bath toys, the faucet still running, while the man walks toward her. The girl’s thoughts played through Lauren’s head. Here it goes. He’s going to do it to me again. This time will be the last. I’m going to finally tell Mommy. And then, strangely, the man does not disrobe as usual. He does not touch his daughter in those same places. Instead, he plants his hands firmly on her head and presses it down into the water. For the first time, Lauren wanted to know what happened to this girl. She was finally ready to receive her story. And as a result, Lauren felt everything. The drowning, the fear, the water, the pain, the relief, the end. She felt it all, and once she finally awoke without screams, she felt peace.

The entities did not typically want Lauren to do anything. Granted, the father of this girl still lived in Lauren’s neighborhood. The public perception of her death was still far from the truth. But the spirits found their way, through the telling of their stories to Lauren, a means of setting themselves free. She was their vessel. After those first visions, Lauren began to slowly open up about her Sight to her mother, who thought she made no sense; Lauren’s grandmother Ruth, however, caught wind of the situation, having heard something about the vivid dreams from Lauren’s mom. The next time Lauren saw her grandmother, Ruth sat her down on the couch of her dimly lit parlor and explained to Lauren the Sight. The Sight, Ruth explained, was a blessing from their ancestors, a trusted gift that came with it immense responsibility. Lauren’s grandmother had possessed the Sight her entire life, as did her grandmother before her. Such a power skipped generations, and Lauren’s mother would never fully understand the Sight of Lauren and Ruth. But Lauren need not worry, Ruth said, since the Sight is essentially the gift of understanding, of knowing the truth. While others may never know the truth of Lauren, she can know theirs. This dichotomy could be painful, but it is necessary.

In another conversation, Lauren pleaded to her grandmother to give her some assistance with explaining the Sight to her mother. Nancy was never a nurturing parent to Lauren. She was tough, rugged, anxious, and self-medicated. She worked night and day at the local neighborhood bar, and when she wasn’t working, she was drinking. Lauren was a latchkey kid, responsibly traveling back and forth from school on her own, with frequent visits to her grandmother’s house two blocks over. She was small, bookish, and cynical about the world around her. At 10-years-old, she had all but given up on being understood by anyone. But with her discovery of her gift, paired with validation from her grandmother, she found hope for the future—hope for her relationship with her mother, hope to be set free from her preternatural loneliness. Although Nancy did not possess the Sight herself, she was still a part of the Sight’s lineage, and that fact resonated with Lauren. None of her superficial peers would understand the Sight. But maybe her mother could?

Ruth fiddled with her dentures and clasped her hands, shaking her head gently. No no, she said, your mother won’t understand. Mine never understood, and neither will yours. Your mother is bogged down by the mortal world. She’ll never understand existence like you and I could.

And with those words, Lauren became hardened even by her Sight. A gift she wished would uplift her spiritually suddenly became a burden, adding further to her isolation. And hope, well hope was not something Lauren was very concerned with anymore. She simply allowed entities to communicate with her at night and went about her business during the day. The visions she had at night were the better parts of her life. The days—those were the moments she simply had to grin and bear. School was the worst daytime ritual in which Lauren was forced to participate. At school, she was subjected to the grimaces of people as miserable as she was and, worse, the giggles of people who were actually happy. She liked to get through her classes, complete homework during lunch, then leave. Today, luckily, she moved through her classes without uttering one word all morning.

The recent vision was on Lauren’s mind as she floated through the hallways of her shabby northern Florida high school. Never had a vision felt like a drug until now. Lauren missed her grandmother greatly–she was the only person Lauren had ever trusted–and losing her felt like losing not just a matriarch but also a best friend. Lauren desperately needed to know what her grandmother wanted from her. What was she trying to say? And could Lauren say anything to her? This was the first time that Lauren wanted visions to occur to her during the day so that she could better understand what they were about. She was so lost in curious thought that she could hardly look up from the linoleum floor of the hallway. Then, all of a sudden, she dropped the pile of textbooks that she was carrying in her hands, on her way to her locker.

“Shit,” she mumbled to herself, humiliated. She didn’t want anyone looking at her, but of course she was right in front of the windows to the school courtyard during lunchtime. Anyone could be watching her: cliques of identical-looking members bubbled together at this time, and she hoped none of them were glaring her way. She was too nervous to even look through the windows to see. As she knelt down to start picking up her books, a girl that she recognized as her seat partner from Biology class, Jade Martinez, walked past her. Jade was carrying a lunch tray and seemed to be walking toward the courtyard to eat outside.

“Hey, let me help you,” Jade said.

“I’m fine,” Lauren replied. “Your hands are full anyway.”

“It’s no problem,” Jade offered, putting her tray on the floor next to Lauren and helping her pick up her books.

“I said I’m fine,” Lauren said firmly. “I’ll see you in Bio.”

Jade nodded. She silently stood up and walked away. Good, Lauren thought to herself with the textbooks back in her hands. I don’t need help or pity from anyone.

In the late afternoon, once she was finally free from the remainder of her classes, Lauren skipped homeroom and biked to her afterschool job in the late winter chill. Last year, Lauren’s aunt who worked in food services at University of Florida helped get her a job at the coffee shop on campus. Maybe in a few years, Lauren would be able to save up enough money to put in an application and enroll. Everything in Gainesville was fairly close and revolved around the university. Her high school was only a 15 minute ride from the college coffee shop, on the main roads and then through the campus’s mossy oak trees. She kept her barista apron in her backpack and pulled it over her school clothes once she got to Pete’s.

“Hey, ACR,” one of the college boys she worked with hollered as she walked in. That’s what all the dudes she worked alongside called her here: ACR, short for Alachua County Resident. It was intended to be endearing, but she only knew it to be an insult, a term used by the UF kids from preppy, privileged cities around Florida to classify the trashy and poor people born and bred in Gainesville. What made the label all the more belittling was the fact that it came from a short muscular boy in a tight black shirt and an apron with a pin that read “Espesso Fixes Depresso.”

“What’s up Jakob,” she said in reply.

“We need you at the register,” another one of the barista boys, Logan, ordered her. “After-class-rush coming in.”

“What can I get you?” Lauren asked the next customer, a white brunette sorority girl.

“Mocha frappe no whipped cream.”

Lauren began inputting the order onto the cash register in front of her, yet the button for the order didn’t seem to reply to her touch. She hit the frappe button again. And again. Nothing.

“My machine isn’t working, Logan. Could you get a mocha frappe started please? No whip.”

She looked back down, apologizing to the customer when what seemed like a vision floater moved across her line of sight. It was a light gray square, not quite translucent. Lauren swatted in front of her to make sure that it was not tangible. It wasn’t. She looked up at the customer to try to remove it from her line of sight. But instead of meeting the gaze of the sorority girl, she instead found herself face to face with her grandmother. Lauren lit up, but she didn’t know what to say. Visions hardly ever occurred during the day, and when they did, they came across more as hallucinations than as dreams. Therefore, Lauren did not know if she was looking at a distorted image of the sorority girl, or if the Spirit of her grandmother was actually in front of her. Maybe there was no difference. The floater still traversed her vision, until Ruth reached forward, from the other side of the register, and grabbed the square gray speck. She held it firmly in her hand and smiled, then placed it into the spot where her front tooth belonged.

“Much better,” she said, blowing a kiss to Lauren. “I know you miss me, honey, but you won’t be lonely for much longer. Just follow my advice.” And with that, Ruth melted back into the sorority girl, aggressively shoving a five dollar bill in Lauren’s face.

“I think your register’s working now. Can you take this? You’re just staring into space.”

“Sorry,” Lauren said, wondering what the advice from her grandmother could possibly be.

. . .

Lauren arrived back at her apartment around seven-thirty. Walking through the front door, her mother was asleep in the upright armchair, a bottle of bourbon at her feet and the local news blasting in front of her. She snored heavily.

“Mom!” she yelled.

Nancy jerked her eyes open.

“Did you eat?” Lauren asked.

Nancy shook her head and wiped drool from her mouth.

“I’ll make us some soup,” Lauren said. She headed into the kitchen and searched through the cabinets filled nearly entirely with cans of soup and boxed foods. She figured she may as well make some rice with dinner too, and grabbed one of the boxes of rice bags. As she heated the food up on the stove, she wondered to herself again, What do you want to tell me, Grandma?

“Did you hear about this robbery at the liquor store?” Nancy shouted from the sitting room, referencing whatever she was watching on the news.

“No, I didn’t,” Lauren yelled back, rolling her eyes. Maybe they’ll shoot you next time you’re there, that way I don’t have to deal with you.

“Two people injured, one dead.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t go there anymore.”

Her mother didn’t reply at first, until she said, “Your father used to work there, you know.”

It was the first time in years that Lauren heard her mother mention her father, a man with whom Nancy had sex once and then got pregnant, a man Lauren never knew. She used to want details about her father, but never seemed to get them out of her mother, so she gave up. Every once in a while, Nancy would give Lauren a nugget of information, seemingly out of nowhere. Lauren considered asking for more information about her father’s job at the liquor store, before abandoning the idea. What did it matter after all? All men were selfish, wanting to spread their DNA around without taking responsibility for what’s actually important. She knew the effects of their recklessness all too well, as did her mother. Why her mother didn’t have an abortion, Lauren guessed but could never understand. Every once in a while, a guy at work or school would make a pass at her, and nothing nauseated her more. Nothing was more vile than participation in the animal game of courtship. Lauren stirred the soup as it started to boil, then she transferred it to two big orange bowls that used to belong to her grandmother, the ones she used to soak her dentures in.

. . .

The worst types of days were the ones in which Lauren was forced to interact with other kids. The next day, Thursday, was one of those days. She and her classmates were dissecting a frog in Biology. She typically did not have a lab partner because she usually called out sick on days when there were labs, but her teacher sprung this one on them. “A Y2K surprise,” he called it.

She looked around the classroom. Everyone was breaking into predetermined pairs based on where they sat. And then there was Jade, sitting right next to Lauren. Lauren was not looking forward to seeing Jade after their interaction yesterday, but she was so preoccupied with potentially seeing her grandmother again that she didn’t care too much about her worldly interactions. Jade, however, was making it difficult to ignore her.

“I think we’re partners,” Jade said to Lauren. “You’re usually not here, so I end up just working with Mr. Callahan.”

“Well why don’t you work with Callahan again?” Lauren asked sarcastically. “I don’t want to do a lab anyway.”

“Please don’t make me do that. He smells.”

Lauren looked up at her teacher. It was true, he always smelled like body odor masked by an intense cologne. But she didn’t care. Why was Jade requiring so much attention from her?

“Okay,” Lauren said, “but I’m not touching that thing,” she said, eyeing the dead amphibian splayed out in a steel pan on the desk.

Jade pursed her lips. “I’ll do it, but you should at least put on your gloves so it looks like you’re doing something. He usually comes around and looks at us.”

Lauren nodded. She didn’t appreciate Jade’s declarative attitude, nor did she enjoy people telling her what to do, but it appeared like Jade had her best interests in mind, at least right now. She reached for the gloves that came with the lab kit, peering over at Jade’s progress. Jade had already flipped over the frog and was beginning to make an incision with a scalpel across its whole chest, basically from mouth to crotch.

“This is so sad,” Lauren said. She always had a soft spot for animals. Sometimes she wished her Sight would allow her to communicate with animals instead of other humans.

“I know,” Jade said. “I don’t know why, but it keeps reminding me of my dog.”

“Your…dog?”

“My parents put him down two weeks ago, and when I said goodbye to him, he was lying on the table like—this.”

“Oh.” Lauren didn’t know what to say. She was not usually great with other people’s emotions. “I’m sorry?”

“Thank you,” Jade said. “He was 15. We’d had him for as long as I could remember.” She was starting to tear up now, and Lauren didn’t know what to do. Jade began sniffling, then sneezed, and a mound of snot blew from her nose and onto the frog, sliding across the side of its slimy body, leaving a film behind. Both Lauren and Jade glared at the snot.

“That’s not embarrassing,” Jade said, then smiled.

Lauren laughed. “When my grandma died, I ran out of tissues at the funeral. I ended up just…eating my snot.”

They both laughed together now.

”Ladies, what is going on over here,” Mr. Callahan asked, suddenly appearing in front of their desk. “Is that discharge from the frog?”

“Yeah, it is,” Lauren said. “It was an extra slimy one.”

Mr. Callahan nodded. “Don’t forget to identify the organs listed on the instructions,” he said, walking away.

“Thanks for covering for me,” Jade said once he was out of earshot. She paused for a minute, fiddling with the scalpel. “Hey, could I ask you something?”

Oh God. “What?”

“Do you not like me or something?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Well, you just don’t ever make eye contact with me. And it seems like you’re avoiding me most of the time. And we’ve sat right next to each other all year.”

“I’m usually a bit…distracted, I guess.”

“I thought you hated me.”

“I’m not much of a people person.”

“I guess you’re pretty introverted. I could come off as pushy sometimes. But, I’d like to have, maybe, a clean slate with you.”

“Sure.”

Jade smiled.

“So,” Lauren said, trying to change the topic, “do we really need to look at all the organs?”

“I’d prefer not to. Maybe let’s just look at one.”

“Fine. This paper says to locate the stomach. We’ve kind of already done that, right?”

“Yeah,” Jade said, probing the frog with her gloved finger, “right there.” She lifted her finger, then looked down. “Shit! There’s a hole in my glove. I don’t know why I touched it. I’m a moron.”

Lauren had a pang of sympathy for her; it was pretty gross. “Here, give me your glove and we could wash your hands.” She allowed Jade to hand her the dirty gloves. Then she threw them out and turned on the desk sink for Jade.

“Could you squirt some soap onto my hands so I don’t have to touch it?” Jade asked.

Lauren did as she was told.

“Will you help wash my hands too?”

“Um, okay.”

Lauren wrapped her fingers around Jade’s, beneath the flowing water. Jade’s hands were cold, clammy.

“This feels nice,” Jade said.

“Oh, it does?”

“Yeah. Your hands are warm.” Jade started playing with Lauren’s hands under the water. She watched Jade’s fingers tracing the creases of her palm, before seeing the floater again, passing across Jade’s hand. Lauren looked up, and her grandmother’s face appeared behind Jade. Lauren stayed silent, wondering if Ruth would say anything. Instead, she simply stared and watched Lauren and Jade wash their hands together.

“So, there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you,” Jade said. “Would you want to hang out sometime?”

Without her front tooth, Ruth smiled and nodded.

. . .

Lauren didn’t quite know how to make sense of Jade’s proposal. The girl never cared to look her way, let alone utter a word to her until today. Why had she always wanted to hang out with Lauren? Lauren was homely, frumpty—as her mother called her—and she didn’t exactly have warm and welcoming facial features. She wasn’t sure what there was to like about herself. Secondly, she didn’t know what type of hang out this would be. Were they simply meeting up to get pizza as friends, or was there something more to it? Lauren assumed Jade was into girls, just based on her disposition, but Lauren herself didn’t know if she was into girls. She didn’t know if she was into anyone, really. If it weren’t for her grandmother, she definitely would not have said yes.

It was Friday night and Lauren’s mom was working at O’Malley’s. Lauren had asked if she could drop her mom off at work so that she could have the car for a couple of hours, and her mom said that was fine; granted, she might not have a way to get home, but Lauren could always swing by after she sees Jade to check on her mom. The girls had agreed to meet at Satchel’s Pizza. The restaurant had more of a bohemian demographic than your average pizza place and on weekends there were usually bands performing. The building itself had a variety of multicolored tiles that made it stand out to cars driving down the state road. Lauren had never been before but she’d seen it. She parked and approached the double glass doors of Satchel’s entrance, wondering when the last time she’d hung out with somebody her own age could have been–i had to have been years. She felt a little nervous about having to make conversation since she never really knew how to speak to anyone besides her grandmother. Upon walking inside, she heard a band of older women performing 80s music and darted her eyes around.

”Hey!” Jade called out from a table near the window.

Lauren walked over hurriedly, realizing she was pretty late. “So sorry,’ she said to Jade, “I was dropping my mom off at work, and it wasn’t super close.”

“Don’t worry, I just got here,” Jade yelled over the music. “They have really good homemade sodas here. Try this.” She offered Lauren her cola. Damn, it was tangy and delicious.

“Whoa. I’m gonna need one of those,” Lauren said, sitting down.

“So, what does your mom do?” Jade asked.

“She, uh,” Lauren hesitated, unsure how to go about this, “drinks.”

“Same with my dad. I get it.”

How was this girl so easygoing? Lauren smiled. “Oh, let me just ask for a drink.” She flagged down a waitress. “Excuse me,” she asked the middle-aged woman, “could I have one of those homemade cokes?” As she said this, a floater, like the one she had seen yesterday, passed by her vision, another gray spot with a mind of its own. Lauren watched it float farther into the depths of the restaurant, before she recognized her grandmother standing there, looking at her from across the room, over by the band. Then, as if she was whispering right there into Lauren’s ear, Lauren heard Ruth’s deep, raspy voice say, “Lean in, and kiss her.” Grandma, Lauren thought, that is not on the table.

Throughout the meal, Lauren and Jade talked about the other kids in their Biology class, the boy who always had a hard on, the girl who fell asleep for the entire class. They discussed their teacher’s weird voice and even exchanged some details about their families. Jade’s family was tight knit, and her grandmother apparently lived with them. Lauren wanted to share more about her own grandmother, but she kept getting distracted by Jade’s lips. Why did Grandma want her to kiss them? Lauren couldn’t imagine kissing anyone. She never had, and she didn’t think she ever would.

Exiting the restaurant later, both girls had eaten a substantial amount of pizza and cookies; they felt the weight of their stomachs. They had spent enough time together for Lauren to want more, but she knew that Jade had probably gotten a bad impression of her. After all, Lauren was awkward, uncomfortable, different. Regardless, Jade asked to walk Lauren to her car. They trod over the gravel in silence, and once they got to the car, Lauren said, “This one’s mine.” She unlocked the Ford Escort and reached for the door, but to her surprise, Jade reached for her hand and played with her right hand fingers, as she had the day before under the faucet. Staring at their palms, Lauren thought about the bleakness of what their future could be: a series of disappointments, like that between her parents, like every relationship Lauren had ever known, other than the one she had with her grandmother. No, there was no way she would take her grandmother’s advice. Romance was not something that was in the cards for her.

As she was about to pull her right hand away, Lauren felt something firm and sharp in her left hand. She held the smooth object in between her finger and thumb, recognizing it from the time that her grandmother’s denture fell out and she had to pick it up. There was no denying what Ruth wanted her to do. Now, Lauren looked up into Jade’s brown eyes. She considered the risks and rewards of her decision, quickly weighing the pros and cons, curious where this whole interaction could lead. Was her grandmother right? It was so hard to tell. The only way to know for sure was for her to take a deep breath and do what Ruth had said. And so she did.

“It’s gone,” she said.

And her father replied: “What?”

So Raegan said, “The ring is gone.”

“What ring?” The boy, Dante, questioned from the kitchen table, his eighth-grade science homework sprawled before him. His father was pulling something delicious out of the oven when his sister padded closer into the kitchen in her fairy wings.

Dante Méndez, aged thirteen, didn’t believe in anything that couldn’t be proven. Not God. Not magic. His sister, Raegan Méndez, on the other hand, did. She believed in a good amount of things, god(s) (plural), scary stories, Santa Claus, and most recently…Faeries.

“It was taken…” Raegan said sensitively, shifting her weight.

“Ray,” their father, Emmanuel Méndez, a devout Catholic and widowed husband, radiated with disappointment.

Dante surveyed a pot of boiling water on the stove behind his little sister. He knew the potatoes should be soft by now. His stomach rumbled. He had missed lunch again, working on his science project, and the sour fizzle in his stomach needed settling. All he could think about was food.

His sister’s small form backed closer towards the bubbling pot. He hastily rose from his seat at the table to move her, or something, before checking the refrigerator for snacks.

But that’s when she said: “It was the faeries. I swear! They took Mom’s ring!”

And Dante stilled. His hand was frozen in the air. He didn’t stop her from shifting her weight too close to the stove. Her right shoulder made the first impact, and then her head, knocking the pot off balance and spilling it all over the floor, along with the god-forsaken potatoes. It nearly scalded Raegan in her pink fairy costume, which she couldn’t go a day without wearing.

Dante watched her fall forward in horror. Boiling water splashed on her right arm, just above her elbow. It was a small splash, but one could easily spot the searing pain in her eyes.

Emmanuel was at her side in a flash, soothing her as tears fell in steady streams down her rosy cheeks.

“You lost Mom’s wedding ring?” Dante asked.

Her mouth twitched and her puffy eyes watered. She looked just like her to Dante. They had the same almond eyes, big brown orbs, and thick lashes. She stared up at him through her tears of worry.

“I didn’t want them to take it, but they wanted me to come with them, but I wouldn’t go, and it was the faeries-” She began, but something snapped in Dante. He backed away from the damage she made.

“There’s no such thing as faeries, Raegan!” The boy burst.

“Dante, it’s okay, calm down,” Emmanuel warned.

Dante’s response: “She’s lying!”

“I’m not!” Ray claimed.

“That ring was supposed to be mine, and you’ve lost it! You’ve made me lose her all over again!” Dante’s mouth leaked, and words spilled before he could stop them.

“Rings are not people,” His dad said.

Then, Raegan, “I wanted to bring it for show-and-tell! I didn’t want to be the only one in second grade without something! It’s not my fault!”

Dante: “It is your fault! It’s all your fault!”

And Raegan: “I’m…sorry, Dante.”

But the boy shook his head, warding off her apology. His words were far too bitter for a thirteen-year-old, and yet he said, “How could you be sorry about a person you didn’t even know?”

“She was my mom, too,” The sister countered stubbornly.

“Yeah, yeah, she was. But if it wasn’t for you, she’d still be alive!” Dante said the worst thing he could think of: A silent thought that had starved for years.

Rosa Méndez, the boy’s mother, had passed away, giving birth to baby Raegan. The thought somehow clawed its way out of his subconscious, demanding blood.

He watched Ray’s little features contort as he braced himself for an explosive outburst of emotion, but her sadness was silent, and he found himself unable to look into her eyes.

“Enough!” Emmanuel faced his son.

Eventually, Raegan stood, holding her hurt arm as she ran to her room. Dante flinched at the sound of her shutting the door.

“You’ll apologize to your sister before dinner.”

“I’d rather starve.” The boy’s stomach growled. He just couldn’t stop saying things he didn’t mean. He waited for his Dad to respond, to put him in his place, to say something awful that he didn’t mean either. But Emmanuel didn’t.

The silence stretched loudly until Dante settled for bed without dinner.

The boy couldn’t sleep well that night, knowing how he hurt his sister. He twisted the door handle to her room gently, making the wooden floorboards creak when he let himself in.

Only—the room appeared empty. Dolls and dresses lay abandoned on pink, fluffy carpet, books sat undisturbed in their case, and the bed was still completely made. The biting caress of wind whipped through Dante’s hair. He snapped his head toward the window, gaping open like the mouth of a beast.

“She’s gone! Dad, wake up! Raegan, she’s gone!” He had told his father later that night, after searching every inch of their one-story house twice. Dante tore Emmanuel out of a deep sleep. His father, a man more adept at solving problems, working at the local technical college, struggled to grapple with the words coming out of his son’s mouth.

The search for Raegan Mendes lasted two weeks. Eventually, most people in Ocoee, Florida (who care to pay attention) decided that the girl was gone for good. The search parties, which once grew in number by the day, began to dwindle by the halfway point of the second week.

The sun was sinking below a hungry red horizon on a quiet night in the small town of Ocoee when Sheriff Rhodes pulled a body out of Lake Apopka.

“Can you identify the body, sir?” They ask Emmanuel Mendes, a man at his breaking point by the look of his unshaven chin and deep brown rings under his eyes. Dante wasn’t supposed to be there that day, but he skipped school because of his growing dread. It kept him from eating too much, and he’d mostly be awake throughout the night, waiting up for his father to bring his sister back home.

So, it was Dante and his father who identified the body as Raegan.

Dante knew that it wasn’t the lake’s fault, nor the water, nor the sun, nor the moon, nor the sky, nor the dirt, but his sister wasn’t in her room, or at school, or in the kitchen. He couldn’t stop coming back to the lake. He never looked for answers, just something to blame that wasn’t himself.

The wind slid through the water and through the folds in his clothes, as bugs fell prey to his hands in the grass, from him pulling up dirt and roots. Dante’s ears perked at the subtle wingbeats of a moth before it landed on his knee. Gentle legs made contact first. With the curiosity of a child, he tilted his head towards the creature and its fluffy golden frame, half the size of his kneecap.

“I don’t suppose you’re to blame, are you?” He whispered as the little thing opened up, showing its white spots speckled across vertical orange and gold lines on a deep, rusty blue wing.

The moth lifted, riding the breeze, away from Dante, towards the lake. Dante rose with it, as the wind picked through his tangle of umber curls, and followed the moth. He watched it land in the shallow part of the lake, continuing to flap its wings. It flapped and flapped…until it went under the surface. And it didn’t float back up.

Dante watched from above as the moth flew…below the surface…of Lake Apopka. He stepped in deeper, attempting to follow the Moth into the water, until it became too muddled to see, and his legs were knee-deep in submergence.

He tilted his head to the side, mind and heart racing in chaotic synchronicity.

There was a sensation around his ankles, loose and itchy, that grew firm. It grew firm enough to pull him deeper into the lake. Without warning, Dante was hastily pulled down, down, down into Lake Apopka.

The first sensations that Dante felt when he came to are as follows:

Wetness. (His clothes clung to his skin and irritated the fine hairs on his arms and legs)

The Firm rock below his head.

And the beating of his heart pounding through his entire body.

Thanks to said heartbeat, he found the courage to open his eyes. What he didn’t expect was another pair of eyes staring back at him.

Dante took his first breath, only to be met with the choking sensation of water in his lungs. Vision-blurring panic rose in his chest as he struggled to breathe, convulsing helplessly. He convinced himself that, in his sheer panic, the mind-fogging result of water in his lungs, he saw a girl with eyes so deep brown that her pupils were lost to him. He convinced himself that there wasn’t a girl with deep ochre skin and full golden wings outstretched behind a halo of black curls staring back at him in the hazy green of a dense forest.

So when he coughed out all of the water left in his lungs, he sat up with his hands over his face, blocking any light from registering in his eyes. He closed them and decided to count to three. He would open them and still be sitting beside Lake Apopka. There wasn’t a girl, and there certainly wasn’t a girl with wings standing above him in a forest because there aren’t any forests like that in Ocoee, Florida. Dante sat up tall, pulling in a full breath of air, and said to himself:

“One.”

And then he said, “Two,” and nothing happened, so he felt safe to say, “Thre-”

“Why are you counting?” Her voice was both melodic and frightening. Dante allowed his hands to fall from his eyes.

“Because you aren’t real,” He said, backing away toward an endless lake that most certainly wasn’t Lake Apopka. But he was wet, and, therefore, where he MUST have come from so-

“I wouldn’t,” She said, surveying his attempt to jump back in the water.

“Why not?”

“There are far worse things than me in that lake,” She said.

“Like what?” Dante asked.

“Lost souls, and sirens, and joy-sucking leeches…Shall I go on?” She answered, and Dante hit the palm of his hand against his forehead over and over and over.

He pinched his left arm, then his right, bit his thumbs, and flicked his nose. All the while, the girl with golden wings watched in silence, raising her dark brows in question.

With a sigh, she said, “Boys, you’re all so dramatic. I brought you here for a reason, Dante Méndez.”

“You brought me here? And where exactly is here?” Dante’s attention was no longer on biting his lips with all his strength to wake up from whatever twisted dream he had landed himself in. Unfortunately, with every whip of wind through his hair and chill down his spine, it became harder and harder to displace the feeling of being very, very much awake.

“You followed me into the Lake, remember?”

“I followed a moth. ”

“Princess Moth…charmed, I’m sure,” She held out a hand. Dante didn’t move to shake it. She sighed, put down her delicate arm, and said, “We are in The Other World now. Welcome, but there’s no time for pleasantries. Your sister is in trouble, and we must stop the Moth King from feeding her to his Creature at midnight.” She began to stalk off into the darkness of the forest. Tall trees guarded every direction that Dante looked, excluding the endless lake stretching infinitely behind him.

“My sister is dead,” the boy said and lowered himself to the foliage at his feet. Staring up at the giants with limbs of bark and leaves the size of his head. “This is a dream,” He said, disappointment lacing his words and poisoning any hope of an alternative with anguish.

The footsteps of Princess Moth grew louder, the sound of bramble under her feet, until she was close enough for Dante to realize that she wasn’t wearing shoes.

“We don’t have time for this, Dante! Your sister needs you!” The girl kneeled so that she was at eye level with the grieving boy on the mossy floors of the forest. She tilted Dante’s chin up so that their eyes could meet properly.

“I saw h-her…with my own eyes. So this, this isn’t real,” Dante said, trying his best to fight the very real look on Princess Moth’s face.

“Eyes can deceive, Dante. That is the first thing you must know and understand among us fae.” The girl with wings let go of Dante’s chin and looked him up and down with squinted eyes.

She said, “How is it that you believe your sister is dead because you saw it, but you do not believe in me? I’m sitting right here in front of you, aren’t I? You have eyes, but you do not see; you must always pay attention to the details.”

Dante swallowed and looked away, at the trees above him and the lake behind him and the moss and foliage below him, then lastly at the faery in front of him.

She took his hands in hers, “The Moth King collects important things, not in material value or fickle popularity, but things that hold deep personal value. He took something from you, didn’t he?”

“My sister,” Dante sighed.

“No, not someone, something.”

“Mom’s ring…” Dante’s eyes widened as he looked up at Princess Moth, who met him with a slight grin.

“The Moth King likes to make deals with Fate, you see, it’s the only way he can have any real power. Fate can change anything or anyone, but for a price.”

“What are you saying?”

“Love. Care. Desire. It lingers in objects. And Fate enjoys devouring it. In return, it does what you want. The Moth King wanted you to think your sister was dead. But she’s very much alive, and she’s very much here, Dante. You can bargain with Fate, or you can change it for yourself. SO, are you coming or not?”

“If my sister is alive…and there’s a King of Moths-”

“Moth King,” The faery interjected.

“-And there’s a Moth King…and a Creature that eats children-”

“Eats their humanity and turns them fae so they live forever with the Moth King here in the Other world…” She interjected again.

“Right. If this is true, then what does it have to do with you? Why are you helping me?”

For the first time, for as long as Dante had known Princess Moth (which couldn’t have been longer than ten minutes), she lacked an immediate response. Her confidence wavered and then plummeted to the point that she looked almost human despite her pupilless eyes, pointed ears, and ageless demeanor.

When she finally opened her mouth to speak, she said, “Choices, Dante, are a most sacred thing. Choices are the only things you can control. Raegan was not given a choice on this matter, and I will not stand for that any longer, not even for the Moth King.”

With that, Princess Moth took a step back and turned away toward the forest…waiting for Dante’s choice.

The boy mustered up the strength to stand, and one step at a time, he found his way to Princess Moth’s side. She smiled proudly, releasing a breath.

Dante stared back at the faery in the deep green forest, with moss-lined trees that might as well be giants, unfamiliar bugs that skittered for cover as they passed by, and shadows that lurked in the darkest parts of the wood, hiding from the sun that peeked through openings in the branches high above.

“I will come with you to save my sister from the Moth King, get Mom’s ring back, and make it home safely for dinner,” Said Dante.

“Excellent. Then to the King’s court of trees we go, to wager an Impossible Quest in exchange for her freedom,” Princess Moth replied before taking them deeper into the dark wood.

[The Boy and the Moth is a forthcoming children’s fiction project by Elaine Ashley. What you’ve just read is an early glimpse into a longer story she is currently writing and refining. This excerpt offers only a small window into a much larger tale, one that continues to grow and gather light.]

Dragon was the youngest of four brothers, all named Dragon. His older brothers were all very accomplished. Dragon (the oldest) was three years into a six-year contract with an evil queen in the North. Dragon (the second-oldest) had benefitted from a friendship with a misfit human who was very invested in learning how to train him, and now the two of them were off traveling the world. And Dragon (the third-oldest) had a decent job teaching children how to read. That just left the youngest… Dragon.

Dragon had always been different from his brothers, and in fact, different than most dragons. Whereas most male dragons were naturally dominant and aggressive, Dragon preferred to spend time walking through the forest and smelling new flowers. Most dragons took to flying naturally, but Dragon preferred walking, because flying almost always made him motion sick.

Things only got worse as he got older. Dragon’s growth spurt was so late that his parents took him to the dragon doctor to make sure that everything was alright. Dr. Dragon assured them that Dragon was fine, just a late bloomer, but Dragon couldn’t help but notice the look of worry on Dr. Dragon’s face as they left the pediatric cave.

By the time his growth spurt came, his classmates were onto the next milestone. His male classmates had all started bragging about their first fire-breathing dreams, but Dragon wouldn’t have his for another year. Even when he was fire-breathing regularly, his flames barely got over 3000 degrees Fahrenheit, which was just above the minimum temperature before he would be considered dragonally-disabled.

By the time graduation rolled around, Dragon Sr. was fretting. What would his son do for work? There was nothing more embarrassing than being a dragon with no purpose. Dragon’s classmates were getting snapped up by various kingdoms and wizards quickly, but no one had even asked Dragon for an interview.

Luckily, one of Dragon Sr.’s old friends pulled through for him at the last moment. He’d heard about a kingdom at the far end of the land that had lost most of their riches during the great war. The evil sorceress who had taken over the land needed a dragon (on a discount) to guard the tower where her beautiful daughter was being kept.

“Apparently knights keep trying to save the daughter, and it’s been super annoying for the witch,” Dragon Sr. explained to Dragon over supper. “So all you have to do is torch any knights who come to rescue the daughter.”

Dragon was grateful for the opportunity to prove himself. He wanted to make his parents proud, and show that he was just as tough as any other dragon, in spite of his difficulties. So one month later, Dragon said goodbye to his parents, and flew for hours to get to the castle that he’d be calling home from now on. The flight was terrible. The air was choppy, so there was a lot of turbulence, and Dragon got motion sickness at least twice every hour.

When Dragon finally reached the castle, he was taken aback by how simultaneously ugly and scary it was. It was a mess of dark grey stones dangling dangerously off the side of a jagged cliff. There was a long stone bridge that led to the castle structure itself. It was clear that whoever built the castle had decided to keep adding on additions without considering the symmetry of the whole structure. And then, of course, there was the tower. The tower stood five times as high as the rest of the structure. It was skinny, leaning slightly, and had a tiny window at the top.

He met the evil sorceress, Fyntala, at the base of the tower. Fyntala explained that her daughter, Ava, was an ungrateful, insolent wench who’d had the gaul to be prettier than her. So, as punishment, Ava was going to live the rest of her days at the top of the tower, with only books to entertain her.

“A fate worse than death,” Fyntala said with an evil, witchy laugh, “I hate reading!”

Fyntala gave Dragon a tour of the grounds. “You’ll find plenty to eat around here,” she said, gesturing to the rats that were scurrying out of their way, “you don’t have any dietary restrictions, do you?” In truth, Dragon kept a mostly pescetarian diet, but his father had already told him not to mention that, so he told Fyntala that he didn’t.

“Don’t talk to Ava,” Fyntala instructed Dragon, then adding, “not that you’d want to, anyway. I find her to be quite a bore.”

Finally, Fyntala explained the bulk of Dragon’s job. “Honestly, the knights have mostly stopped coming,” she said with a shrug. She gestured towards a few skeletons that she’d hung up along the bridge towards the castle, “it was mostly the uggos who couldn’t get any of the girls who actually lived in their hamlets or whatever. But in the event that one DOES come… you can do whatever you want with them. Roast them, eat them, dealer’s choice.”

With that, orientation was over. Fyntala had to quickly get back to her primary castle in order to complete work on a different curse. She gave Dragon a magic mirror to contact her should anything go wrong, and with that, she was off.

At first, Dragon merely spent the days flying in circles around the castle. The weather was horrid… it rained most days, and the temperature could rarely be described as anything warmer than “brittle.” There weren’t many new flowers to smell, and whereas Dragon had managed to make a few woodland creature friends at his home, the creatures here were mostly standoff-ish.

Dragon was afraid, though. He was lucky that no knights had come to try and save Ava, because the truth was, he wasn’t sure what he’d do if one actually came. He knew that his brothers, especially his oldest brother Dragon, would have no difficulty dispatching with the pesky humans. But Dragon had a habit of freezing up when he got scared, and he was worried that if a knight actually came and tried to slay him, he’d either freeze, or even worse, run away.

The weeks droned on and on. Dragon got so bored that he ended up trying to talk to Ava, but it turned out that she had no interest in talking to her captor.

Then, finally, the day came. Dragon was dozing off when he heard the soft sound of a horse galloping. He slowly woke up and saw a knight approaching from the distance on the back of his noble steed. Dragon couldn’t tell if the knight was handsome or an “uggo” considering he was covered in armor, but he at least looked sizable, at least for a human.

Dragon felt his heart start to pound immediately. Luckily, he had at least five minutes before the knight would get close enough for Dragon to have to do something. Dragon tried to fire-breath into his hand, just as a test, and was panicked to discover that because of his nerves, he wasn’t able to get a flame going at all.

Dragon stood up, realizing that if he couldn’t breathe fire onto this knight, he was gonna have to step on him or something. The knight was galloping closer and closer. Dragon had hoped that the mere sight of a dragon would scare the knight off, but the knight showed no signs of stopping.

Dragon stood directly in the knight’s path, trying to will himself to breathe fire. He thought about his brothers, and his classmates, and his parents. He thought about how long he’d trained in school for this very moment. And as the knight got closer and closer, Dragon shut his eyes, opened his mouth, and let loose.

Dragon heard the horse whinny, and the knight shout in surprise. Dragon opened his eyes and was elated to see that he was breathing fire! The horse had drawn up on its hind legs, throwing the knight onto the ground. The horse turned around and ran. Dragon aimed his flames at the knight, who started to run as well. Dragon had done it! He’d scared the knight away! He hadn’t even needed to kill him. The knight, now on fire, took a running jump into the moat below. Dragon watched him float away, motionless, with a grin. He looked up at the tower. Ava was in the window, rolling her eyes.

That night, Dragon took a celebratory flight around the surrounding area. He was incredibly proud of himself. He’d spent so many years doubting his ability, but he was a true dragon, just like everyone else. He didn’t think he could be any prouder… until he got back to the castle.

Ava was gone. There was an incredibly long braid dangling out of the window. Dragon put the pieces together quickly. Clearly the knight had survived, and Ava, who had no access to a hairdresser, had let her hair grow long enough that she could create a rope to escape. Whether or not the knight had helped her was unclear. What was clear, though, was that he’d failed.

Dragon flew away without a word. Dragon wanted to run away for good, to never return to anyone he knew, but he found himself flying home. In spite of it all, he wanted the comfort of his parents.

When Dragon got home, his parents were surprised to see him so soon. He broke down and told them all that had happened. They watched, nodding slowly.

“I know you’re disappointed,” he said between sobs.

“Are you kidding??” Dragon Sr. said, gathering around his youngest son. “You breathed fire! You scared that human! Sure, you fell a little short. But you tried. That’s all that matters.”

“Really??” Dragon asked.

“Really,” Dragonette agreed. “No one likes Fyntala, anyway. OR Ava. You’re gonna fail sometimes. But all that matters is that you pick yourself up.”

Dragon smiled and nodded. Sure enough, another job opportunity came along a mere few weeks later. He failed a lot at that one too, and the next one, and the one after that. But he grew every time, and lived happily ever after.

Come to think of it, Charlie wasn’t even sure how they got into it. Where does a circle begin? Where does an admittedly wavy, perhaps ovular, right and left weaving circle begin? And why could Charlie remember the chocolate chips on their crepe myrtle at home with their sister that they used to make into plant cookies at their imaginary bakery? How long has it been since they played in that bakery? Why were the crepe myrtles here no longer in chocolate chip season? How did Charlie get here?

It was like they were woken up from a daze. A patch of moss that looked like Australia made Charlie’s brain shout “LOOK” and “PAY ATTENTION” and “YOU WILL LITERALLY NEVER LEAVE THIS PLACE IF YOU DON’T FIRST ACKNOWLEDGE THAT YOU ARE HERE AND YOU ARE CIRCLING AND YOU HAVE BEEN CIRCLING FOR A LONG TIME.” Circling… Screw circling. Charlie was spiraling. The clarity was astounding, and frightening. It was like they were seeing the dirt beneath their feet for the first time, despite clearly having walked numerous laps over layering footsteps, all their own. It was gravel dirt, like a pathway that was manufactured for you but meant to look like a drag path that was made spontaneously. Like you chose to walk this way, even though someone chose this path for you long ago, and it felt unnatural and even uncomfortable to veer off of it. Shades of brown, so many shades of brown; beige brown, grey brown, brown you might mix on a paint palette of that classic brown color plus a little bit of grey or white to tone it down a bit, like when you used to mix icing colors so you could decorate the reindeer Christmas cookies, but really you just made a lot of different types of brown icing. Charlie’s sister always made the reindeer red, or green, or yellow, or anything but brown because brown wasn’t Christmas colored.

The brown bled upwards from the ground in a strange defiance of gravity and into the vertical ascent of the wall-like plants on the sides of Charlie’s preplanned pathway. It was weird here, like there was only one season. It could be winter, with the dead look of the brown trees, but the trees did have leaves. Only, the leaves were weirdly brown too. Green, surely, but in the way that looks like the color had been sapped out of them, like if you leave a book or a picture on the dashboard of your car and the consistency of the sunlight somehow washes the color right out of it, as if the sun is drinking in the color and the precision of lines and words and vibrancy and spitting it out somewhere else as an equal exchange of matter. If it were winter, then the crepe myrtles would be dropping chocolate chips. Charlie remembered it being cold when they made cookies– Christmas reindeer and imaginary bakery cookies– because they would hoard the chocolate chips (real) in their grubby hands warm from the heater, or (fake) in their heavy jacket pockets like chipmunks with their cheeks full for ease of transport from the ground to their tree stump assembly station. Besides, there’s a beauty to winter that this place didn’t have. It was seasonless, timeless, repetitive, and dull. Charlie was really spiraling. How do they get out of this circle?

As with most things, clarity started with a question. Once Charlie ran through the “who, what, when, where, why” of it all (finding no answers), they decided to focus on “how.” The question of “how” kept their mind active. Gaps in trees, a ruffle from wind on the right side of the path, a dark shadow hidden behind a conspicuous tree, a trickle of water or other movement were highlighted like a game of I Spy. With clarity returned determination and dedication, feelings that were all but lost to the slogging trudge that Charlie had found themselves in. After two more rounds of the path (which Charlie counted in reference to the Australia tree) Charlie stopped. Reevaluated. Remembered. A dark shadow? Retrace. Stop again. A dark shadow.

The curious thing about having found oneself in a repetitive cycle of never changing dullness is that something new, even something that should be considered frightening or abnormal, instead seeped, like a dark blot of ink on a nondescript paper, pure excitement into Charlie’s soul. A shadow figure inspired truly by the stereotypical components of nightmares peeked out at Charlie from behind the Australia crepe myrtle like a toddler who was nervous to be caught out of bed past their bedtime. Terrifying in nature, but sweet in practice. Cold chills juxtaposed by gentle curiosity. Charlie approached without speaking, and without leaving the comfort of the path, unsure of what to say or how to act. They hadn’t had to exhibit caution or fragileness in a long time, but this felt like it deserved delicacy and a pointed purposefulness.

A voice whispered in Charlie’s head. “Ask me,” it breathed. “Ask me,” with a peculiar unsettling nature that gave Charlie the same bodily feeling as biting into something cold and soft, or of accidentally scraping chalk under their nails, or of a rough landing that sends shocks through their feet and into their teeth. The shadow had eyes like the inverse of a black hole– bright light set against the murkiness of their indescribable form, which seemed to keep shifting in nature and size. Those eyes stared into Charlie’s eyes. An abyss reflected by an abyss.

Thoughts of “Who are you” and “What are you” and “Why are you” leapt through their mind, but Charlie remembered their previous attempts to answer those types of questions earlier, and the discouragement that they had been left with was still fresh. After all, Charlie didn’t need to know what this being was. In fact, the idea still chilled them to the bone that this entity seemed to be the only other thing on this path with them. What Charlie needed was a way out of this circle. While Charlie pondered, they walked. Their feet found comfort in the routine, in the path, in the lifestyle of boringness, hoping the figure would remain where it was until Charlie lapped it again.

It remained. As Charlie circled back again, the figure waited. This time, Charlie was prepared with a question. Unsure whether to ask out loud or in their head, as the shadow had originally communicated, Charlie stumbled over a quiet rendition of their question. It was fear of the creature, and fear of what lay beyond the walls, that prompted Charlie to whisper, “Is it better to leave or to stay?” Unsatisfied with the emotions reflected in their voice, the clear lack of confidence, Charlie repeated the question in their head, louder and more firm, “IS IT BETTER TO LEAVE, OR TO STAY?”

Fear spiked and settled, remaining in their chest like a resounding metronome reminding Charlie of its presence, a heartbeat and no breath. Hearing their voice out loud, feeling it in their head, made Charlie realize that they hadn’t heard their own thoughts so clearly discerned in a long, long time. It was very, very loud, and as familiar as seeing an old friend or a sibling. Time rushed back in, dullness flushed out by the metronomic fear; Charlie breathed again, and the creature spoke.

“That depends,” the susurrus of words in Charlie’s head breathed, “on what you want.”

“What I want?”

“Perhaps you want comfort. You cannot deny that this labor brings you comfort. To sever the conscious thought for so long as you have done is not doable without comfort. You trust your safety here. There is a certainty to existence that overrides the body’s instincts and allows the mind to disappear.”

Comfort. Charlie supposed that since the waking of their mind on this trail that they had never been uncomfortable. Unsettled maybe, confused, but never uncomfortable, never in danger. In fact, Charlie was surrounded by familiar things. The crepe myrtles from childhood and the memories of their sister, even though neither were tangible enough to actually manifest in the way Charlie remembered them. A thought niggled in the back of Charlie’s brain; a worm in a rotten apple. They had never imagined being comfortable in a world without their sister nearby.

“I guess I shouldn’t want to leave a place of comfort. Comfort implies safety. That’s what people want, I’m sure of it.”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

“There must be a reason you woke up,” the figure continued to shift and morph, verging on familiar in stature and then liquifying once more, “Perhaps you were unsatisfied.”

The constant movement of the figure made Charlie nauseous. Nothing else here but Charlie moved, and the unnaturalness of the entity in a world made of trees and dirt and solid plainness was disturbing. Not to mention the distaste Charlie felt being accused of their own emotions, as if the being knew more about Charlie than they did. Charlie itched to keep walking, already having stood still for longer than they had ever remembered standing still for. Another lap. The creature would wait for them behind Australia and chocolate chips.

As Charlie made another lap, becoming familiar with each turn and switchback of the trail, they wondered how much longer they would be able to stay here without becoming overridden with boredom now that they were awake. The already paled colors seemed to grow feebler by the second. The walls of trees grew closer and closer, the bark somehow simultaneously rough and unrendered. As before, physics was seemingly defied as the metronome of fear set in motion by the shadow like a Newton’s cradle grew faster and faster inside of Charlie. Even if they wanted to leave, how could they? They were surrounded by obstacles in a circle with no beginning and no end.

“Ask me.”

“Ask me.”

Approaching the shadow quickly this time, Charlie blurted their next question into the air between them with little tact or thought. “How do I break through the obstacles surrounding me?” Backed by the beat of panic that had been steadily growing, the question reverberated around Charlie’s head, “HOW DO– DO I– BREAK –BREAK THROUGH THE OBSTACLES– OBSTACLES– OBSTACLES– SURROUNDING ME– ROUNDING ME?”

Silence. Echoing sound waves.

Silence.

“There are no obstacles surrounding you.”

A laugh burst through the air, but it sounded more panicked than humorous.

“Material and immaterial objects do not exist to hinder you. They are here because they are here. They exist because they do. It is selfish to think otherwise. You give them meaning. They just exist. You are a material and immaterial object. You are here because you are here. You gave yourself meaning. You gave me meaning.”

“What meaning have I given you?”

“You will come to realize that I am a sentinel.”

A sentinel. A guard. A self-made guard and self-made obstacles and spiraling thoughts and circles and circles and circles and circles and chocolate chips and Australian moss and meaning and the power to create and to limit. This time, Charlie ran.

As soon as Charlie’s breathing sped up, their legs aching, they wanted to be back at the crepe myrtle. Sometimes spiraling thoughts seemed like a superpower, and while Charlie was haunted by the painted trees and the artificial cold with no warmth, they couldn’t stop thinking about how the power of meaning was something they and their sister had played with like a toy. Dead seeds came alive again in their minds as delectable sweetness. Reindeer were red and green. Warmth radiated in cold places. Time could be slowed and sped up. In a fraction of a second Charlie returned to the sentinel.

They didn’t wait for the usual prompt, and instead demanded instantly and strongly, “HOW DO I CREATE A NEW PATH.”

“Ask me,” the creature radiated.

“Ask me,” the shadow grew.

“ASK ME,” it beamed excited and energetic and not at all scary.

A circle has no beginning and no end. It is infinite, it loops, it repeats, and Charlie wanted out. Charlie wanted to wield the power of meaning again. Comfort does not always equal happiness. Meaning can be changed. Creativity can be freedom, and freedom can be control. Charlie wanted to be in control again.

“Make me a path that leads me out of here.”

The sentinel took one step to the side, and in the place between it and the crepe myrtle with the patch of moss that looked like Australia grew a gorgeous bridge. It shifted in nature the way the creature did, between a beautiful gothic stonework pathway to the Bridge of Sighs to an animated Cinderella-esque delicacy to the Pont du Gard. Escape. Charlie had never seen anything more lovely.

“I bet you did not know there was a bridge here,” The Sentinel smirked. Charlie thought it seemed proud… As though the bridge, this magnificent escape route, belonged to The Sentinel. Then they realized, it probably did. A sentinel guards. Then Charlie thought of the inexplicable amount of time they spent here without knowing that The Sentinel was guarding the bridge that could lead them out, waiting for Charlie to want to leave. It reminded Charlie sillily of old tales of bridges and trolls and riddles.

“How could I have?” Charlie exclaimed petulantly.

“You never asked enough questions.”

“I thought questions were your job!”

“I am what you make of me. You happen to me. I do not happen to you.”

Suddenly laughing, they wanted to grab that ugly creature by the hands and spin it around, that creature that weirdly was starting to not look quite so scary anymore.

Giggling and beckoning to The Sentinel, Charlie skipped over the bridge and out of their narrative. The first thing they would do is see their sister. Then, maybe, they would take a trip to Australia.

Part I

He wakes at dawn, as first light tastes the horizon. He’s had this dream before. The problem: he can’t place the flits of color, or the faces, or that unsoothed gaping pit of absence that lives in the center of his belly. He never can. And just as fast as they came, those images fade, leaving him a sweaty mess, tangled in white bedsheets in the orange light streaming through his high-rise apartment windows.

Alice’s hands are cold as they cup his cheeks, reeling him in to her soft presence. She finds his dark eyes with her grey ones. She’s speaking to him, but he can’t hear; sleep rings in his ears, and his heart beats wildly under bare brown skin.

“Maleek,” her voice cuts through the ringing, muffled and distant. She nods her head, and golden strands of her hair shine in the sunlight. He focuses on that; it calms his heart until he finds the will to sit up, to shake off the ringing, and to cover the hands she’s placed delicately on his temples with his own.

“Do you remember what happens this time?” She whispers, despite being alone.

He shakes his head. No. She nuzzles into his side, resting her head in the nape of his neck. He breathes long and deep, calmed by her nearness. If he were a forest fire, then Alice would surely be rain. Alice is safe. Alice is light in the darkness.

“I love you, you know,” he says, letting a shallow breath escape him.

“I love you too,” she responds. He calls, and she answers as if they were designed in the same lab, using the same parts, with the same need for one another.

But try as he might, he’s never able to fill that gaping pit in his center with Alice, no matter how safe she felt, no matter how many times she’s returned his love.

—

At the dock, Alice says that she’s hot, so he pulls his arm from around her. The sun is out that day, and the scent of summer seeps into Maleek’s nose. It smells like salt and heat and sunscreen on Alice’s shoulders and face.

“Gifts! You can put the gifts on this table!” Calls Rachel, Alice’s sister, as they approach the medium-sized party boat. Rachel looks down at them from the side of the deck. The next thing he knows, Rachel is running down onto the dock and pulling them both into a bear hug.

“My favorite people,” She sighs, her head tucked between them. When they pull back, Alice has a devastating smile, one made of pure joy.

“Rachel, this boat is insane! Is Sage going to even remember her 6th birthday party?” Alice jokes.

“I don’t even remember life before I met Alice, let alone my 6th birthday party,” Maleek adds.

“Where can I find one of these?” Rachel pokes and prods her index finger into Maleek’s chest, “I mean, gosh, Alice, are you sure he’s even real? I wish Jonathan were obsessed with me.”

“If he wasn’t, Sage wouldn’t be having her 6th birthday party on a yacht,” Alice replies.

“He didn’t do that for me. She’s a daddy’s girl. Come on,” Rachel leads them on to the boat, making sure to tell them to watch their step.

There are two decks. The top is made into a dance floor with a DJ and over a dozen screaming six-year-old girls. The bottom deck has seats, food, and over a dozen mothers with wine glasses. There is also a face painter/psychic…she offers both services at her little booth at the back of the boat. Maleek finds Jonathan, the only other man on board.

“I wouldn’t rush it,” Jonathan says, beer in hand, dark sunglasses shading his pale green eyes. He looks off into the distance with quiet confidence. Maleek didn’t know Jonathan to speak all that often, but when he did, he didn’t waste his breath.

“Why?” Maleek turns to Jonathan, eyebrows creased.

“Because you’re happy now, kids suck the fun out of everything.”

“Is that why you bought Sage a yacht party for her 6th birthday?”

“This isn’t for Sage. Sage is going to forget this in a few months, no, this is for my marriage.”

“Is there something wrong with you and Rachel’s marriage?”

Jonathan takes off his sunglasses, revealing purple bags under his eyes and a subtle sag to his face. He is barely middle-aged, but Maleek knows he works a lot, being a hand surgeon and all.

“You and Alice are young now, but it’s going to get old. All of it will. It’s terribly mundane. And kids take your money, your time, your youth, your sex life, gone. I’m hanging on by a thread. But I could never do it alone, so I give her yachts and trips and jewelry, so she’ll think less about leaving me.”

“That’s bleak, Jon.”

“No,” he slips his shades back on to his face, brushing his dirty blonde hair back with a rough hand, “it’s romance.”

Maleek turns back towards the crowd of moms and makes eye contact with Alice. He mouths the words: “Save me!” Alice doesn’t hesitate; she makes her way to Maleek, wine glass in hand, with rosy, stained cheeks.

“Hey, I’m itching to try the psychic. Mind if I borrow Maleek for a second?” She says, giggling in between her words.

Jonathan nods and turns back towards the water.

Alice gets her fortune told first. Mostly because Maleek isn’t sure if he believes in all that stuff, he’d “rather watch first.”

“I will give you three cards,” says the psychic. She has heavy turquoise eyeliner that brings out the blue in her iris, radiant like the ocean. Her crinkled tawny skin and dark wavy hair remind Maleek of someone that he used to know, but he can’t seem to place it. “The past. The present. And the future. What is your name, dear?”

“Alice.”

The old lady began to mumble to herself, something about “spirit,” and something about being thankful, and then a formal request to give Alice the answers that she seeks. She shuffles the cards and spreads them out face down, in a smooth curve, on her mahogany table.

“Pull three,” she says. With each card, she gives Alice an explanation. She concludes that Alice needs to quit her job, and for some reason, Alice acts as if she believes her. Maleek wants to say something, but before he can, Rachel has called Alice away, and the old woman turns to him, capturing his gaze with piercing blue orbs.

“What are you doing here?” She asks him.

“I’m sorry?” Maleek feels that pit in his stomach, the empty one, it aches.

“Strange,” she whispers. Maleek squints as her long, aged fingers scoop up her tarot cards to shuffle.

“What?”

“Pick three.” She spreads the cards as she did for Alice in a smooth curve on her table.

“The past,” she continues as Maleek pulls a shiny golden card and places it face up in front of him. “Arcana IV, the lovers.”

The card is painted with warm tones surrounded by a golden metallic border. It depicts a man and a woman wrapped in each other’s embrace, floating in a cloudy sky.

His chest tightens.

“You were in love,” She says, but he’s sure this woman is full of it. “A devastatingly powerful connection, a soul mate perhaps, but it was lost…why? Spirit, why?” The old woman closes her eyes.

“I don’t—”

“Hush,” she warns. Her eyes spring open. “Sacrifice. What did you do, young man?”

“What? I didn’t do anything.” He believes he’s only ever known love with Alice.

“Pull again.”

He does. This time, the card depicts a man hanging upside down by his ankles.

“The hanged man.” She says, her breath becoming unsteady. “Pull again.”

“But you didn’t explain—”

“Pull again.”

He sighs and hovers his hands over the spread until he feels inclined to choose. He lands on the card sitting at the very end, tucked under another and barely peaking out. He turns it right-side up.

“Arcana XVIII, the moon.”

“What does that mean?” Maleek creases his forehead, but the old lady appears frazzled. She looks around, eyes scanning the deck, out of breath, and sweat on her brow. For a second, it’s as if she can see me.

“The spirits scream with warning,” she relents.

“Is that so?”

“They want you to know that you are brave, but your fate is sealed. You cannot undo what has been done. You made a deal, Maleek, and that is why you can’t remember your dreams. If you want my advice? I suggest you try harder to forget.”

Maleek can feel his stomach twist with disgust. He despises liars. He stands abruptly, kicking his chair in the process. But he can’t seem to shake off her words, and an uneasiness lingers with him for the rest of the day. He can feel it when the boat docks. He can feel it when he asks Rachel for tea, the kind she sells at her spiritual shop on St. Mark’s Street. He can feel it when he lies down to go to sleep, arms wrapped around Alice, desperately hoping she can put out his fire. This time, she can’t. Because he can’t shake the fact that he never told the old lady his name, let alone that he has been unable to remember his dreams.

Part II

If you didn’t catch that earlier, Alice’s sister Rachel has a spiritual shop on St. Mark’s Street in the East Village of Manhattan. Rich people tend to find rather eccentric hobbies. It isn’t a place Maleek would normally be caught entering, but he is desperate. And losing sleep.

“Thank you, Rachel,” he says, taking the glass jar of herbs. She says it is a special concoction that she made just for him, with mugwort and some various root extracts.

“Of course! Anything for one of my favorite people,” she smiles warmly. Her smile is like Alice’s, only on a more mature face. Maleek nods politely before turning back towards the door. “Maleek?” She calls after him.

“Yes?”

“Is everything okay?” She asks.

“Yes, of course. Thanks again, Rachel,” he lies.

—

Her hair forms a halo of tight curls around her head. Her eyes are a deep russet brown against dark skin. She’s the only thing he’s ever wanted, ever needed.

When he’s holding her in his arms, he’s not a forest fire but a vast woodland of trees, and she is the flame, a burn to clear out the rot. She warms his soil and sparks new life. She is his redemption but simultaneously, his demise.

He wakes up.

At dawn, as first light tastes the horizon. He’s had this dream before.

For a split second when he wakes, he remembers everything—his home, his love, his people, and the devil that robbed him of it all.

Alas, he forgets, as he so often does, leaving him reeling, sweaty, and gasping for air.

“Do you remember what happens this time?” Alice whispers, despite being alone.

He shakes his head. No.

Every night that follows, Maleek has tea.

It doesn’t change much. The mugwort and other various herbs don’t help him to remember. No, in the morning when he wakes, Maleek can’t recall a thing to save his life.

But…in his dreams, the past comes rushing back to him like a rising tide. It fills up all his empty spaces until he is no longer a husk of a man. He is whole. Lucid dreams, that’s what the mugwort helps with after all.

He re-lives vivid memories every night.

The caveat: it grows more intense. It develops and expands and stings until nothing can satisfy him when he wakes. He finds himself restless at night and shaking in the afternoons, unable to ease the ache of longing; deep, insatiable, devastating longing, without a semblance of a reason why.

—

“What will happen when you become King?” He asks.

“I cannot be King, I am a woman.”

“You are my King Brielle,“ he says

“Then what does that make you? A queen?”

“I have no royal blood or grandness to offer this world. I’m just your loyal soldier,” he relents.

“Fine. If I were to be King, then you are my most gallant Knight.”

Maleek stares into the eyes of the woman who plagues his dreams. He’s playing out a memory. He knows all the lines. And worst of all, he knows what happens next.

“There is a darkness growing in the North,” Brielle says, becoming serious.

In the crystalline waters of a small grove, the couple wades in waist-deep water under the moonlight. There are two moons here and far more stars. Earth is a distant fantasy, light-years away from this solar system. And here, in this life, Maleek does not have an ache in his chest, for he knows his missing piece is wading in the water beside him. And she is the future ruler of a vast empire, on a planet from another time and space.

“I will not let anything touch you, I swear by it,” he says, he remembers saying, he doesn’t know which.

“It is bigger than me, and you know that.”

“The Northern villages believe in all sorts of devils, Brielle. How do we know there is truly something to fear?”

She does not answer at first, turning towards the edge of the small natural pool. She rests her head on the cool rock, twirling her fingers in the moonlit water. He comes to her side, lifting her chin to his, begging her to let him in on the storm clouds in her mind.

“Because I’ve seen it.” She says, carefully. “It came to me in a dream, and I’m afraid that it will claim us all,” she whispers, eyes wet with tears.

Like ink dropping into water, the scene stretches and twists before diluting into a void.

And for a split second, before he wakes, I show him my long, cadaverous face.

He wakes at dawn.

—

The old lady (boat psychic) has long brown beads that hang from the door frame and slide across your clothes and skin when you enter her shop. She sits in a purple feathery chair, waiting for visitors (victims to extort). Although she has natural gifts and a very real sixth sense, the rent in New York is far from cheap, and people would pay anything for a fantasy. But when she sees Maleek enter her shop, she isn’t keen on making him prey.

Maleek notices that everything is purple: the walls, the carpet, the chairs. There are crystals and candles and the smell of jasmine and lavender intermingling in the air.

“Yes?” She lifts a brow.

“Do you remember me?” He asks.

Her eyes darken, and she looks towards the weird shadow in the corner of the room. “You again,” she says to it.

“If you have come here to get answers, I am unable to help you. I don’t want anything to do with it. I’m sorry.” She continues as she turns to leave, disappearing behind another beaded curtain.

“Please! I’ll pay you however much you want!”

Silence.

A floor creek.

A head, her head, pokes out of the beads.

“A year’s rent,” she insists.

“Fine. Fine. Just, please, I need answers!”

Her eyes dart back to the shadow, to me.

“Sit,” she commands.

After turning off the overheads, she lights all the candles. She says a prayer, and she closes her eyes.

“What do you see?” He asks.

Silence.

He looks around, unnerved by the nature of what he’s doing. He stands, abruptly, backing away.

He thinks he’s made a mistake. He hasn’t been getting good sleep, but that doesn’t mean he should begin believing in psychics.

Her tan, crinkled fingers reach out to grab his wrist, her head shoots back, and her breathing becomes labored.

“It calls itself Avarus,” she croaks.

The calling of demons by their name is a known irritant, causing not death or banishment, but great displeasure. The mere mention of mine burns my being, so I blow out the candles, thrusting the room into darkness.

A knock.

A jingle on the front door.

A visitor slinks into the Psychic’s shop.

….to be continued

A faint tingling feeling struck her cold. The static sensation ebbed from the open wound in her palm up to her neck. Patricia shivered, then she hissed. The marred flesh throbbed under the faucet water. Her head buzzed, dizzy from the blood loss.

“I’m sorry, Patty.”

Little Amber Reine’s voice broke through the static. Amber walked over to where Patricia stood by the sink bowl. Amber hovered over Patricia’s shoulder.

Her lips wobbled. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know how that happened.”

Further down, their co-worker, Leon, swept the remaining glass shards of the fallen candle. Patricia sighed. Another good candle wasted.

Poor Amber’s eyes watered. Overcome with heartache, Patricia used her good hand to grab onto Amber’s.

“It is alright, sweetie. Patty is fine now.”

The sixteen-year-old smiled. She nuzzled into Patricia’s shoulder. They remained there for a moment. Amber’s nose tickled Patricia’s neck. Patricia’s heart raced. The burning in her palm dulled by the heat that warmed her.

Leon walked past them. Instantly, Patricia and Amber broke apart.

He dumped the shards into the warehouse disposal. “You’re really gon’ have to be careful, Amber. You can’t keep breaking them people’s candles.”

“It’s her first time stocking the shelves. It was a small mistake.”

Leon hummed. “You keep defending her, Patricia, and you might lose your job with the girl.” With that snide remark, Leon exited the warehouse doors and joined their colleagues on the sales floor.

Patricia eyed Amber. A tear had rolled down her cherub cheek. While Amber was still considered “new,” the teenager had already broken the record for mistakes a new hire could make in their first month at the job.

Amber whispered, “You think that’s true, Patty? They’ll fire me?”

Patricia squeezed Amber’s hand. “Mr. Willy is a good man. He wouldn’t fire you. You’re still training. Now, you go ahead and fetch the first aid kit.”

Amber started to walk away, but halted. Patricia smiled, “It’s by the mop and cleaning supplies in the far left.”

Amber blushed and darted off towards the back. Patricia made progress with the wound. Gone was the blood; in its place was an angry red gash in her palm.

Amber was back. She immediately began cleaning the cut with hydrogen peroxide. Her hands were surprisingly gentle. She wiped the wound with a tenderness that made Patricia stutter. When she was done, Amber placed a large band-aid in the middle. Not done, Amber brought Patricia’s hand up. She leaned in and placed a soft kiss on top of the band-aid.

The wound tingled, but for once Patricia was not in pain. As if she could tell, Amber smiled, pleased with herself. Patricia smiled back. She placed her hand on Amber’s face, cradling it. Amber placed another kiss on the palm. She leaned against Patricia’s caress.

Lost in their own world, they did not hear the warehouse doors slam open. Their manager, Mr. Willy, marched in. He took one look at Patricia and Amber. His face grew purple.

“What in the hell is going on here?!”

--

“Everyone, I want you to meet Amber Reine. She will be our new sales advisor in the front.”

The room clapped. Most, if not all, were reluctant. As if they were all aware that they were welcoming a new innocent towards their immediate doom.

The young Amber Reine waved enthusiastically at the crowd. Her smile was an illuminating force amongst the dim lights in the dingy back room.

Patricia was the oldest employee at Matched In Heaven. It was never a fact that sprung to her mind until this very moment. Amber was like a youthful pixie sent to remind Patricia of her old age. But for some reason, Patricia didn’t mind it. Rather, she couldn’t help but feel drawn in. Patricia’s usual frown flipped as she watched Amber’s face. Amber’s smile was… radiant. Infectious.

Patricia clapped harder.

--

Patricia was not fond of strangers. It was why she preferred to remain in the warehouse or in the stock rooms during all of her twenty-four years of employment at Matched In Heaven. But alas, Patricia was often the person Mr. Willy turned to when training new hires. Perhaps it was because of her long-standing tenure at the store or that Willy hated Patricia. It was no secret that Willy found Patricia’s adoration for candles to be annoying rather than endearing. Patricia figured it was because of his unbridled hatred for his role as General Manager of Matched In Heaven. Or it could have been because Patricia was the only employee loyal enough to say yes to Willy’s requests.

“Thank you, Patty.”

Patricia was unsure where her new nickname came from, but strangely, despite herself, she liked it. It was as if she were chosen by this luminous angel and given special favor.

“You’re so good at this, Patty.”

Patricia blushed. She buried her face in a nearby candle. She looked at Amber, a faint tingling went down her spine. She felt… thrilled. In ways she has never been thrilled before.

--

“Patty, you can’t be here.”

Amber’s voice was shaken. Her hand tightened around a brass candle holder.

Patricia placed a finger to her lips. “Shh, Amber. It’s rude to wake them up at this hour.”

The clock ticked towards twelve. Patricia knew Amber’s parents would be out during this time. They never were home.

Tears flooded Amber’s eyes. Patricia softened. She stepped forward, hoping to bridge the gap between her and her baby.

Amber raised the candle holder. The tears fell like a waterfall. “It’s not right. What we had. It was… they said it wasn’t right. Go home.”

Patricia moved with calm steps toward the trembling girl. Amber swung. It was too fast. Impulsive. Clumsy. Patricia used Amber’s momentum against her. With a swift grip of her hand, Patricia took control of the candle holder and slammed it against Amber’s temple. The impact was dull. Amber went limp. Patricia held on, gently lowering her body to the carpeted floor.

By the entranceway, a tiny lit candle flickered in the darkness. With trembling hands, Patricia grabbed it. Patricia sniffed the candle. Hibiscus. With a mix of lavender. A calm washed over her.

She knelt by Amber’s body. She wrapped her arms around her. Patricia cradled the child against her chest.

“I have to take care of you, Amber. Who else will?”

Afterwards he sighed. “I’m going to miss you this summer.”

He was referring to the upcoming summer break. I was going back to Georgia and he was “summering” in Europe. Benji was so laissez-faire about his very upper middle class upbringing. The type of upper middle to “summer” and attend private schools but not rich enough to own yachts and private jets. Just rent them, he’d clarified to me one night freshman year.

“Yeah…” I said back, as if I didn’t grow up attending a newly desegregated public school in Georgia.

Benji was sweet and charming and so desperately wished he wasn’t upper middle yet loved the benefits of his class and whiteness. Obviously. But I liked him. He was like a stray cat or Buddha or something. Both, maybe. He had denounced his privilege at Princeton for just a little bit, stood up for the cafeteria workers, went streaking for breast cancer and would say “woah dude” if a guy from his frat said the “f” slur. It was the bare minimum but I was head over heels.

It came out as if it had just come to his mind and not as if he’d been meditating on it for weeks. I found out later he had begged his parents about it just the night before when he said: “You should come…”

Come where?

He looked at the ceiling as if he hadn’t just asked me to travel halfway across the world with him. “To Europe. With us.”

. . .

So there I was in Europe. With them.

The “them” in this scenario included: Benji, of course, Katherine, his sister, a doe-eyed freshman with an addiction to Adderall; Duncan, his older brother in “finance,” his father Roger who wore pants that were way too tight, and his mother…Meredith.

When we first arrived in Mallorca, it was great. Benji and I got our own room within the villa. It opened up to the infinity pool that overlooked the ocean. We’d hold hands along the beach and look out on the waves and for split seconds at a time I believed I could belong there. I could spend my entire life on the beaches of Spain with my red-haired blue-eyed boy.

How fucking naive.

Things didn’t get worse all of a sudden. No. It was a bunch of tiny things that added up.

Death by a thousand cuts.

. . .

It started the day Benji and I decided to take a kayak out on our own. We told the family we’d be gone for an hour or so. We had googled a grotto and would stay there while we ate our caprese sandwiches.

“Fine, fine.” Meredith, his mother, pouted.

I didn’t know what it was with very typical middle class families but they hated doing things separately. We all had to go to the store. We all had to take the tour into town and have dinner at this world class restaurant. So this was the first strike in Meredith’s eye. Me taking Benji away for an afternoon.

Slice.

Benji rowed the kayak while I took pictures. He rowed crew back at school so I wouldn’t have even tried to help him. If anything I would’ve slowed him down. We laughed about how cool he was trying to look while carrying the weight of two people.

When we finally emerged from the kayak it was at a little enclave in the midst of cerulean blue water.

“Woah,” I said. This was the clearest water I’d ever seen in my life.

Benji thought I’d seen something more magnificent. Like a sea turtle or a rainbow fish. When he realized I was talking about the water, he said: “Oh. It’s always like that.”

Of course it is.

And there was the key argument against Benji. I couldn’t let myself fall completely into things because he’d thrust me out of my fantasy. He grew up coming to Spain and eating caviar on cobblestone sidewalks. I had to remind myself how much of a visitor I was in his life. And if I could truly ever fit.

He laid a blanket on the rock for me, so I wouldn’t get dirt on my bikini and then he sat across. We pulled out our sandwiches from a beautiful basket that Rosa had found for us and began to chew in silence. I stared out into the water as the wind hit my face. Benji stared at me.

“You’re the first girl I’ve ever brought out here, ya know.”

I didn’t know, but I could’ve guessed. Benji acted as if he was a player in the two years at Princeton before he met me but I knew he wasn’t. His brother Duncan all but pointed out that he might’ve been a virgin before meeting me. But instead of saying all of this I said:

“Oh really? Wow.”

Benji studied my face. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like the sandwiches?”

I did like the sandwiches. I liked them very much.

I didn’t like how I felt exclusive in Benji’s life. I didn’t think I really liked being the first of anything. And sadly, with being a Black woman, I’d had to go through a lot of firsts.

Benji brought my face to his and kissed me softly. I pulled away, scared someone would see.

“What?” He asked, confused. “Does my breath smell like pesto?”

I laughed. It did but it didn’t matter. “I just have something about PDA.”

“But there’s no one here!” Benji nearly screamed. It echoed through the nearby enclave.

“I know but I feel on display.”

And it was true. I did. I always felt on display with Benji. As we walked hand in hand across campus. Girls and guys alike were eyeing me, wondering what Benji was doing with a Black girl. A legacy with a scholarship student.

Benji leaned closer to me again and grabbed onto my sides. I almost fell off the rock I was miraculously still balancing on. “No one is here, I dare you to kiss me.”

I laughed and then kissed him. He was right.

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. . .

We ended up staying out in the kayaks and the grotto longer than we thought. Once we got back to shore the entire family seemed to be waiting on us to get ready to go to dinner.

Benji and I decided to take a shower together because it would take half the time and we could get to dinner faster. It felt weird. Showering together with his parents so close. I didn’t like this intimacy but I didn’t say a thing.

We walked out of the house in a single file. Katherine was going on about her friends not being able to get Harry Styles tickets because the queue was fucked. Duncan said something about monopolies ruining America.

I held Benji’s hand as we walked to the car and I could feel Meredith staring daggers into my back.

“How was the grotto?” she asked, politely.

“Oh, lovely. I hadn’t seen water that blue before in my life.”

“Oh really? Where’d you vacation as kids?”

“Oh we didn’t really do that.”

“Oh that’s no way to grow up.”

Simple as that. “Oh that’s no way to grow up.” As if not vacationing was a moral choice rather than a systematic oppression.

Meredith ran ahead to yell something at the driver in Spanish. I couldn’t exactly understand what she was saying but I understood “Pronto. Pronto.”

I guessed Benji and I’s getaway made us slightly late for the sunset dinner.

Benji squeezed my hand and gave me the look I could only describe as “don’t worry about my crazy mother.”

I gave him a smile back and he kissed my cheek. For some reason, I had the urge to cry.

. . .

We settled into a table by the crashing waves. The restaurant was beyond beautiful. Like something I would’ve pinned on Pinterest in my seminar class where I was always online. Benji and I sat near the side of the table where the waves crashed the hardest and sprinkles of sea foam grasped at my ankles. But I didn’t care. I admired the view.

Over on the edge of the embankment was a swath of octopus, hanging from a line. That’s how they dried them in order to get them ready to be cooked but they were right in my eyeline. I couldn’t avoid looking at them. It was a morbid sight.

Meredith slid her Prada sunglasses down her nose to read the menu.

“Ooo, everything looks so good and smells so fresh.”

She oo’d and aw’d at everything she saw that looked mildly appetizing and would keep her skinny. Her voice was grating but I smiled. My tight smile. The one I’d been wearing since we arrived in Mallorca seven days ago.

Benji grabbed my leg. I was nervously shaking it under the table. He’d been watching me so closely lately and I hated it. It felt like I was a wild animal that could attack at any moment.

The waiter came and he was a darker skinned man who had the features of someone Indian or maybe Somalian. I knew it was only a matter of time before Roger would ask and in between ordering the drinks and the appetizers we found out he was Eritrean.

He was the only other Black person in the restaurant. It was the first thing I noticed. After that it was the fact that Benji’s family hadn’t noticed at all.

The waiter finally made it to my side of the table to ask for our orders. I knew I had to settle on an item that wasn’t the most expensive on the menu but wasn’t too cheap. I usually waited for Benji to order and got the thing right above it on the menu. I settled on the fried shrimp basket.

“How interesting,” Meredith said.

Duncan, regretting his order, said he should’ve gotten the fried shrimp basket too. Katherine orders the caprese salad.

“You don’t want that fried shit,” Meredith told Duncan. “We’re on vacation. Get the lobster.”

Duncan stuck with the lobster. Benji got the linguine with clams and his father, Roger, went for the steak well done…at a seafood restaurant.

The fishermen were tying their boats to the shore. European ladies lounged at their tables, drinking Aperol spritzes by the golden light.

I stared at the strung up octopus as Meredith droned on about the view. The fishy smell of the seawater ceased to be calming and I excused myself from the table. It was a tricky contraption to get away without falling into the water that sat at my ankles.

As the sun set on the Mediterranean, I marched lazily to find the restroom. I’d only had three sips of a dirty martini but felt drunk. As I made my way through the crowd of tables on the cobblestone seaside, I passed by a tank of live octopus. Sitting and waiting their turn for the slaughter.

The restroom was tucked in the front corner of the restaurant near the kitchen. Once I got inside, I looked at myself in the mirror. God, when did I get so dark? My skin was now that of my ancestors, deep brown and reflective. It glistened in the light.

A woman exited the stall and asked if I could point her to the kitchen, she’d love to give her compliments to the chef.

After I told her I didn’t work there she flushed red and walked out without another word. She didn’t even wash her hands.

I sat in the stall for maybe four minutes and exited. I passed by the octopus tank again, looking in their eyes.

As I walked back to the table in the glow of the setting sun there was Benji. Laughing with Katherine at something Duncan had said. Roger’s arm was around Meredith and I felt a tinge of sadness overcome me.

I loved Benji. But I knew as much as anyone that I didn’t exist in his world. This vacation of opulence. Of wealth. His ignorance to so many things that plagued me daily. That in another life we could be happy and kiss on the rocks and travel Europe together.

I wished I could’ve run out of there in that moment. Caught the first plane to New Jersey and forgotten this dream that had consumed me. I wished I didn’t care.

But instead, I walked back to the table and said:

“What are we laughing about?”

Preston hated that sort of attention. He knew that he wanted to pursue a career in STEM. His dad was a computer scientist, so that felt realistic and attainable. He didn’t look down on the humanities, per se, but he definitely thought his time and energy could be better spent than sweating over how to correctly pronounce Olde English.

As you may have predicted, there came a day when Preston and Freida were cast as Romeo and Juliet, respectively. And, of course, it was for the balcony scene. And when they got to the part where Romeo and Juliet were supposed to kiss, they both paused awkwardly. They locked eyes. They hadn’t spoken more than a few words to each other before this, though Preston had definitely caught Freida checking him out from across the room more than once. As they locked eyes, Preston realized with relief, and some excitement, that Freida wasn’t pausing out of disgust. She didn’t seem opposed to kissing him. And in that moment, he wasn’t opposed to kissing her. But before they could make a decision, Ms. Lois cut in and said, “you kids don’t have to kiss.” Her tone was so condescending it made Preston want to strangle her.

They might not have kissed in the classroom that day, but they finally did a few weeks later at Snow Ball, the school dance on the last day of school before Winter Break. And their relationship continued on with sing-songy milestones like that. They made out in the backyard at Julio’s house party in January. They went on a date to the only “nice” restaurant in Edgewater for Valentine’s Day. They attended junior prom and lost their virginity to each other at around midnight that night.

But the fog of youth had dissipated. Now, big decisions were being made. Unlike Preston, Freida loved the humanities. She was convinced that she wanted to go to New York and get an English degree. Preston had his sights set on Stanford, and again, it wasn’t too lofty of an ambition, because he had a legacy there thanks to his father. Whenever the topic of “after high school” came up, Preston and Freida would always toss out half-hearted ideas and end the brief discussion with “we’ll worry about that later,” but now, it was later.

“It’s not necessarily a SAD thing if we break up,” Freida said one evening. They were both sitting in the backseat of Preston’s dad’s car at Northbridge Lake. The windows were fogged up.

Preston’s eyes briefly widened. Freida caught it. “That’s not what I meant,” she quickly added, “like, obviously, it’ll be sad. But, like, it’s not a sad thing that we’re both off pursuing our dreams. And I mean, I guess we could do long distance, or maybe, maybe–”

Preston hated where this thought was going. He could think of few ideas more depressing than entering his freshmen year of college in a long-distance relationship. His older brother, Joey, had done that, and it had nearly broken him. Fortunately, Joey’s now wife Chelsea ended up deciding to attend college closer to him, and they’d lived happily-ever-after (so far). But either way… he’d been warned by too many people to absolutely not enter college in a relationship.

But how could they break up? They were perfect together. No one understood Preston like Freida, not even his own family. He knew that he was young, and that most people would dismiss his feelings as part of the folly of youth. But he knew, deep down, that he was serious. He was in love with her. The feeling he felt whenever they locked eyes, or held hands, or kissed… that was strong young love. He would marry her if he could. But he knew she wouldn’t want that. Not so soon.

Preston’s grandpa always seemed to know how Preston was feeling before he did. Preston was sitting at the kitchen table, eating cereal very naturally, when Grandpa sidled up to him. “What’s got you down, guy?” Grandpa asked.

Preston briefly considered lying, but quickly changed his mind. “I think Sheila and I’re gonna break up,” Preston said glumly.

“Oh no!” Grandpa said, slapping a hand on Preston’s back. “What’s goin’ on?”

Preston explained the whole situation. Grandpa nodded with understanding, and even though he couldn’t possibly understand the extent of what Preston was going through. Grandpa and Grandma were still married, still living in the little guesthouse together behind Preston and his parents. They’d been high school sweethearts, too. But back then, the options for women weren’t the same. Grandma wasn’t even allowed to get a credit card without a man’s signature. There was no English degree in New York to tempt her away. Preston reminded Grandpa of this.

“I know,” he said, “but believe it or not, your grandma did have a choice to make. She had some friends who were stewardesses– er, flight attendants, I guess you say. And she went in for an interview. You know back then they’d take a woman’s measurements? And she wasn’t allowed to be married!”

Preston shook his head. Sometimes he was shocked at how much society had changed in so little time.

“Anyhow… I’m gonna let you in on a little family secret,” Grandpa said, leaning in closer. “If you’re sure Freida’s the one… if you’re sure… then there is one thing you can do.”

“What?” Preston asked suspiciously.

Grandpa leaned in even closer. “Now, this is going to sound unbelievable. Because it is. But it’s true, I swear it. And I’ve got evidence for you.”

“Just tell me!”

“You’re gonna take Freida to the state fair in a few weeks,” Grandpa said. “That’s before you’ll have to make college decisions, right?” Preston nodded.

“Good,” Grandpa said. “And you’re gonna go on The Tunnel of Love.”

Preston’s face scrunched up. He’d been to the state fair, and he’d walked past The Tunnel of Love more times than he could count. It was a boat ride through dark tunnels that dated all the way back to the early days of the fair at the turn of the twentieth century. It had gone through a few different names and themes, but for most of Preston’s childhood, it had been The Tunnel of Love.

“Grandpa–”

“Now, back when I was young, it was frowned upon to show public displays of affection,” Grandpa said. “And it was even MORE frowned upon when they first opened that ride. So the whole point, even when the name was different, was to give young couples a chance to be together in the dark–”

“I get it,” Preston said. “But I don’t think I’m gonna woo Freida with some floating motel ride…”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Grandpa said. “But if you take Freida on that ride, and if you kiss her, then when you both get off… she’ll forget about those other ambitions. She’ll only want you.”

Preston narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“I can’t tell you why, or how,” Grandpa said, “but what I can tell you is that I was going through something very similar to you with your grandma. And a carnival barker at the fair gave me the advice I’m giving you. I followed it, and by the time we got off that ride, the whole flight attendant thing had gone completely out of Georgina’s mind.”

“That was probably a coincidence, Grandpa,” Preston said, shaking his head. His grandpa wasn’t normally the sort of person to fall for this sort of thing.

“It wasn’t.”

Preston looked up to see his father entering the kitchen and setting down his briefcase. “Hey, Dad,” Dad said, nodding to Preston’s grandpa.

“Tell him.”

Dad looked around conspiratorially, and said in a low voice, “Preston… it’s true. Your mom and I were having some difficulties, and Dad told me this… and I didn’t believe him, but I figured it was worth a shot. And it worked.”

“Again, it was just a coincid–”

“Joey too,” Dad said. Grandpa nodded. Preston’s eyes widened.

“No,” Preston said, shaking his head. But they only kept nodding.

“Rebecca came home to visit him, went on the ride with him, and by the time she got off, she wanted to transfer,” Dad said with a shrug. “We can’t explain it, but it’s true.”

Preston nodded his head slowly. He still wasn’t convinced… but it was certainly worth a try. Still, something nagged at him.

“B-But… is this, like– how does it work?” Preston asked. “Do they genuinely lose those other interests, or is this like… overriding all that?”

His dad and grandpa exchanged a confused look. “I don’t know the rules,” Grandpa said, “all I know is that it works…”

The state fair opened a few weeks later. Preston asked Freida to go with him, and she said yes. They’d gone together last year as well.

As they walked down the crowded midway of the fair, Preston was more nervous than usual. He was gripping Freida’s hand tight. He tried to get his mind off of the mission at hand with rides, and food, but he couldn’t stop thinking about The Tunnel of Love.

When they walked past it, Preston stopped, and nonchalantly said, “we should go on it.”

Freida’s eyebrows rose. She wasn’t opposed, but she was surprised. “I thought you thought it was gross,” she said with a laugh.

Preston shrugged. “This could be the last time we get to go on it together.”

Freida got a little sad. But then she shook it off and nodded. “You’re right,” she said.

They waited in line behind some young, handsy couples. Finally, it was their turn to climb into one of the rickety wooden boats. A disinterested teenager barely checked that they were all the way seated before sending them off.

Preston looked over at Freida before they disappeared into the darkness. There was an unreadable expression on her face. He held her hand again. She looked over at him.

Preston wanted to kiss her then and there. He wasn’t sure if the kiss was supposed to happen further into the ride. Would it count if it happened so early?

But he felt something else, too. It was a new, more powerful feeling than he’d ever felt towards Freida. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe what he’d felt before wasn’t love. Maybe that’s what this feeling was. It felt bigger. Grander. And most importantly, it filled him with a bittersweet sense of calm.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Preston whispered to her as their boat floated into the tunnel and the world around them started to get darker.

“Are you sure?” Freida asked. She sounded oddly relieved. Preston nodded.

“Let’s just be here with each other,” Preston said, squeezing her hand. And that’s all they did for the whole ride. Preston and Freida floated through the whole ride, with their hands being the only thing connecting them. At the end, Preston helped Freida off the ride. They ate some more, rode some more, and called it a night. When Preston dropped Freida off at home, he finally kissed her.

“No matter what, we’re gonna be alright,” he said with a smile.

She nodded. “I know.”

They were right.

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In my sophomore year of high school, I sat behind my crush in Algebra 2. His name was Jacob Archer, and I loved staring at the back of his neck. He would get a haircut every few weeks, and two to three inches of skin would be framed by a freshly cut hairline and the collar of his shirt. Everyday while I’d admire this, I’d be gearing up a witty response just in case he turned around to ask if he could compare answers on the homework. After it felt like I had been harboring this crush for years, I couldn’t take it anymore. It had been about two months. I texted him one day after school.

Hey Jacob, I don’t want to waste my time, I like you. What do you think?

Apparently that was too much, too fast for him. He said he was flattered, thanks, but no thanks. I was mildly devastated and Algebra 2 was sufficiently awkward after that, but I moved on to other crushes over the next five years. After finally wrapping up a somewhat endless on-again-off-again relationship, I found myself back in the dating scene in 2016.

I was at a Tiki Bar on a summer night in Chicago, when Tom walked in. This kind of bar wasn’t usually my scene, but my friend Lauren had just moved to the city and it was a must-go-to-at-least-once place she wanted to check off her list. Tom caught my eye because he didn’t exactly match the vibe of the dark purple walls, dimly lit torches, and vaguely-appropriating tribal aesthetic. He was a tall guy wearing charcoal black jeans and a t-shirt that had a grainy picture of a baby doll standing up that said “Have You Seen Him?” underneath.

Compared to the rest of the guys there who subscribed to the “9-5 Chicago guy in their 20s” uniform (form-fitting chinos and button downs in varying colors/patterns), he was the most interesting looking guy by far. And he gave me the same buzzy feeling I felt when I’d first met him a few months before.

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. . .

We had met the previous spring when I was visiting Lauren in Memphis. She brought me to her friend’s party, and introduced me to Tom. “I think you guys will hit it off,” she said as she brought me over to him. We did. It was easy. I loved learning that he was from Little Rock, I had never met anyone from there before. I wasn’t sure if we were flirting at first, but he was so cute and it felt like I’d known him for a long time right away.

He had a great smile and beautiful green eyes, and I remember wondering if they only looked green because of his green shirt, and what his eyes looked like when he wore other colors. He made such intense eye-contact that I thought I would lose an unspoken game if I looked away. I also remember feeling so wholly listened to during our conversation. He asked me questions about myself and made me laugh.

I don’t know if I believe in love at first sight, but there was this immediate ease that I had never experienced with a guy before. I gave him my number after he expressed interest in moving to Chicago, and I said if he had any questions for a Chicago native he could reach out. So what if I’m from a suburb that’s an hour outside the city? He didn’t need to know that.

Later that night, I had been properly served, and Tom and I ended up chatting again. I was pretty sure he thought I was cute too. I was wearing jean shorts and sneakers with a top that made me feel sexy, and my brown hair was in a high ponytail that gave me a certain kind of confidence.

I remember looking at his light brown hair and thinking it looked soft. I found myself saying that out loud, reaching up, and touching it. He was taller than I realized, and my whole body felt like it was connected to a live wire. His smile wavered and his eyes widened as he watched me.

“I’m flirting with you, you know,” I said as I brought my hand back down to my side, looking at him. His hair was as soft as it looked.

“You are?” his mouth was slightly open, and I wanted to touch his lips. I didn’t.

“Yeah, I just wanted that to be clear.”

“Oh. Thanks.” he started to smile again when a tiny girl with gorgeous curly brown hair interrupted us.

“Tom. I need to talk to you,” she said somewhat loudly.

I’d give away 10% of my paycheck for the rest of my life to have curly hair like that, I thought. How often would I need to get a perm to have curls like that? That definitely was not a perm though. She probably barely washes her hair and it naturally looks like that. People talk about how hard it is to maintain curly hair and I believe them, but I just had a feeling she’s the type of girl that doesn’t even have to try. I felt immediately jealous of her and I couldn’t tell if it was just the hair or because of the way she was looking at Tom as if he were hers.

“Nancy?” He asked. He was still looking at me. Apparently I had just been staring at Curls this whole time. I’ve never had much of a poker face and those thoughts were definitely written all over my face. She was staring at Tom while also looking at me in the corner of her eye, and she looked pissed.

“Oh, uh. Hi! I’m Nancy,” I tried to fix my face and be nice to Curls. She nodded and gave me a tight-lipped smile.

He kept his gaze on me for a second longer before finally looking at her.

“I’ll be right back,” he said as he looked back at me, and walked away.

I didn’t want to wait for him while he was off with Curls, so I had some brief flirty banter with another guy at the party before Lauren and I left and went to Taco Bell.

A few weeks later, I was entering the early phases of starting to talk to my ex-boyfriend, which involved responding to a Facebook message of a YouTube video he sent. I was weighing the pros and cons of responding, assuaging boredom being the only pro, when Tom texted me.

Nancy from Chicago

My stomach flip flopped and I felt the most awake I’d felt all week. I immediately responded.

Tom from Little Rock

He took 4 minutes to respond.

Feel the Illi-Noise

I smiled. I felt insane. I set a timer on my phone and waited 5 minutes.

Arkan-Saw it to believe it

Hahahah

Then nothing. Whatever, I thought, I’ll practice some self-control and not double text, a known faux pas if you were interested in someone at the time. I didn’t respond to my ex though either.

A few weeks later Tom texted me again.

So I’m in Chicago now.

We were in the delicate phases of early flirtexting so I needed to be casual, charming, and avoid exclamation points. Exclamation points were desperate. I felt itchy from having to hold back on giving a gut response, but I was not desperate.

You don’t say?

Moved here and everything.

You live here too, right?

He double texted.

Sure do. So you’re obsessed with me?

Three dots popped up, and disappeared, and then popped up again.

Hahah

So that’s what he landed on after all the deliberation, I thought. I waited. I hated waiting. The dots appearing/disappearing act happened again, a few more times than before.

Now that I’m in town, I actually was wondering if you wanted to grab a drink sometime.

I screamed and threw my phone across the room onto the couch. He just asked me out. I had never been asked out so directly before and felt like I was in an early 00s romcom. I wished I had a flip phone or a blackberry instead of this stupid iPhone. I ran over to grab it and didn’t overthink my response.

YES!!!

I’d love to.

I started to triple text asking what neighborhood he lived in and where and when he wanted to go but I deleted it and ran away from my phone while I waited for his response. I got it together while we decided on a date and time for the following week.

The morning of, I was making my way into the city to hang out with a friend beforehand. I was living with my parents at the time, but I didn’t tell Tom that because I didn’t want him to know I was about to drive an hour to get drinks with him. He texted me.

Hi Nancy. Good morning. A work thing may come up this afternoon and I may need to cancel tonight, I’ll let you know by noon. So sorry for the potential last minute change.

My stomach dropped.

Oh ok yeah let me know, no worries!

I was immediately worried. A slew of what-ifs ran through my head. What if I used too many exclamation points? What if he noticed and remembered that I can’t really breathe through my nose? What if he met a tiny, hot and rich artist/heiress named Gigi at a coffee shop this morning and he ran away with her? What if he has actually hated me this entire time and his plan was to get me excited for the date and then cancel last minute as a form of revenge?

None of them were probably true, but I told myself I was doing a self preservation exercise.

Around 2:30 he followed up. It was the longest text he’d sent up until now.

Hi Nancy. So sorry for the delay. I’m really sorry, but I can’t make it tonight. The thing at work ended up happening, and I’m in the middle of a lot at the moment. A friend of mine is coming into town last minute and I only have 1 plate, 1 cup and 1 fork in terms of tableware. I also ran out of toilet paper and garbage bags, and there’s a weird sticky stain on the counter that my roommate left from an old popsicle (I think) and now there is a concerning amount of mysterious bugs building their home using the sticky as its epicenter. Maybe we can do this another time, I really am sorry again for the last minute change.

I was bummed, and annoyed, but for some reason I wasn’t as annoyed as I thought I would be. He sounded earnest, even though I’d bet the “friend” coming into town was Curls. Didn’t love the “Maybe” he threw in there either.

Shoot, that does sound like a lot. No worries! Let me know if you want to reschedule!!

Ugh, why did I say ‘no worries’ twice in one day? I thought. And I definitely used too many exclamation points. It was too late to change it, this was before editing a text was an option. The dots appeared, then disappeared, and then nothing. Even I had enough of an ego not to double text.

. . .

So that brings us back to the Tiki Bar, where I saw him a few days later and immediately became aware of his every move. He wasn’t with Curls though, he was with a pleasant-looking guy with funky glasses and bouncy hair who just looked happy to be there. I didn’t walk up to him, because I was determined to actually be cool. I just slowly moved my position to make sure I was in his line of vision. And when he didn’t come over after a minute or so, I inched a little closer, and continued this until I was eventually at the table next to his. I knew he saw me. I was sure of it. Well I’m not going to say hi first, I thought.

Almost as if he heard me, which there’s a good chance I did say that out loud, he turned to me and said, “Nancy from Chicago.”

I turned to him and pretended to just register who he was: “Tom from Little Rock.”

I wouldn’t hug him or be too smiley or friendly. He already got that version and he canceled on me. I was demure and unflappable. I’m a cat, I thought.

“Did you just say you’re a cat?” he said, smiling.

Oh my god, I thought, I actually said that out loud. I have little-to-no control around this guy.

“Oh no, I, uh…said ‘look at that’ as in here you are, Tom from Little Rock.” I was floundering.

He laughed harder than I expected, and I had a full body reaction. I wasn’t nervous the first time we met, but I immediately started to sweat. I hadn’t heard him laugh like that yet and the sound made my whole body feel like it was plugged into that live wire again, but this time the voltage was dialed way up. I realized I was more excited for our date than I had been in a long time, and maybe more excited than I had been with any other guy ever. It was kind of freaking me out.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he said.

He was staring at me, and I noticed his eyes were still green but were a shade darker in this light. I just smiled, nodded, and walked to the bar.

“What can I get you?” said the bartender. He was wearing an unbelievably tight shirt that had a pattern of little tiki statues on it.

“Anything but rum,” I said casually.

Tight Tiki-Shirt could not be bothered and said, “This is a rum bar.”

He couldn’t even throw me a bone? I glared at him but was mostly mortified.

“Oh uh,” I couldn’t remember what drinks had rum in them because the last time I had rum was at a Christmas party in college when I woke up the next day with an absurd amount of Oreos in my pockets and chicken tenders in my purse. I couldn’t look at the menu because it was basically pitch black in there. I took a guess.

“Can I get a mojito, please.” I was pretty sure that was a rum drink that was mostly leaves. The bartender gave a tight nod and I exhaled.

Tom was looking at me during this whole exchange and I was so relieved he didn’t comment on my fumble. He ordered a daiquiri, which I thought was so insanely cute I worried I was going to start crying? I was so overstimulated. After spending a solid six minutes being semi-cool, I decided it was not for me.

“Why did you bail on our date?” I almost screamed at him.

He looked surprised and laughed softly this time, and even then I swear that laugh could power a small city. I watched his hand as he ran it through his hair, and I thought about the moment I touched it the last time we were together. He looked at me like he was thinking the same thing.

He exhaled. “I was nervous, and I chickened out,” he finally said. “After we met and you disappeared that night, I thought about you a lot. But I was just getting out of a relationship,”

“Curls,” I accidentally said, nodding.

“What?”

“Nothing, sorry, continue.” I have to stop doing that, I thought.

“Well yeah, I don’t need to get into that, but basically I just really liked meeting you and then I couldn’t stop thinking about you and talking about you to my friends and so they convinced me to ask you out and then the day came I psyched myself out and convinced myself you were just being nice and didn’t want to be rude since I’m new to the city.” He said all of this in one breath. “And my friend really did come in from out of town last minute,” he nodded his head towards the guy he came with.

I analyzed his face to see if he was lying or just trying to charm me, and it didn’t seem like either. I trusted him in a very bizarre, yet also surprisingly natural way.

“Ok well… for the record, I am interested, and I wasn’t just being polite. And I still want to go, if you do,” I said.

I stepped closer to him. I could have sworn he had that live wire thing happening too, and the energy was bouncing back and forth between the two of us.

“Ok me too, next week? I won’t bail this time.” He said.

“What about tomorrow?” I said. I didn’t want to wait a whole week.

He laughed, “Tomorrow is great.”

Lauren and I left shortly after that, and she told me that she texted him saying that she was with me at that bar. He came to see me, I thought. I felt like I could lift a truck over my head with my bare hands.

The next day, we went to a funky-trendy Mexican restaurant with great margs and mediocre food, and I spilled green salsa on my red shirt at the beginning of the meal. I must have been visibly upset, because he took a chip and flung red salsa onto his green shirt. I thought it was the most romantic thing I had ever experienced in real life. I stopped worrying about if I was being cool or if I was coming on too strong. I don’t even remember what we talked about, I just remember it was never awkward and neither one of us could stop smiling.

We went on a walk after dinner and I held his hand because I wanted to, and he held mine back.

We went to his apartment and played MadLibs on his couch, and I didn’t know it was possible to laugh that hard with a guy. It got quiet after that and we stared at each other.

“Green,” I half-whispered, as I noticed his eyes were the most beautifully vibrant green I’d seen yet.

“Hmm?” he said.

“Your eyes,” I said, “They kind of change color, but they’re mostly green.”

“Oh,” he said, “Yours are blue.”

“Very good,” I said, smiling.

We just looked at each other for what felt like an hour and I leaned in closer, but tried as hard as I could to not make the first move.

“Do you… do you want to make out?” he asked.

I laughed out a “Yes,” and we did.

And it was awesome.

After that we were practically inseparable. I couldn’t believe how much fun I could have with someone doing the most normal things. We’d get breakfast at a dirty diner, or go to the bookstore, or the pharmacy, or just walk around, and we couldn’t get enough. I stopped worrying about being cool around Tom, because he acted like I was the coolest when I was being my complete and total self. I fell in love with him in a terrifyingly unstoppable way, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Tom and I have been together now for almost ten years, married for almost three, and being with him makes me feel like I’m living in the happy epilogue of an early 00s romcom.

How did you fall in love with New Orleans? At once, madly. Sometimes I think it was predestined.

- Andrei Codrescu

Chapter One

Fucking LA traffic. Why is there traffic at six a.m. on a Thursday morning? Where are all of you people going at this hour? I’ve lived here for most of my life, and yet the ability for a freeway to move at five miles an hour at the crack of dawn will never cease to amaze me.

I’m sitting in the back of a Tesla Uber trying to ignore the fact that I’m supporting demonic billionaire CEOs, when a splitting headache creeps in. I’m not sure if it’s my driver’s disrespectful use of cologne or the situation I’ve found myself in.

“What time is your flight?” my driver asks, emotionless.

“Eight fifteen,” I reply, through clenched teeth, attempting to convey just how badly I need him to magically clear the traffic, fly down the freeway, and get me to LAX in the next thirty minutes.

“Oof.” He doesn’t even pretend to reassure me.

I’m running ridiculously late for the flight that’s supposed to get me to a very important bachelorette weekend. And the reason for my tardiness is… complicated. I spent yet another sleepless night sucked into what my friends have coined: A Noah Spiral. This time, the catalyst was packing a suitcase, which reminded me of him because—oh, I don’t know—he owns a suitcase.

I sobbed for hours, frozen in memory, and just as I closed my eyes to sleep, my alarm went off. I promptly hit snooze three too many times. When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I threw on leggings and an oversized crewneck in a rush, twisting my mess of curly brown hair back into a clip as I called an Uber. I was already out of the house before I noticed I was wearing two different-colored Hokas, but by then, I had no choice but to commit to my botched footwear—with unbeatable arch support.

Now, as I glance out of my Uber’s illegally tinted window, I see the physical manifestation of my life reflected back to me—three cars smashed together in the far right lane. It’s not awful; no one seems injured. But it’s causing the rest of us freeway passengers to move at this glacial pace.

Six months ago, my relationship crashed––a head-on collision I never saw coming––and my life since the breakup has been as stuck as this godforsaken 405 freeway.

“Hey, are there any side streets you could take by chance? I really can’t miss this flight.”

“No,” my driver says, thinly veiling what I assume his actual response would be: Not my fault you left so late, bitch.

My phone buzzes. A text consisting of a thousand question marks from my rightfully irritated best friend, Trevor.

Penny! Where are you? then Please tell me you’ve already gone through security and this is some kind of ill informed prank?

I respond with a few exaggerated truths.

Super close! Nasty traffic on the 405 but I’ll be there!

And he has every right to call me out, but manages to do so kindly, in a way he knows I can stomach.

Traffic in LA?! See you soon. Love you, queen.

Trevor. The best of them. I can honestly say that without him, I never would have survived the last six months—the car crash of my life.

Trevor brought me my favorite huckleberry donut from Side Car when I couldn’t eat and held my hair back after a night of attempting to use lemon drop shots to forget my heartache.

And I’ve been trying—and failing—to forget, since that rainy spring morning when my life as I knew it blew up in my face.

I’ve been trying to forget that I’ve been living in my bright purple childhood bedroom in Encino, surrounded by posters of boy bands and early aughts indie movies, for half a year. My roommate being my sixty-year-old mother, who pretends that I’m okay so as to not be dragged into my deep, dark hole of despair.

I’d do anything to forget the breakup that has tested everything I know about myself—who I am, and what I thought my life was going to be. But the reality is that I cannot forget. In fact, I have not been able to think about literally anything else since the day it happened.

I remember every detail leading up to the moment, every thoughtless word that was uttered, every hopeless feeling that ripped through my body. And I replay it, over and over in my mind on a loop, like one of those YouTube videos that plays ten hours of the same song just to drive listeners to insanity. A Noah Spiral.

I nervously check out the window and see that we’ve almost made it to the crash. Just a few more feet until the freeway clears. Maybe my luck will change, and I will catch the flight for the world’s greatest person, Mae’s, bachelorette weekend.

Mae, Trevor and I have been three peas in a pod since we met in an Intro to Cinema Studies class in college. Now Mae, the angel I’d die for—and have quite literally gotten into my one and only fist fight for—is getting married to an equally angelic guy. To celebrate their perfect, storybook union, we’re headed to New Orleans for a weekend of beignets and debacheory.

And I want to be there for her—I really do—because she deserves the world. We’ve been through hell and back together, and I want to be by her side during this exciting time. But unfortunately for me, I am currently living in a hell part of life. And a bachelorette weekend means that I will be celebrating love—the thing that I will never have again, and the thing that is causing me literal, physical pain at every waking moment—nonstop, for the next four days.

If I make this flight…

Which seems more and more likely as the miracle happens: we pass the crash, and the freeway clears faster than my skin when I introduced retinol to my routine. My enemy of a driver becomes my greatest ally, zipp ing through traffic, and breaking countless laws to get me to LAX with approximately zero minutes to spare.

The driver skids to stop in front of the Southwest sign, and I jump out, thank him for his traffic-navigating wizardry, grab my carry-on and book it through the airport.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve run like this. My legs are shaky and my lungs are burning, but I’ve let myself down endless times in the last six months, and I refuse to let Trevor and Mae down too.

I make it through security in a blur and sprint to my gate. Through a crowd of tired-eyed travelers, I spot Trevor tapping his foot at me as he slowly moves up in line to board the plane. He shakes his head in disapproval but can’t help but smile at the sight of me.

Our friendship in a nutshell. No matter how unhinged the other is, we always smile when we see each other.

I blow him a kiss, hoping my affection will soften his justified annoyance. He mimes catching it in his hand and presses it right on his mouth.

As one of the last in line and last to board, I squeeze through the packed plane looking desperately at every row I pass for Trevor until I hear, “Find a Penny. Pick her up!” The catchphrase he coined for me over a decade ago, at the start of our friendship.

It was a messy college night and I was flirting with a brooding drama student in a crowded dorm party. Trevor spotted us from across the room. A little tipsy off three-dollar Trader Joe’s wine someone had purchased with a fake ID, Trevor screamed, “Find a Penny. Pick her up!” to my horror.

I turned beet red and didn’t speak to him the rest of the night for sabotaging my romance. The next day, I immediately forgave him and over brunch, Trev, Mae and I all agreed it was undeniably hilarious. He’s been yelling it at me at the absolute worst times in public places, ever since.

I smile, relieved to finally be with my comfort person and throw my suitcase into the overhead bin. I push through to the unglamorous middle seat to meet Trevor, who is sitting at the window.

“Well, well, well, Look who decided to show up,” Trevor says, taking me in. “Interesting choice of footwear… ”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” I respond, mortified by the state of myself and my mismatched Hokas.

“And I’m so, so sorry I was late—” but before I can explain, he waves me off.

“A Noah Spiral?”

“How’d you know?” I ask, but of course he knows.

He takes my head and rests it onto his shoulder, and after the uncertainty and rush of the morning, my eyes well up with tears.

“Ok my love, here’s how it’s gonna go,” he says in a stern but loving tone. “You have until the fasten seatbelt light turns off to let it all out, then you are going get your life together and start mentally preparing for Mae’s weekend. Because she deserves the best of you. You can get through four days. Do not let Noah ruin this weekend for Mae. That asshole does not deserve that kind of power. Got it?”

I nod in agreement. He’s right. He’s always right. And I am so grateful for the way he simplifies even the most complicated of situations. Still, a twinge of hesitancy rushes through me when he calls Noah an asshole. I still haven’t figured out how to let go of the love and let the anger in.

As the fasten seatbelt light goes on, the countdown to getting my life together begins. The plane slowly makes its way to the runway.

“So, what sparked the spiral this time?” Trevor asks.

I close my eyes, so embarrassed to give the honest answer. “Packing my suitcase,” I admit, hanging my head in shame.

Trevor looks at me accusingly. “Why? Because of all the romantic trips you and Noah never went on?”

“Ok, we went on trips. I visited him when he worked on that Christmas movie in Vancouver.”

“Right and if I remember correctly, he made you go on multiple hikes—the activity you famously hate—in the rain.”

I wince at the memory. Why is it so easy to focus only on the good parts of a person when they’re no longer in your life?

“It was more just the thought that he has a suitcase.” I try—and fail—to explain.

“Come again?”

“Like, he has a suitcase that we used to pack together. For overnight shoots or even just to spend the weekend dog-sitting at my mom’s house. That suitcase went places with us. Together. Now he’s packing it for new memories, new adventures. With someone else.”

As I say it, my embarrassment makes me want to run to the lavatory and vomit. But I swallow the feeling as the plane picks up speed for takeoff. Trevor grabs my hand.

“And now we are going to move past that and look to the future. We are going to have an incredible weekend celebrating our incredible best friend, and Noah is going to be doing whatever it is that losers do—somewhere else—away from us.”

I laugh, pathetically, in agreement.

“I promise that I am not going to make this weekend about me in any way. It’s for Mae. Sweet, perfect, angel Mae. And we are going to celebrate the shit out of her and Tom.”

“And we are going to drink fancy cocktails, dance all night, make out with strippers, and not cry,” Trevor adds.

“I will try my best not to cry. But would Benny be okay with us making out with strippers?”

Trevor sighs and looks at me like he doesn’t know how to say what he’s about to say.

“I haven’t been able to talk to you about it because of everything you’re going through but—”

“Do not tell me you guys broke up. As a friend group, I don’t think we could survive anymore heartbreak,” I lament.

“No no—oh my God—no. He’s obsessed with me, can you imagine?” Trevor says, placing his hand on his heart. “And yeah whatever, I’m just as obsessed with him,” he admits. “But a month ago, we decided to open up our relationship. And it’s going really well.”

My eyes widen.

“Seriously. It’s a really good thing for us. We are just as in love as ever, but he’s traveling more and more for work. So we had a serious conversation and decided we want to be together forever but we also want… to be with other people. And listen, we’ve done the work. We know it’s not going to be easy, but it’s really working for us. Hooking up with other people has only proven our love for each other. The sex is purely physical, and what we have is so much more than that.”

I nod, starting to grasp his words. Trevor is the kind of person who wants to soak up all that life has to offer. And if that means having sex with strangers while loving Benny, I’m here for it.

“As long as you’re both happy,” I say, and mean it. But my heart breaks a little bit knowing that something so monumental has been happening in his life, and with everything going on in mine, he thought he couldn’t tell me until now.

“It’s the best we’ve been in a long time, actually,” he says.

“I love you so much,” I say and hug him tightly.

“Love you more. But, back to making out with strippers. I think it would be a good thing for both of us. It’s time for a cute little rebound, Pen. A casual hookup to get your mind off things. And I hear the guys in New Orleans are fine as hell.”

I’m not sure how I could possibly hook up with someone when I don’t even remember how to flirt. And I haven’t made out with anyone since the break up. But strippers and cocktails in a city I’ve never been to? I’m surprised by how much it all excites me.

“I don’t know…”

“Consider it! You know I’ll wingman you.”

But I’m not ready to agree to anything that wild right this moment. And I’m saved by a ding, signifying our ascent into the sky.

“Okay, you have a few more minutes to let it all out. Besides Noah, any updates? How’s the short film?”

Ah, my short film. The most important thing in my life that I have been avoiding for months.

“It’s going…” I tell Trevor, knowing he won’t approve.

“Well we will add that to the list of actions required to get Penny’s life together. You’re the most talented filmmaker I know. Time to remember that.”

“Right. I’ll throw that in my Notes App To-Do List. Number One: Move out of Mom’s house. Number Two: Finish the short film.”

“Love the enthusiasm!” he says sarcastically. “Queen, not to rush you but the fasten seatbelt sign is going to pop right off any minute. Any last Noah musings before you lose me to my AirPods.”

I mull over the question. “Honestly, I’m so tired of thinking about him and talking about him. I’m ready to focus on getting my life together.”

Trevor smiles, proud of me.“It’s going to be ok, Penny. You are going to get through this. You are so strong and so much more than this moment. Let’s think of this weekend as a new beginning. Your fresh start.”

What a beautiful thought. And I don’t quite know if I’m there yet, but I appease him. “Yeah, a fresh start.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet. You may now move about the cabin. Or groove about the cabin if you’re already in vacation mode!” A cringe flight attendant jokes.

“And with that, it’s time for me to be left alone while I finish this podcast.” Trevor says, reclining his seat.

He wraps his pillow around his neck, slides an eye mask over his eyes, and pops in his AirPods—leaving me alone with the monumental task of getting my life together.

I lean my head back, and put in my own AirPods, pressing play on my sad-girl airplane playlist because what else are Bon Iver and Phoebe Bridgers for? I have about three hours to sort out my mess of a life and mentally prepare for a weekend of swapping doom and gloom for party, party, party!

But before I can even get started, the somber melodies of the music lull me to the sleep I didn’t get the night before.

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Chapter Two

I wake up to Trevor elbowing me harder than necessary. “You gotta see this,” he says, pointing out the small window.

Groggily, I take in endless green and brown shapes coming into a hazy view as I piece together that we are descending toward New Orleans. I must have been asleep for hours. And for the first time in a long time, I feel alright. Rested and calm, my heart taking a break from its perpetual aching.

I see why Trevor woke me so suddenly as the blurry shapes form into fairytale-like swampland. I feel transported to another world—something so different from Los Angeles and everything I’m leaving behind there. I search the flat land, covered in mossy oak trees and muddy water, for anything familiar, but it’s all foreign to me.

And I remember why everyone is always telling me to travel. To get away from it all. To be absorbed in the experience of newness. Maybe this weekend really will be a new beginning. A fresh start.

As we Uber to our hotel in the Warehouse District, I roll my window down to take in the city. My senses are overwhelmed by the sound of live jazz music and the bright purples and golds of murals covering the sides of buildings. I’ve only had a small taste of the city, and already, I love it here.

When we arrive at the hotel, we drag our bags to the lobby, where the rest of the bridal party is excitedly waiting. They’ve all traveled in from Chicago, where Mae lives with her charming and hilarious fiancé, Tom.

I pause to take in the impeccably designed Art Deco-style hotel lobby. The walls are cobalt blue with copper finishes, and lush leather couches make it feel warm and inviting.

But before I can get lost in the decadence of it all, I’m greeted with a tight hug and a shriek from Mae’s stunning and unhinged sister, Candance.

She whispers in my ear, “I’m so fucking happy you’re here!”

“Me too,” I tell her, hugging her back.

“This is Tom’s smoke show of a sister, Lily! I’m getting a new sister and a new best friend!” Candance announces as Lily’s face goes bright red. I smile at Candace’s misguided interpretation of how marriage between two families works. Lily’s expression tells me that Candance’s outlandishness is miles out of her comfort zone, but she smiles and nods, indulging her.

I’ve known Candance almost as long as I’ve known Mae. She visited her sister often in college, and we all got close fast, in the way that closeness feels safe when you’re too young to know better.

Lily comes in for a much gentler hug, adding, “I am so happy to finally meet you, Penny. Mae has only the best things to say.” I embrace her right back.

“Well, I couldn’t be more excited to get to know you over the next few days. Huge fan of your brother and simply obsessed with his taste in wives.” Lily laughs in agreement.

Then, finally it’s time for me to squeeze my Mae, who beams with her gorgeous, dark hair blown out to perfection, wearing a kitschy headband-veil and a pullover that says “Bride” in swirly font. Mae never misses an opportunity to celebrate. From big events like birthdays to the smallest promotion at work, Mae is always the first to celebrate the people she loves. And now, it’s her turn. She runs at me and jumps into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist.

I spin her around and yell, “My bestie is getting married!” loud enough for everyone in the hotel to hear.

“I’m getting married!” Mae yells back, practically screaming.

Candance rolls her eyes affectionately.“Mae had one welcome drink and she’s already drunk.”

“As she should be!” I fire back.

Then, Candance looks at me and Trevor, suddenly nervous. “I have some bad-ish news. The hotel messed up the rooms, and one one of you will have to bunk alone. I’m so sorry. I tried to fix it, but there was nothing they could do.”

As much as I want to be with my friends for every second of the trip, I also want it to be completely stress-free for Mae. So, I ignore the voice in my head that tells me to avoid being alone and take one for the team.

“I’ll take it,” bursts out of me as I search for an explanation. “The truth is I haven’t been sleeping well, and now I won’t keep everyone up.”

Trevor squeezes my hand, thanking me, and grabs Mae. “Guess that means Mae Bae and I will be spooning all night!” he squeals.

“Hell yeah, baby!” Mae screams back.

It feels so good to see her this happy, and I try to let that joy rub off on me.

Candace leads the way to our rooms in a rush. She sent over an itinerary weeks before, dictating that tonight we’d be having dinner and drinks at Mae’s favorite bar, followed by a night out at a tasteful male strip club.

“We’re all on the fourth floor,” Candace explains as she hands us our keys.

I leave the group and enter a stunning hotel room decorated in the same Art Deco style as the lobby, but somehow even more cozy—pastel impressionist paintings, French antique furniture, and a soft pink throw blanket draped over crisp white bed sheets. It’s perfect, and I have it all to myself.

But as I hear the excited chatter of my friends across the hall, I fight away a twinge of loneliness. This is a whole lot of hotel room for just one single, untethered, boyfriendless person. But alas, there is no time for intrusive thoughts to lead me down A Noah Spiral.

So, I pushed through the feeling and unpack my clothes, reviewing the itinerary Candace emailed us. Tonight’s theme is Indie Sleaze, a nod to our moody early New York years when we’d wear American Apparel everything and smoke cigarettes on balconies as MGMT blasted from speakers at claustrophobic apartment parties.

I look through my clothes and find the glittery black spandex skater dress that I kept for the last ten years for this very occasion. I pray that I can still squeeze into it as I jump into the shower, quickly rinsing off the plane film covering my body.

As I do my makeup, drawing a delicate wing with eyeliner that makes my hazel eyes pop, I can’t help but give into the nostalgia. I’m on a trip with my best friends from college, in the dress I wore on countless nights out. That carefree, youthful freedom I had back then creeps in. I look at myself in the mirror and have to admit—I look good. The dress hugs me in all the right places, and I feel myself regaining the tiniest bit of the confidence that I’ve been missing these last few months.

I throw on a pair of Doc Martens and rush to meet Mae, Trevor, Candance, and Lily at the elevator. Mae looks absolutely stunning in an adorable sparkly white matching set.

“Tom is the luckiest guy in the world,” I gush.

“We’re the hottest bachelorette party in Nola!” Mae announces to the lobby as we head out the door.

***

We walk through the Warehouse District for a bit before Mae leads us down a cobblestone alleyway, smiling big as she announces, “Here we are! Bar Adelaide!”

I wonder if this is some kind of joke. There is no bar in sight. But Mae confidently opens the unassuming door of a nondescript warehouse building, and the rest of us follow her suspiciously down a dark hallway.

The first thing that hits me is the faint pulse of an R&B beat. Then, the sound of lively chatter and the clinking of glasses. We walk further in and suddenly find ourselves standing at the threshold of an adult wonderland.

My eyes adjust, taking in a dimly lit former library converted into the most gorgeous bar I’ve ever seen. The walls are painted the deep red color of the perfect shade of lipstick, adorned with eclectic modern art. The furniture is intentionally mismatched—chairs and couches covered in floral and animal-print upholstery. This place is extraordinary.

The overwhelming fragrance of burning sage and sweet bourbon fills the space. I am in full sensory overload.

“This place is fucking sexy,” Trevor announces, and I can’t help but agree.

As I take in the details of the bar I realize that I feel different here—sophisticated, more confident. It’s uncanny how a place has the power to transform a person.

“Welcome to my favorite bar in the world,” says Mae, her excitement palpable.

A host, who could easily moonlight as a supermodel, leads us to a corner booth lit with candles, where two chilled bottles of champagne are waiting. She informs us of the prix fixe menu, chosen by the bride, and mentions that we can order cocktails at the bar.

Trevor pops a bottle of champagne and pours Mae’s glass before pouring the rest of ours to the brim.

“To the most debacherous weekend ever! We love you, Mae!”

We clink glasses and I down my glass in one sip.

Trevor gasps in delight and does the same in solidarity. “Okay, so we are having a night! Let’s go!”

We are deep in conversation, catching up on lost time, when the moody background music fades and a spotlight eases on. My attention is drawn to a small stage at the back of the bar, where a band is setting up.

“Hello, beautiful people of Bar Adelaide,” the frontman announces, prompting polite applause from the crowd. “We are the Nathan Brothers, and we’re so lucky to have a special guest with us tonight.”

Mae claps and cheers, eating it up. I completely understand her love for this city—I’m starting to feel it too.

“I’d like to introduce our sax for the evening, my good friend, the great Mr. Jacque Benoit.”

As the saxophonist steps up to the mic, the bar erupts in applause.

“It’s an honor to be with y’all tonight, playing my favorite music in my favorite city,” he says.

“Good jazz has the power to help us forget our troubles and live in the present moment. So here’s to livin’ tonight.”

And the raucous reaction from the crowd tells me that many of the patrons are here specifically for him.

The band launches into a smooth, jazzy cover of one of my all-time favorite songs—Rihanna’s Love on the Brain. The musicians play in perfect harmony, riffing off one another, letting the music overtake them. It’s chaotic yet balanced, and I am fully enraptured by the performance.

Looking around, I see I’m not the only one. The entire bachelorette party, as well as the rest of the bar, is transfixed. The singer’s soulful voice energizes the space, but it’s the sax player who commands our attention.

The first course arrives, and we settle into a comfortable conversation, getting to know Lily and hearing all about Mae’s wedding planning.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Candace sets a tray full of tequila shots onto the table.

“Tom bought a round for the table! I love my brother-in-law!” she exclaims.

We cheers yet again. Heat fills my throat as I swallow the sweet liquor, melting further in the present moment.

The vibes in Bar Adelaide are immaculate. Our second and third courses come and go, and I can’t get enough of the Creole-spiced dishes. I let myself indulge in the decadence of every bite—from caviar-topped fried potatoes, to crawfish delicately presented with red beans and rice.

I lose track of how many glasses of champagne I’ve had. I don’t know if it’s the drinks, the food, the ambience, or the company, but I’m having a genuinely good time. I’m lost in the timeless feeling of a good night out. Fifteen minutes or an hour passes, then Mae announces that we will be leaving shortly for the stripclub.

I try not to let my disappointment at leaving show on my face.

“Me and Penny are gonna make out with the strippers!” Trevor declares, tipsy and triumphant, as Mae squeals in excitement.

I laugh it off but quietly wonder if I’m up for the challenge.

“I’m going to need a cocktail,” I say, standing up.

“This is the best night ever!” Candace yells.

As I walk up to the bar, my mind is caught up on the idea of kissing a stranger. Is one even allowed to make out with a stripper? Do they charge extra for that? Is Trevor being serious, or is this all a joke?

Then again, if I am going to hook up with a stranger to help me get over my ex, a stripper seems like a responsible option.

The bar oozes with what I now understand to be the uniquely New Orleans style. A stylish half-moon bar, antique barware—it all makes me question which decade I’m in. Mae’s favorite bar in the world has quickly become mine. The energy is somehow laid-back and electric at the same time.

The bartender smiles politely. “What would you like to drink?”

“A tequila soda,” I say, proud of myself for being extremely responsible by not mixing liquors—blissfully ignoring the countless glasses of champagne I’ve downed in the last few hours.

He reaches for a well tequila bottle, but before he can make my drink, we are both startled by a mocking, raspy laugh.

Chapter Three

“You’re gonna order a tequila soda at one of the best cocktail bars in New Orleans?” a stranger asks, in a gravely Lousiana accent that makes his taunting sound silky and inviting.

As I turn to see the man attached to the voice, I find myself standing face-to-face with Jacque Benoit, the saxophonist—who is absolutely striking up close.

“Leave her alone, Jay,” the kind-eyed bartender snaps back as he starts to make my drink despite Jacque’s protest.

“Billy, come on. The lady wants a Sazerac,” Jacque says, eyeing me intensely. From the stage, he definitely had a presence, but at his current proximity, I’m surprised by the color of his eyes. A bright green that somehow pulls me in while looking right through me.

He’s taken off the matching suit jacket to his bandmates, now sitting comfortably in a perfectly fitted white t-shirt that softly hugs his lean muscles from years of holding a sax. Being this close to the man I’d watched perform for the last few hours makes me feel suddenly nervous—like I’m starstruck, even though I’d never seen him before tonight.

All I can spit out is, “I do?”

“I guarantee it,” he responds knowingly. He smiles at my bewilderment, and although I want to be annoyed by his presumption, I’m disarmed by him.

The bartender looks to me for confirmation.

“I’ll try it,” I tell him, taking the bait.

Jacque smiles, relieved that I’m playing along.“You won’t regret it. I promise.”

The bartender delicately chooses his ingredients from the bar and takes immense care in preparing the mystery cocktail. The process is mesmerizing—like watching an artist paint a masterpiece in front of my eyes. The care that New Orleanians put into everything—from the decor to the food to the drinks—is not lost on me. But my focus is pulled inward as I feel Jacque watch me as I watch the bartender at work.

“He’s a talent, this one,” Jacque says as the bartender smiles.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I agree.

I fall back into a bar stool, and Jacques brazenly sits down right next to me. I feel my cheeks flushing and wonder if he can tell that his closeness makes me nervous.

“First time in New Orleans?” he asks, making a show of searching for eye contact.

“How could you possibly know that?” I challenge.

“Just a guess,” he teases as I take the time to really look into his green eyes. They are the same color as the mossy oak trees I saw out of the airplane window when we landed. He cracks a crooked smile, pleased with himself, and I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or flirting with me—but I want to play along.

“Should you be sitting here dictating my drink order when you have a set to play?”

The bartender laughs at my accusation. But instead of quipping back, Jacque just stares at me, as if anticipating my next move. I feel the heat on my cheeks spread throughout my body. A warmth that rushes over me, like an old friend I haven’t seen in years.

“What’s your name?” he asks as the bartender finally hands me my drink.

“Penny,” I answer.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Penny. I’m Jacque, but friends call me Jay.”

“Are we friends already? I know Southerners are friendly, but we just met, and all you’ve done is insult my drink order,” I say. Maybe I do remember how to flirt after all.

“I think we can definitely be friends, Miss Penny. If it suits you. But trust me, I was only doing you a favor. Now, I’m gonna need you to take a sip of that drink and tell me what you think.”

He doesn’t take his green eyes off me.

“Is this a test?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” he jokes.

He focuses intensely on my mouth as I take a long sip of a mahogany-colored cocktail from a petite glass. Instinctively, I close my eyes when the complex flavors hit my taste buds. The smoky whiskey is perfectly complemented by the herbal notes of licorice and spice. There’s another flavor I can’t quite define—something sweet and earthy, like honey, but not quite. It’s delicious. Maybe the best cocktail I’ve ever tasted.

How did this stranger anticipate my affinity for a drink I’d never even heard of until now?

“Wow,” is all I can manage.

“Good, right?” Jay confirms.

“So good.”

The bartender smiles, proud of his work and amused by the cat-and-mouse game we’re playing in front of him.

“The Sazerac is the official cocktail of New Orleans, and Billy here makes his special. Can you taste the magic ingredient?” Jay asks, anticipating my response.

I take another sip, trying to name the sweet and earthy ingredient, but can’t quite place it.

“Orgeat. House-made almond syrup. Adds that sweetness you get at the end.”

“Wow,” I say again, and Jay chuckles.

“A woman of few words.”

And the combination of the whisky and those green eyes raises my temperature to an unbearable degree. An intense heat that makes me want to step outside for cool air.

“You’re funny, Miss Penny.” And he tips his glass toward me. I comply, clinking our glasses together.

“You gotta stop calling me Miss Penny. I feel like your elementary school teacher.”

“Well, I never had a teacher who looked like you.”

And now it’s confirmed. He’s flirting with me. The hot feeling is… attraction, because this man is flirting with me. I take another sip to calm my nerves.

He leans into me, to get a closer look, and I begin to open myself up to the possibility of it all. I don’t know anything about Jay besides his talent on the sax and his good taste in drinks, but at this moment, I want to know more.

My fantasies of making out with a stripper have been replaced by flashes of making out with this non-hypothetical human being sitting right next to me.

I try to remember what to do in this kind of situation. What to do with my hands that suddenly feel unattached to my body, how to keep the banter going.

But before I can find the words to respond, the entire bachelorette party is standing there, their glossy eyes darting back and forth from me to Jay.

I can see on their faces that they’re trying to piece together exactly what is happening between us. But I fear that they’ve interrupted the moment before we have the chance to figure that out ourselves.

Trevor, my savior, subtly leans in and whispers, “I absolutely love whatever is happening here and hate for it to end, but our Uber is outside.”

“Oh yeah, coming,” I stutter, embarrassed. And as if reading my mind, he ushers the girls off.

“Come on ladies! Penny will meet us outside!” Trevor calls, granting me one last moment alone with Jay.

“Find a Penny. Pick her up!” he yells with his back turned to us as the party leaves Bar Adelaide.

Trevor, my savior, is now a traitor.

I pray Jay didn’t hear him, but the bashful grin spreading across his face tells me otherwise.

“Bachelorette party, huh? Your friends seem like they’re having a good time.”

“Yeah, my best friend is getting married—hence my first time in New Orleans. But our Uber’s here, and I don’t want to hold them up.”

Flustered, I try to get the bartender’s attention for my check, but Jay stops me.

“Put it on my tab, Billy,” he says with quiet confidence.

“Thank you, Jay,” I say, disappointed that our time is being cut short.

“But you owe me one now. Maybe after my set? Where are y’all off to?”

“I’d love to. But I don’t think you’re going to want to join us.”

“Try me,” he teases.

“We’re going to a male strip club,” I admit.

“Ah. Tourists…” he chuckles.

I get up to go, assuming that the bachelorette party and the strippers have spoiled the moment we were having—that I will undoubtedly never see him again, never know what may have happened between us. But just as I turn, I feel his warm, rough hand gently grasp my wrist. As he holds on to me, I wonder if he can feel the quickening of my pulse—the heat rising in my body.

“At least let me get your number… for after the strip club?”

“Oh. I—” I stutter, caught off guard by the thought that maybe whatever this is, is not quite finished. He lets go tenderly, and as soon as his fingers move from my wrist back to his glass, I miss the feeling of them on me.

“No pressure if that doesn’t interest you,” he says and pulls away, giving me space.

I’m trying desperately to wrap my head around the fact that this man—this beautiful, green eyed musician—just implied that he would want to meet up with me after I go to a strip club. Which also implies that I’d be all horny from the stripping. And if I think past that… I might literally catch on fire. Play it cool, Penny.

“Yes. Of course. Can I have your phone?” I lean back into him, this time close enough to breathe in his scent—the sweet, familiar whiskey on his breath and a subtle cologne with hints of citrus and tobacco.

He hands his phone to me, and I add my number, saving my contact as Miss Penny for old time’s sake.

“Thanks again for the drink,” I say as I turn to go, hiding a smile across my face.

“See you later, for mine,” he calls after me.

I sneak one last glance at him, and he flashes that crooked grin my way right before I walk out the door.

To Be Continued…

Grandmama sat in the back of the church and shook her head solemnly. Sparrow peered over the open casket to get a closer look. They all believed having the funeral in the church would absolve Lucinda from her many sins on earth. It’s funny, many believe witches wouldn’t be religious, but it’s quite the opposite. It’s like how many scientists are Christian. After finding so many answers they turn to the divine.

Juniper looked at the wrinkles in Auntie Lucinda’s face, the scrunch of her eyebrows, the tightness of her jaw, and was convinced yes, the devil had the last word when dragging this poor soul to Hell. A shiver ran up Juniper’s spine and she took her seat next to her mother, Angelene.

As they carried the casket to the graveyard a murder of crows congregated in the high trees and cawed. Angelene, a Fauna Witch, explained to Junie that the crows were mourning Lucinda. She fed them in the mornings and sent them as spies around town to dig up dirt on various people. Lucinda was able to find out that the mail man was stealing her herbs that she mailed overseas from Brazil, that Junie was skipping school on Fridays to throw rocks in the creek and that Sparrow was taking hairs off the heads of stray cats in town. There were many things that happened in the mundane town of Satane, Louisiana and Lucinda knew it all.

Unlike her sister, Sparrow, age fourteen, Juniper couldn’t control things with her mind. She couldn’t speak to animals like her mother, and she definitely couldn’t control the weather like Grandmama. In the long line of Dupree witches, Junie was starting to believe she was indeed a dud.

Lucinda’s body was being lowered into the ground. No one shed a tear but sat stone-faced. Once it was over, everyone dispersed to whatever corner of the globe they had traveled from.

At home, Angelene made a birthday cake for Junie. The next day was her 13th birthday and she still hadn’t received her powers. Grandmama mumbled something in Creole about Junie being a late bloomer. Angelene spat something back. She was protective of Juniper.

In the upstairs bathroom Junie pulled down her pants. She had almost forgotten she was bleeding. Sparrow opened the door and Junie slammed it shut. Sparrow willed it open with her mind. “Sparrow get out!” Junie yelled. But it was too late, she had seen that she bled.

With a gasp, Sparrow ran down stairs to tell Grandmama Juniper had gotten her period. Then Angelene heard and they all pushed into the cramped second story bathroom to see for themselves. Yes, Junie was now a woman.

Grandmama muttered once more in Creole. Sparrow smiled, delighted. “This means you’ll get your powers tonight, Junie.” Sparrow said.

In the attic, Grandmama prepared the candles and flipped through the book. Angelene whispered to the cat Belleweather to fetch them clovers from the garden. Sparrow made Junie a dress out of the fabric of the downstairs curtains. This was the ritual. The crossing.

Junie laid in the middle of the circle of candles, praying for dear life that this would be painless. She didn’t know what to expect by becoming a witch. How her powers manifested or if they would manifest at all.

As long as she could remember she wanted to be a witch. The Dupree women have been witches for as long as she knew. Centuries ago when the first ships collapsed on the shores of the new world, her great great great grandmother was a witch. And a whore. She slept with the master during the full moon and was able to free all of the slaves by morning. Or so the story went.

Grandmama hummed and sang from the book. Angelene held onto the tooth of the basilisk. Sparrow lit sage. Juniper’s cramps were so bad now she wanted to wail in pain.

The spell was finished. The crossing was near, yet Juniper didn’t feel any different.

They all waited with bated breath. But after a moment…nothing happened. Nothing at all.

Sparrow guessed that maybe the book was broken but Junie knew it’s because she was broken.

Grandmama started mumbling something under her breath in Creole. The wolves outside howled into the night sky. Mama shouted something back and Junie didn’t know what but could guess.

Junie was broken. And it went way back.

Angelene had disobeyed when she was younger and had an affair when Sparrow was just four. In town she had met a man, who Junie now knew to be her father. He had disappeared the next morning and all speculated that he was the one who impregnated her mother. Auntie Lucinda was furious. Angelene had betrayed their sacred bloodline. Grandmama hated this rumor. And hated it even more now because it could be true. Now there was a very real possibility that Junie wouldn’t have any powers at all. That the Dupree bloodline stopped with her.

None of this was said of course. But Junie deciphered.

Grandmama murmured: “Lucinda…”

Sparrow cried. She didn’t want Junie to not have any powers. They were going to protect each other until the very end and now Juniper would be defenseless without Sparrow. Grandmama explained that Lucinda must have put a curse on Juniper because of Angelene’s affair.

It wasn’t fair.

Junie cried into her pillow that night. More from the cramps than her false destiny. Before she closed her eyes she saw that there was a full moon.

The next morning she woke up with dirty feet. Mud covered her ankles.

In the kitchen her mother baked her birthday cake to try and cheer her up. She could have cake for breakfast if she liked, and because it was a Friday she could skip school.

Angelene looked down at Junie’s feet and saw the mud. Oh no. She ran to her and asked if she had been sleepwalking again. Junie shook her head. She couldn’t remember.

Sparrow ran down the stairs and said Grandmama found out from the owl that Auntie Lucinda’s grave was robbed in the night. It’s now empty. There’s no body there anymore.

Grandmama, groggy, shook her head as if to say it’s true.

Juniper, now frightened, looked down at her feet. Could she have dug up Auntie Lucinda’s grave?

Angelene urged Juniper to go freshen up before she blew out her candles. Grandmama asked Angelene to ask the crows to find Lucinda’s body.

When Juniper emerged downstairs there was a loud knock on the door.

She answered it and came face to face with…Auntie Lucinda.

Frail and decomposing. Her wide smile showed many missing teeth, and beetles other bugs from deep within the earth crawled along her wrinkled flesh.

Junie screamed. Angelene, Sparrow and Grandmama raced to the front door. Auntie Lucinda was back from the grave.

“Did you miss me?” Lucinda growled.

Junie pushed her away with all of her might and Lucinda flew backwards, full force over the treetops. Sparrow wide eyed looks at Junie. Grandmama murmured to Angelene.

“Nekwoman.” Grandmama said.

Angelene put a comforting hand on Junie’s back.

“Junie, you’re not a witch…you’re a necromancer,” Sparrow said.

Junie felt it now. She had summoned Auntie Lucinda last night during the full moon, she had crossed realms to seek her power. Finding something else in between.

No, she was not a witch.

She was the master of death.

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He and his twelve brothers were all frightfully godlike, and although they appeared almost human, they could not recreate female anatomy. They had pupil-less eyes that glowed like drops of molten lava and sunlight. And occasionally, they could change shape. They could fly like the falcons or swim like the fish, or rush past your skin like the wind. But they much preferred to shape women into these things they believed were beautiful, melting them into their native elements, colorful birds, and fish, the wind, and the snow. The gods found beauty in every human girl, so much so that they desired to see them as natural wonders of the earth. They relished in the power they had over the human species. But more than anything, they revered the delicate nature of a mother, something so foreign to their understanding. From all the reaches of time and space, only on Earth have they witnessed such beautiful creatures with portals designedly placed between their legs.
Tempdeus and the other gods believed humans were much like them, but their nature made them weak and unable to see past the mortality of their physical form. So he and his brothers conquered many villages and assumed the role of gods on top of Mount Muleac, the highest point in Leda’s village.

Leda bowed down to Tempdeus in a castle made entirely of ice and stone. She clawed for a reasonable answer as to how she came to be stranded on Mount Muleac with ancient, powerful deities. She remembered falling asleep in the safety of her home, but somehow she woke up in His Divine Presence on the morning of her eighteenth birthday. These gods had the power to take her life, her air, at any moment, and the power to decide her fate, like they did for every young woman who came of age.

She could become a mother, or a great sea, or a willow in the garden of souls just below the mountain, or she could be made a wife to one of Tempdeus’ siblings, who took many human girls as wives, if they found them beautiful or interesting enough. She could have the privilege of being locked away in their beautiful castles of ice, fire, and stone, etched into the deep forests and icy grooves, and the rocky crevices of Mount Muleac.

Tempdeus, draped in golden silk the same color of his infinite gaze, came forward to meet Leda.

His breath, sweet like fresh bread on a cold morning, nuzzled into her senses as he asked what she wanted more than anything.

Leda was a victim of poetry. She romanticized everything, mostly love.

“I would like my freedom,” she declared to Tempdeus, as his face of stone split into a smile. His features were not impossibly handsome or sharp, but there was a charm to the soft lines of his jaw, his lips, and his eyes, the kind of beauty that only exists in romantic paintings of heroes and angels. Leda found herself entranced for only a second before she caught herself and turned away bitterly.

“Freedom doesn’t exist; every living thing is held accountable by natural boundaries. And it is only natural that I decide yours. But I do not believe you desire freedom, not truly,” He leaned in as if he could see straight into Leda’s soul.

And up close, Leda found that he was beautiful.

“Love,” the confession was an exhale on her breath. She wanted to know love and be loved, just as she’d read about in poetry and seen depicted on canvas and parchment. But the only love she knew was that of the gods if they picked you to be one of their many brides.

“That can be arranged,” He grinned. “Which of my brothers would you like to marry?”

Leda tilted her head, squinting her dark brown eyes at the handsome god Tempdeus, who had not taken any wives from any villages for as long as he’d ruled her world.

“Why do you assume it is not you?” She asked Tempdeus.

“I do not take human brides,” he replied sweetly, pulling back from the young woman.

“But I am different,” said Leda.

“Is that so?” Tempdeus quirked a brow above his glowing eye. “Tell me, Leda, what makes you so different? What makes you worthy enough to be my wife?”

“I am a daughter of Étain.”

A deep guttural laugh escaped from Tempdeus, “Do you think me a fool, Leda?”

“You are no fool, Tempdeus, and that is why you will marry me.”

“Then show me your wings and fly,” Demanded the god at the top of the mountain. “If you’re cut from a swan, a daughter of Étain as you say, then prove it.”

“Only if you promise that I will be your wife.”

The god began to pace his icy castle floor. Leda perked and inclined her head toward Tempdeus.

“I could give you children, mighty soldiers. To spread your glory with living proof of your greatness. How brave, how strong, how unparalleled we would be, together.”

He brushed his golden hand through thick curls, flurries of snow leaked from cracks in the ice above, blending into gleaming rings of white. He was built like a god. Strong and tall and glowing bright without the sun, each curve of his body was art, and there was no trace of a wrinkle on his golden brown skin.

“If you lie, I’ll make you into a lonely puddle for the rest of eternity,” he relented, his hand reaching out to shake hers.

Leda could hide her feathers; they sat unflinching under smooth russet skin. She rolled her shoulders back, and a delicate, feathery extension of herself peeled off her shoulder blades and up from her torso. With forceful beats, her feathers threshed gracefully into the air until her feet left the ground.

The god Tempdeus watched in fascination, throwing his arms up to pluck her out of the sky.

“You,” he said, “will be easy to love. But you cannot fly when you are my wife, or I will fear you flying away from me.”

When Leda moved into Tempdeus’ castle, it was the night before her wedding day. Her ice crystal heels clicked on every corridor she walked down, until she came upon a great mirror in an empty room with tall windows and chilled air.

She wasn’t cold, covered in ice from head to toe, a gown of frost, gloves, and glass-like slippers. The gods could put humans under spells that way. They could make you go without pain, without worry, without the design flaws of humanity.

Leda stared back at her obedient reflection, docile and lovely enough to marry a god. To live in his castle, and dress in the elements, and overlook all the world that he owned. She could sit idly beside him all the while. She examined her flipped likeness in the mirror, behind her, the small empty room glistened with sizzling sparkles of sunlight on its tall icy walls.

She reached to touch the glass that trapped her mirror image.

“What are you doing here?”

Tempdeus had a low, vibrato-like voice, a thunderous storm.

“I was looking for you,” said Leda, pulling her hands behind her back. “I couldn’t sleep, and I wanted to see you, my love.”

“Your love comes too soon,” he replied, wading deeper into the small space, until Leda could see the reflection of a god beside her. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you came here on purpose.”

Leda shook her head, receding from the mirror. Tempdeus watched her closely.

“Don’t you know what you’ve stumbled upon? I’m sure there are whispers of this place down in the village that you call home.”

Leda held her head high, “I am in the dark, your divineness. Tell me, because you are benevolent and great despite your capabilities for great violence.”

Flattered, Tempdeus reached his hand into the mirror, and his limb disappeared into a silver pool. Upon pulling it out, he held two golden goblets of wine. He offered one to Leda and drank deeply from the other.

“Magnificent,” Leda bemused. She took a small sip of the sweetest wine she had ever tasted. “It’s perfect.”

Her brown orbs twinkled to Tempdeus, intrigued by such innocent naivety. He finished his goblet and drank the rest of hers.

“Anything you want is yours, anything you desire, secured from another time and place. It’s one of my greatest treasures, a piece of where I came from.”

“What a great God you are, Tempdeus,” Leda bowed. “To own such marvelous things, you must come from a marvelous place. Can you make it home to heaven, through your magic mirror as well?”

“Yes. The realms are infinite, and so is my time. The mirror can take one anywhere they desire.”

“What a lucky God you are, to go wherever you please. What other holy things can you show me, Tempdeus?”

“Nothing here is holy. Because in truth, I am no God.”

Tempdeus dimmed; his eyes no longer burned gold. They faded to a buttery brown, the eyes of a man, with a pupil and Iris. And he smiled weakly as he brushed an auburn ringlet behind Leda’s ear.

“I’ve created nothing. My kin and I build on top of everything as we see fit,” His voice danced through the hall like a hum of electricity, sinking under Leda’s delicate skin. Tempdeus reached lightly for her shoulder, dug his nail into her flesh, and peeled back her feathers. Her wings grew, tall as the ceiling, white as the snow outside the window.

“You are more god than I will ever be; the act of creation is made flesh through you. The vessel your soul calls home, even the crushed bones from the weight of your womb, wields the substance of all creation.”

“Not every god is a creator. Most are keepers of power like you. So tell me, Great Tempdeus, what kind of God will you be with me by your side?”

“That remains to be answered. Until tomorrow,” He vowed, and motioned for Leda to leave before him, to leave the mirror behind.

Snow did not fall on Mount Muleac on the day of Leda’s wedding. The god Tempdeus waited beside her bed, watching her stir awake.

“If you are to be my wife, there is something I would like you to see,” He said.

Leda, dazzling in crystal and powdery white snow against her warm brown skin, stood beside her betrothed. She could not meet the eyes of the girl from another village, the one who came of age and awoke in the castle of the god Tempdeus.

Tempdeus, draped in golden silk the same color of his infinite gaze, came forward to meet the girl where she stood. Her black hair falling over her red eyes, as she had been crying to go back home.

His breath, sweet like fresh bread on a cold morning, nuzzled into her senses as he asked what she wanted more than anything.

“I want to choose my own fate. I want to be free,” She said. Leda tried not to speak. If she could, she would tell the girl that the rumors were true. The gods kept magic mirrors that could set them free. But it would ruin her own escape. It would be a waste if they both betrayed the gods and suffered the consequences. So Leda kept quiet, and she tried not to scream when Tempdeus turned the girl into a tree. A glorious willow grew at the heart of his ice castle, its branches heavy with snow. Tender green vines crystallized, and in their stillness, she was frozen, a beautiful fragment of a human soul.

Leda was to be married at nightfall. Her dress was made of pearly fabric, heavier than anything she had ever worn. It clung to her arms and cinched in her waist with a lace-covered corset. Rich fabric dripped down and dragged behind her. Her wild mane of auburn curls ran like wild horses down her back. She was exquisite. And she felt sick to her stomach.

When Leda removed the ice slippers from her feet, she could feel nothing, not an ounce of cold from the frozen marble floors of her bed chamber.

A knock came from her door.

“Come in,” She called.

A wispy spirit floated in like a blue flame.

“It is time,” it crowed.

So Leda put her slippers back on and followed the flame like her wedding day was a death march. That is, until they neared the small room with the magic mirror, when Leda dashed inside it.

She broke through the silver pool and fell into a space of infinite possibility. Every inch was a fragment of glass. It was a never-ending room of mirrors. She dipped her head inside one, and she saw an endless forest. In another, she saw into the stars. And in one with a golden frame, she saw a beautiful lake, a faraway village, and a gentle sun. She wondered if she could be free if she dared to leave her world behind for another.

Turning back, she was alone. Tempdeus was not on to her yet; she could escape him and make up a future of her own. So she dipped her hand in first, and then her head and feet. The oozy silvery portal felt like breaking through sap. On the other side of the mirror, the air was clean and warm. She could feel everything again.

She ran to the lake, submerging her body, feeling her feet and her skin respond to temperature and sensations. Her reflection stared back at her in the blue water. She was all wet, her fluffy hair now flat and soaking, and she had a big smile on her face.

“There you are,” he said.

The weight of freedom sank her stomach down and down and down.

Tempdeus, draped in white, was a devastating sight. He looked less human than before; perhaps his anger brought out something alien.

“Did you think you could escape me?” He spat, arms outstretched, ready to pluck Leda from the lake.

Leda grew her wings, outstretched her feathers, and began to fly.

“I will be free,” She called, “I have escaped you!”

Tempdeus, with a wave of his hand, brought Leda to fall from the sky. She felt her bones breaking, her feathers spreading up her arms and down her spine, as she hit the water. The mass of what was left of her wedding dress, the pain from her broken bones, and her changing body sank her like a fallen battleship; heavy was the weight of water.

She grew a beak, and she shrank, and she climbed out of the lake as a swan. She could no longer speak, only hiss in agony.

“Fine,” said the god from Mount Muleac, “Then be free. Be as free and beautiful as a swan in a lake, in a far-off land where the sun shines bright, and the world is at peace. That is the future that I see fit for you, Leda.”

The god shattered the mirror on his way out, leaving Leda as a swan. Her last human thought, before she forgot herself and assumed the thinking of a wild bird, was that of having never found love, not truly. She could never know love and be loved, just as she’d read about in poetry and seen depicted on canvas and parchment. Because the only love she knew was that of the gods, and that, she understood, was never love; it was control.

Puberty’s rough for everyone, but it was especially rough for Lonny. Most guys just have to deal with voice cracks and the occasional random boner, but for Lonny… it was much more severe. A little while after his twelfth birthday, about a week after his voice finally dropped, Lonny started feeling sick in the middle of the night. He didn’t know how to describe the feeling outside of the fact that it felt like his body was attacking him. That was the notion of most of puberty, so at first he’d assumed it was something the Health teacher had forgotten to mention.

Lonny remembered looking down at his arms and seeing hair growing. He’d been warned that he was likely to get body hair, and judging by his father, he was gonna be pretty hairy… but he was under the impression the hair would grow slowly over the course of months, not in a matter of seconds.

Lonny also noticed his musculature starting to grow. This was an improvement he could live with, but again, he’d assumed it would be much slower than this.

That was when it started to really hurt. Lonny burst out of his room, running down the hallway of the small house he shared with his dad. His dad was in his room, just like he always was after 11:45 pm.

“Dad!” Lonny had shouted, pounding on the door. “Something’s happening!”

Lonny tried to open the door, but it was locked. It sounded like there were multiple locks on the door. Lonny wondered what his dad could possibly be up to in there that required such secrecy. He knew his dad hadn’t gone on a date in years.

That was when Lonny collapsed to the floor and started convulsing. He remembered wondering if this was what a stroke felt like. If this was where he was going to die, and if this was the outfit he was going to be wearing when it happened, and if the funeral home director would have to change him into something fancier, and if that would require being dead and naked in front of this guy.

Lonny’s entire body was now covered in what he initially would have described as hair, but it was now decidedly fur. And when Lonny found the strength to climb onto his hands and knees, he realized he didn’t have hands at all anymore. He had paws. With long, sharp, curved claws. It felt better to crawl than to walk on his legs, so he crawled into the bathroom and pulled himself up with the sink to look in the mirror… and that was when he realized he was a werewolf.

It took a few minutes to come to that conclusion, obviously. At first Lonny wondered if he was having some sort of very strange allergic reaction, then he wondered if he’d accidentally taken some of the drugs he’d been so thoroughly warned about in school, but then… somehow… the most likely explanation became that he was a werewolf. He sort of blacked out after that.

The next morning, Lonny woke up in the tattered remains of his room. Seconds after he opened his eyes, his dad stormed in. “What the hell happened here?” he demanded. But almost as soon as the word “here” came out of his mouth, it seemed to dawn on him.

“Son, we need to have a talk,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, looking around at all the shredded posters for all of the immature things Lonny had liked as a child peeling off of the walls. “This might get a little uncomfortable.”

It turned out that it wasn’t “the talk” that Lonny had heard tell of. It was similar, though. “When I was around your age, I was bitten by a creature in the woods,” his father said, his tone a bit too casual for the words coming out of his mouth, “and ever since then, during the full moon, I turn into a werewolf from midnight until around 4:45 in the morning.”

“How come I never saw it?” Lonny asked suspiciously. Lonny’s dad stood up and walked him into his bedroom, which Lonny had never seen. Lonny’s dad opened the closet, and showed him steps down into a cellar with a large, thick metal door.

“This is where I go when it happens,” his dad said, gesturing down into the dark cellar that was filled with torn-open bags of raw meat and chew toys.

“I thought you had to be bitten by a werewolf to become one,” Lonny retorted. “I was never bitten!”

“I thought so too,” his dad responded with a shrug, “maybe it can also be hereditary. But that’s why I never told you. I never thought you’d have to deal with it too. His dad went over the rules with him. Lonny would have to keep strict track of the moon cycles. And whenever there was a full moon, he was to be in a “safe place” by midnight, and remain there until 4:45 am. It would be dangerous if they were together, since werewolves were territorial. So Lonny’s dad graciously gave Lonny his safe place in the cellar, and volunteered to spend full moon nights at the store he ran, where they had another cellar where he could hunker down.

“It’s gonna suck when you get older and want to hang out all night with your friends,” his dad confessed to him. “But it’s something you have to do… or else you’ll risk their lives.”

And so, life went on. At thirteen, Lonny grew seven inches. He had a wet dream and started watching porn. He started to actually like girls. But his love was always unrequited. Whenever he got close to a girl, it was almost as if they could sense that he was hiding something. Lonny was starting to accept the idea that he was probably going to die a virgin.

And then, there was Violet. Violet was a new student senior year, which Lonny knew had to suck. He couldn’t imagine having to uproot his entire life just before graduation. Violet and Lonny were in the same AP Biology class. Lonny didn’t have any friends in the class, and Violet didn’t have any friends at all, so they sat next to each other.

Lonny considered himself a feminist, so he felt bad that her beauty was the first thing he noticed about her. She had incredible eyes. And when she smiled after he introduced himself, and it was crooked and brought out her one dimple, he knew he was in love.

Lonny made himself feel better about the whole feminist thing by realizing that he fell deeper in love with her when he found out how smart and unique she was. She was only taking AP classes, and everything seemed to come easy to her. She also loved movies, especially cheesy black-and-white horror movies from the forties and fifties that she said her parents loved to watch growing up. He learned so much about her… she was ambidextrous, her parents had a business that she would inherit, and she had already lived in five different states.

After he flunked an AP Bio test, Violet offered to tutor him in the library. Lonny was hopeful that she was interested in more than tutoring him, but he was too shy to say anything. Towards the end of the session they both laughed about something, and then she hit his arm, and it sent shockwaves through his entire body. And she seemed to notice. “We should do this again,” she said.

The next time, when they were almost done, they laughed about something again… and this time, Lonny put his hand on her leg. She paused for a moment. Lonny quickly pulled back. “I’m sorry–” he started to say, but she leaned in and kissed him. Lonny tried his best to stay in the moment, instead of thinking about how this was his first kiss, and wondering if he was doing it correctly, and if Violet could tell that he was violently hard just from a simple kiss.

Soon after that, Violet and Lonny were “going out,” as people said at their school. Lonny realized with excitement that pretty soon, he could safely describe her as his “girlfriend.” And he was proud to be associated with her.

Violet invited Lonny over to her house to “watch an old movie,” even though they barely saw a single frame. Lonny loved making out with Violet, especially when she would straddle his lap. At first he’d been embarrassed for her to feel him getting hard, but she told him that she liked it, so he stopped caring. They reached second base on the second movie date, and got to have fun for about ten minutes before Violet’s dad showed up out of the blue and they had to pretend they’d been sitting on opposite sides of the couch the entire time.

Violet was very mature when it came to the subject of sex. She was honest with Lonny that she was a virgin, and even though Lonny had planned on pretending he wasn’t, he ended up admitting that he was, too. Violet thought that was relief. That way, she said, when the time came, neither of them would have to feel much pressure. But still, Lonny felt pressure. If anything, he felt more pressure. And there was a whole separate issue he had to deal with.

Up until now, Lonny had done a great job of keeping Violet far away from his secret. But then, the school announced the date of prom, and sure enough, it was on the night of the full moon. As if that wasn’t inconvenient enough, the theme of the prom was “A Night Beneath the Stars,” and there were rumors that it was going to take place outside, that way, Lonny could have a huge, glowing reminder of what made him different.

The same day that the school announced the date of the prom, Violet pulled Lonny into the backstage area of the school auditorium to make out. In the middle of the make out, she paused to tell him, “maybe after prom we can finally, you know…” If Lonny had been thinking rationally, he would have planted the seeds for why he would not be able to do that. Unfortunately, Violet had her hand down his pants while she was talking to him, so all Lonny could summon were the words, “yes, please.”

Lonny officially performed his promposal two days later, involving an ornate display in Violet’s locker. He needed the extra day so he could watch Violet open her locker a few times and memorize her combination. Her locker had been filled with a few of her projects from the metal shop, so he hid them in his locker for the event. Violet said yes, of course, and kissed him in front of everyone in the hallway. Lonny was proud… but he was worried.

His dad knew the importance of prom, and that was the only reason he was allowing Lonny to go, though he made Lonny promise to be home by 11:30 pm, to give him enough time to get into the safe place before his transformation. His dad also made some remark about how that would mean Lonny wouldn’t be able to have sex with Violet that night, but his phrasing was so cringe-worthy that Lonny blocked it out of his memory for the rest of his life.

Lonny spent hours trying to come up with an excuse for why he couldn’t have sex with Violet. His first idea with the simple problem that they wouldn’t have anywhere to hook up, but unfortunately, Violet’s parents were going to be out of town that weekend, so her entire house was open. Lonny knew it would sound strange to turn down a free house for what could be two full days of sex.

Lonny’s next strategy was to blame his lack of condoms. In all fairness, that was his second-biggest worry behind the whole werewolf issue. Lonny couldn’t imagine walking into a store and handing a cashier a pack of condoms. When Violet pointed out that he could simply buy some, Lonny had an excuse prepared. He told her that his dad was strict and very religious, and it wasn’t uncommon for him to search his room. If his dad found condoms, he wouldn’t be able to go to prom at all. Unfortunately that strategy worked a little too well, because Violet showed up the next day with a condom. Lonny was about to pretend that the condom Violet had gotten was too small (for all he knew it could have been), but before he could even open his mouth, Violet showed him that she’d gotten several different sizes just in case. She was truly prepared.

On the night of prom, Lonny considered pulling the ultimate move… faking sick and cancelling at the last second. But then he pictured how disappointed Violet would be. She was the first girl to ever show interest in him. How could he betray her like that?

Lonny decided that, as embarrassing as it was, he would simply have to tell Violet that he wasn’t ready, and that he would prefer to just go home after the dance. That felt easy enough… until the dance.

What Lonny hadn’t known was that a few of the guys in his class would spike the punch bowl. Lonny had never had a sip of alcohol in his life. He wasn’t intentionally trying to get drunk, but he’d already had three cups before he asked a few of the people giggling and whispering in the corner what was going on.

Lonny wasn’t upset. In fact, he liked it. He loved the way it made him feel. So many of his anxieties about the night had gone away. When he danced with Violet during one of the slow songs, as soon as they were out of sight from the chaperones, they pressed their bodies together and Lonny couldn’t think of a moment when he’d been happier.

The official party ended at 10 pm. Lonny double-checked the time nervously as he walked Violet to his car, along with his buddy Caleb and his date, Tracy. Caleb had scored an exclusive invite to the after-prom happening at Lawrence’s parents’ shore house in Ocean City. Violet turned and looked at him with those beautiful pleading eyes. How could he say no? He ignored his dad’s phone calls as they all hit the road for the shore.

There was more drinking at the shore, purposeful this time. Lonny was new to it all so he tried to keep things moderate. He kept remembering to check the time on his phone, and kept telling himself that he would need to sneak out by 11:30 pm. He decided he could run to the beach and try to hide beneath the boardwalk all night. He probably wouldn’t even be the scariest thing down there. When 11:30 approached, he decided it could wait until 11:45. Just as he made that decision, Violet pulled him into Lawrence’s parents’ bedroom.

“Lawrence said it was cool,” Violet said as she pushed Lonny down onto the bed and climbed on top of him, kissing him on the lips and neck. Lonny turned to look at the end table, and could see the second hand on the analog clock slowly making its way closer and closer to the time this would all have to end.

“Violet, I have to tell you something,” Lonny said between kisses, adjusting himself beneath her, “Violet, I–”

“You’re nervous,” Violet said, pulling back. She put both of her small hands on his shoulders, which he’d always been insecure about, but suddenly they felt broader than ever. “It’s fine, Lon. I’m nervous, too. We’re just gonna have fun.”

“It’s a little more than that–” Lonny tried to say, but Violet shook her head.

“It’s not,” she responded. “Sex really isn’t that big of a deal. I know it feels like it is, but… it’s just us.”

“Violet–”

“Lonny, I know you get anxious,” Violet said. Her voice was so soothing, and the way she spoke, it was like she’d already gotten to know him better than everyone else, in less than a year. “I know more about you than you know about yourself. And everything’s gonna be okay.”

Lonny gulped. He knew everything wouldn’t be okay. But he desperately didn’t want this moment to end. “If you’re sure,” he said softly.

Violet pulled back. “I’ll be RIGHT back, okay? Don’t go anywhere.” She ran a hand down his cheek, feeling his slight stubble. Lonny nodded silently. Violet climbed off of him and scampered into the en-suite bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Lonny heard the sink turn on. And then… everything started to go quiet.

Lonny felt that all-too familiar feeling of his transformation starting. “No… no-no-no,” he whispered. He looked at the clock again… it was only 11:46, how could this be happening so soon? And that was when he looked down at his phone, and realized that the clock on the end table was slow. Very slow. It was 11:59 pm.

Lonny ran to the bedroom door and pulled on it, but it was locked. He fiddled with the lock, but it was hopelessly stuck. He realized with a sinking heart that he’d unintentionally trapped Violet with a wild animal. His father had confessed he was the reason behind a few of the mysterious disappearances in their town over the years. He’d described how gut-wrenching it felt to wake up covered in someone else’s blood to convince Lonny never to break the “safe space” rule. And Lonny had broken it.

Suddenly, the dizziness took over, seemingly doubled by the alcohol in his system. Lonny stumbled and collapsed backwards onto the bed and started to convulse. As he felt his brain starting to slip into the animalistic fog that always took him over, his last rational thought was overwhelming guilt. He’d allowed his desperation to lose his virginity to put Violet, the only girl who truly knew him, at risk. In fact, everyone at the party was at risk now. And it was all because of something he should’ve fought harder to control.

Lonny saw the bathroom door knob start to turn. “Violet–” he managed to croak out, but those were the last words he could say.

Violet emerged from the bathroom. Lonny expected her to be scared when she saw him, but instead, she only looked sad.

Lonny tried to tell Violet to stay far away, to run, but she walked straight towards him with purpose. And just before she sunk it into his chest, Lonny realized she was holding a silver blade in her left hand.

Lonny gasped as the blade entered him. His transformation seemed to pause, and his rational thought started to come back. Violet was staring down at him, her eyes red with tears.

“I’m so sorry, Lonny,” she said, wiping the tears with her free hand, but using the other to twist the blade into his chest even further. Lonny could see his shirt soaking through with blood, but somehow, thankfully, couldn’t feel the pain.

“I really didn’t want to do this, but I had to,” she said. “Please forgive me. Please. I had no choice.”

Lonny coughed up blood and tilted his head in confusion. “My family’s been doing this for generations, and it was time for my initiation,” she explained, “when they told me you were one of them… I didn’t believe them at first. And as I got to know you, I kept thinking… there’s no way. He’s too nice. So smart, so calm, so– but then you started being so weird about prom night, and that’s when I knew. That’s when I knew.”

Violet wiped another tear. “It’s gonna be over soon, I promise,” she said.

“D-Dad…?” Lonny managed to choke out. But Violet shook her head. “It’s happening tonight, too. We may kill but we’re not cruel. We didn’t want either of you to have to live without the other.”

Lonny felt his field of vision begin to narrow. Violet nodded her head quietly, then leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. “Goodbye, Lonny,” she said. “This was real. I don’t want you to think it wasn’t.”

As Lonny closed his eyes for the last time, he wanted to have some sort of deep, emotional thought or revelation. But instead, he couldn’t help but get one simple, rudimentary animalistic thought out of his head. I can’t believe I’m gonna die a virgin.

The summer I met Him, I was seventeen years old. The Twins, Netty and James, were eighteen. The Teche, which ran through Franklin and behind Big Mamma’s house on Cherry Street, meant everything to me. It knew our secrets, our ancestors, our stories; the truth was buried deep beneath green depths, the rise and fall of the people who made this land their home. To me, it was magic, a legend made real. Because I believed in everything.

Every summer, our hearts lay bare beneath stars on Big Mamma’s back porch. Sweat-stained and full-bellied, we laughed under the porch light, picking apart our dreams of murky water and storms, big storms, and birds of prey.

—

It was June, the summer of ’82. Big Mamma sucked on a pork bone, her gaze locked on the low-hanging oak that grew on the bank of the bayou; A guarding tree, she called it, warning the bayou of all who crossed it.

I tried to memorize her. The sun was setting low, leaving a faint orange glow on her dark eyes and skin as amber enveloped the grey locks that spilled down her back.

She asked us if we had forgotten her rules. Her attention snuck to me first, her warm hand tugged on the hem of my dress, pulling it over my knees, as if to say:

“Pull your dress down and close your legs, you know better, Cécile.”

Embarrassed, I tucked my neck into my chest, turning my cheek towards the Teche.

My cousin James spoke confidently anytime he opened his mouth, even when he was wrong, which he often was. I only knew Netty and James for the summer months. James always had kind eyes, soft brown, a weightless gaze, and a slight southern drawl tucked in his voice, the sound of my homecoming. He was caring, had a tender selflessness reserved for me. He always said I needed protecting.

“We know the rules, Mamma,” James hummed.

“Then tell them to me again, go on, repeat them for me,” she said, her thick accent coating her words like honey, as she put a clean bone on her plate, rocking back and forth in her little white rocking chair.

Netty was beautiful. Sometimes, Big Mamma called her “Red”, and it made me jealous because Big Mamma only ever called me Cécile; I didn’t get a nickname or an interesting feature like Netty’s copper curls. Her fox eyes were warm like her brother’s, but they knew things that I didn’t. One summer, I practiced making the same face she made in the mirror, a smug smile with eyes drawn to slits stared back at me when no one else was around.

“Don’t speak over thunder,” Netty answered with a sweet smile. I looked at her wide-open legs, revealing her faded red underwear. Big Mamma didn’t move to correct her posture. Instead, she nodded and waited expectantly for us to continue.

“And keep the mirrors covered during a storm,” added James.

“Tell you about our dreams, seeing things in threes, owls are omens of death, crocodiles mean someone’s putting a hex—” Netty started.

“Never put your purse on the ground!” James cut in, as if he’d just remembered, prompting his sister to narrow her fawn eyes at him.

“Clean our bones off and put them in your bone jar, don’t throw away,” Netty said as she sucked the last of the meat from her pork bone. Big Mamma cooked it so long that the meat fell off tenderly. She served it over rice with brown gravy, hot honey cornbread, and collard greens that she grew in her backyard.

“Cécile?” Big Mamma asked as she raised her brow high.

I like to believe we all had the same thought on our minds that summer. James had enlisted in the military, while Netty and I were going to college come August.

We didn’t know if things would ever be the same after that summer.

The twins said they snuck out all the time back home in Houston, and never got caught. I didn’t have the luxury, between a private (Catholic) all-girls school and my watchdog of a father, the world felt exceedingly small in my irrelevant Connecticut suburb.

“Yes, Mamma?” I replied.

“What’s the most important rule?” She patted my knee tenderly.

“Don’t go out past midnight.”

“And Cécile?”

“Yes, Mamma?”

“Don’t let your cousins influence you, hear me?”

James clamped his hand on his heart as if he were wounded, while Netty rolled her eyes.

Breeze danced through her wind chimes on that old haint blue porch. I watched the steady, almost still water of the Bayou Teche and imagined sleek scales attached to the vicious head of a serpentine beast, just like the stories Big Mamma would impart to us on nights like this.

“Never,” I promised. A silence, heavy as the dense summer humidity, fell over us. The wind didn’t rustle through the trees, and cicadas grew speechless. Crickets and frogs ceased their singing. It was almost as if they waited for me to say the unspoken thing out loud.

“After midnight, the spirits, follet, and haints come out, right Big Mamma? And pretty men and women pretending to be human, looking for an innocent little girl like Netty or a pretty boy like James to promise love and devotion to, right before sucking their soul clean from them.” I bit my lip to keep from smiling, but James burst out into a laughing fit.

“Ain’t nobody mistaking Netty for innocent!” he howled. Netty hit his arm, almost shoving him off his folding chair.

“Shut up, Yellow Boy!” Netty stood up to leave, but Mamma caught her hand and lowered young Netty down, back in her seat.

The rattling of cicadas ramped up once more, joined by the steady songs of crickets and chirping frogs. The wind passed politely through the leaves of nearby oaks.

“I met one,” Big Mamma aired.

“Who you meet, Mamma?” James mocked, his voice crashing over the silence.

She looked out into the night. The sun had set beyond the skyline. The bayou was a dim shadow of what it once was. Her lips and eyes contorted as if she’d seen something foul.

“It took over my husband,” she said.

Children learn the unspoken rules; they pay attention even when nothing is said. We knew that some things were never asked and never uttered out loud. No one in our family dared to bring up Mamma’s husband. Everybody, even our parents, treated the subject of him like a slur, a disease, a curse awakened by mere mention. So we waited like statues, as if too much movement, too much breath, would make her change her mind, kill his memory with the seal of her lips.

“Came a time when I didn’t see no man staring back at me. I saw a monster,” and she remembered something as she spoke. Nostalgia stuck itself in her eyes like sand; she rubbed at them until a tear escaped without permission.

“He died before his body hit the ground; some kind of hateful spirit must have replaced him.” She wiped the wet off her face, trading pain with something akin to stone.

“He was a spirit man?” I asked.

“Mmmh hmm. I saw it in his eyes.”

“You thought he was a spirit man because of his eyes?” James grinned in his roguish demeanor. I knew he was attempting to ease. But Big Mamma didn’t ease. There wasn’t even a hint of a smile on her face, just aged lines.

“I tell ya, I saw the devil in his eyes, they were glowing amber in the dark! He didn’t have a soul.”

“So what happened, Big Mamma?” I heard my voice whisper in the stark night.

“It don’t matter. He’s gone now.”

We didn’t question her further. She made up her mind. The rules would stay the same. Be home by midnight.

—

Netty and James grew copper curls, although James’s appeared more golden. James, whom the family called Yellow Boy, kept his shaggy around his eyes and ears. Netty’s curled all the way down to her waist. The way their hair climbed the wind in the sunlight was hypnotizing. It looked like it was on fire. At night, it was harder to see the flames.

“Where’s James?” I squeaked.

“You mean Yellow Boy? Oh, Yellow Boyyy,” Netty sing-songed just above a whisper, so as not to disturb the houses lining either side of the road. Nothing lit up Mamma’s neighborhood back then, making the path along the street dark as the sky looming above.

“You know she doesn’t call me that,” his voice called out from about ten paces ahead of us. A shadow of a hand waved back.

“You think Big Mamma’s gonna be disappointed in me if she catches us?” I whispered to Netty.

The road, paved along the bayou and the houses situated beside it, was a different kind of quiet. The bayou was alive, breathing, it made noise the way living things do.

“Disappointed? You need to relax, Cece.” Netty rolled her eyes.

Sweat dripped down our necks. There was the sound of our footsteps scuffing dirt roads for two miles. We passed through a cemetery at some point, making sure to hold our breaths. Big Mamma said the spirits would play tricks on us if we didn’t. My belly twisted with a mix of excitement and regret. It was past midnight, and I had broken Mamma’s number one rule.

We wound up at a pale grey and white house, music pounding from within, like a heartbeat. No one stood outside; the front porch lights weren’t even lit.

“Whose house is this?” I asked.

“It’s Larry’s, I think,” said James.

“You think? And do you even know this Larry?” I looked the house up and down, “Big Mamma says not to go to people’s houses that you don’t know. I don’t see any haint blue on the porch either.” I turned around, stomping back towards the way we came.

“You serious, Ce?” James called after me.

“She’s always doing this!” Netty huffed before opening the yellow front door and leaving us to the night. With my back to James and the house, I turned my head to meet his dark gaze, sharp with impatience in the moonlight. He searched my face for any sign of surrender.

“Come on, Ce. Nothing to be scared of,” he softened.

I thought about all the ways I could disappear, even the more transcendent, superstitious ways that Big Mamma warned us about as kids.

“Who are you when no one’s telling you what to believe?” He asked me, “We can go home, I’ll walk you, if that’s what you really want.”

I only knew what I was told, and perhaps that scared me the most.

So I shook my head slowly, and I wiped the sweat from my brow, and I followed him inside.

Smoke and heat hit my senses tenfold. Dim lights flickered above creaking wooden floors. Music blared; it pounded to the beat of my heart, pulsed with the blood in my veins.

Everything was tinted yellow, from the tawny pale walls to the mustard-yellow curtains.

I felt eyes on me, young boys in baggy pants and their friends leaned against the entry hall, watching everyone that entered like hawks. Girls sneered or smiled. They were all local kids, mostly people I recognized.

We found Netty on a floral, cushioned couch, flanked by two boys. A baby-faced boy with blue eyes and light skin, and Him. My eyes found His, black as the night we left outside, and skin like brown oak in sunlight, even in the dim.

He didn’t speak, and neither did I. Instead, my gaze ran to Netty for shelter.

“Come with me to the kitchen?” She asked, a smile blossoming on her face.

The too-tight kitchen smelled like rubbing alcohol and mothballs. I adjusted my shirt, sticking to the growing sweat on my back as Netty grinned at her cup.

“Cute, right?” she had said. “They’re the only cute ones here, I checked.”

“Even baby-face? How old is he, thirteen?”

“He just looks young, but he’s a senior this year, they’re cousins.”

“Why do I feel like you’re implying something?”

“I call dibs on Babyface,” she said and dunked a long spoon into a bowl of red punch, poured it into her red solo cup, and went back to the couch.

He found me on the back porch under the dark blanket of a torrid summer night, nothing but the stars as our witness. I heard the door shut before I saw him standing there. I felt relief. All the girls at the party, and He followed me outside.

“Where’s your cousin?” I asked.

“With yours,” he countered, and came real close. Our arms brushed as we looked out at long scrawny trees, shadows now, being hassled by the night air. Their branches dipped toward the bayou. I saw the scales of a great beast in the ripples of the water.

“How come I never seen you here before?” he asked, commanding my attention.

The cover of night fed me courage. Something about the indistinct, obstruction of sight, the inability to see each other clearly made me feel like I could be anyone to this stranger.

“I’ve been coming here every summer since I was little. How is it that I’ve never run into you?” I countered, backing away, offering a smile and a tilted head. He accepted it, stepping from the railing and following me, until I stopped in front of the porch stairs. He was intrigued; it was radiating off of him.

I didn’t know how to flirt, but that night I did. And when I moved, he followed.

“Came ‘bout two years ago,” he said.

“You don’t seem happy about that.”

“It’s boring. Not many pretty girls ‘round here either. That’s how I know I would have remembered you, you have one of those faces.”

I descended the stairs, languidly, withdrawing from the safety of the porch light, into the grass, into the shadow of a giant willow. The rustle of the wind gave me goose bumps. In the dark, under nature’s guise, anything could happen next.

Suddenly, his eyes weren’t so black. They almost looked golden, or at least I could have sworn they did.

“We should go inside,” I whispered, beginning to fear that unknown feeling growing in the pit of my belly.

I’d heard scary stories of boys with golden eyes; they never ended well.

His hand snaked around my waist. I couldn’t see much around me, but I could feel his nearness; his touch. His smell: woods, moss, something sweet; his gentleness.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Ce.”

“Nice to meet you, Ce,” he said, and told me his name, his voice a low vibrato, the sound of a smile on his lips. “You’re not from here,” he told me in my ear. I sighed from the tickle of his touch. My hand found his shoulder, my body leaned in.

“What do you mean?”

“Your accent.”

“I don’t have an accent,” I pulled away, trying to find his eyes.

“It’s not an insult. You just sound different.”

“Connecticut.”

“What’s in Connecticut?”

“Nothing.”

“What bout a big suburban house and a dog?”

“Cat.”

“Daddy’s girl?”

“Stop perceiving me,” I said, pushing him away lightly, trying to hide the smile on my face, hoping the dark was doing it for me.

“Ok, perceive me then,” he said, pronouncing every syllable.

We weren’t touching anymore. He stood a few feet away, watching me watch him, his eyes still glowing amber.

“Your eyes,” I had said. “I swear it’s like they change in the dark.”

His Cheshire smile and tall frame reminded me that we were alone. There was something hungry in his gaze, something aching to devour, to consume. A part of me felt like I owed it to him, like I was obligated to indulge him or he’d get bored, leave me for someone more sure about who they were and what they wanted.

I don’t know how long we stood there like that. It was long enough for me to feel like prey, locked in place under his gaze.

“Ce? You out here?” My head jerked up. It was James. He leaned over the back porch, looking out at us, squinting his eyes. “C’mon, it’s getting late. We’re leaving…You out here with someone? Who you out here with?”

I looked back at Him. But He wasn’t there.

I looked all around, but I was alone.

He was gone, as if he never existed, as if I’d made him up. Nothing but the grave of the beast, the Bayou Teche, and low-hanging trees at my back.

“No one,” I said, climbing back onto the porch, into the dim yellow light. James looked from me to the dark I emerged from.

“What are you doing out here alone?” He asked.

“I was just getting air and I-I- just thought I heard something,” I lied.

“Well, come on, we’re leavin’,” he said. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t go towards the noise next time! You gon’ end up like Big Mamma’s old wives’ tales,” he sucked his teeth, “Keep playin’ and find out.”

We filed out the front door, Netty and James leading the way. Netty stumbled onto the road, talking about eating when we got home, something about boudin.

I dragged my head back to the house, looking for Him.

I heard her laughter first; it was soft and feminine, ringing like bells from where she stood pressed against a wall. And there He was pressed against her, some girl from the party, denim shorts up her backside and hair at her waist, her face shadowed by the night. My eyes locked with Him as he leaned down to kiss her. Their lips collided slowly, and I fell victim to His amber gaze once again, locked on wanting more.

“Cece, come on!” Netty called from up the road, James by her side. I didn’t speak on the walk home.

—

I imagined seeing Him again, in the same old cotton sheets Big Mamma’s kept laid out in that cramped old guest room for the entirety of my life. Unable to sleep, flipping back and forth, rationalizing the image of him under the moonlight. His dark skin collided with the amber in his eyes.

What if He wanted me back?

Was I ready for that?

Did He crawl out of one of Big Mamma’s scary stories?

Big Mamma’s house always smelled like food. Sweet potatoes, gravy and rice, mustard greens, home-made cornbread, and if she was feeling extra generous, her famous smothered pork chops. She used to keep chickens, but she suffered from back problems and couldn’t take care of them anymore. But she could still fry, grill, and bake it all the same. We ate like queens and kings every time we stayed with Big Mamma.

Her little white house on Cherry Street was a haven on the block. We’d get all kinds of visitors in the summer months. Mostly older women from church, who’d knit and gossip with Big Mamma while we played spades or whatever game we felt like taking out the old broom closet.

She’d keep a record playing all day, same side too. And when the music stopped, she’d ask one of the kids to start it over for her.

The morning after we snuck out, Big Mamma and her friends sat on the couch, knitting, listening to an old jazz record. They often spoke exclusively in Kreyól, which I understood but struggled to speak. I’d translate in my head, half listening.

James and I played dominoes while Netty slept off a hangover.

“Ou konn li ap fè ti bagay ak Paster Thomas.” You know she’s sneaking around with Paster Thomas. Sister Silvia spoke in between bites of Big Mamma’s greens.

“That’s just a rumor, Bessy Guidry is a good girl,” I translated Big Mamma’s rebuttal in my head.

“That’s what you wanna believe, Althea, but I’m telling you what I heard from Sister Guidry herself.” Sister Silvia frowned and nodded.

“Her own Mama told you that? Must be true, then,” came Sister Avery’s raspy voice.

The front door swung open, and an abrupt pause possessed the living room as we all turned to the old man leaning on the doorway. He brought hot air and the smell of rain with him. In the sky above his head, I saw deep grey clouds hanging low; the rain had not fallen yet.

His boots tracked in dirt with loud thuds on Big Mamma’s mahogany wooden floors.

“Miss Althea, Imma here ta pick uh my-uh…thing,” his words slurred, like he’d been drinking. His body didn’t move with his feet, as if every limb had a mind of its own.

Big Mamma’s church friends looked pointedly at her before she rose to her feet.

“What do you think she’s gettin’ for him?” James leaned forward over the small coffee table, careful to keep his voice down.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Think it’s a spell or some kind of hoodoo doll?” he whispered.

“Big Mamma doesn’t touch hoodoo,” I rolled my eyes.

“Voodoo,” he corrected himself.

Sister Silvia began gathering her belongings.

“It’s getting late, Sister Avery. Tell Sister Althea I went home,” she said, switching back to English.“Yellow Boy?” she called out to James.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Help me home, won’t you?” she asked with an outstretched hand.

I peered back at Sister Avery when they left.

She sized up the old man standing in our living room, barely upright. She caught my eye.

“You see that?” she asked, wide-eyed, accent thick with warning.

“See what Ms. Avery?”

“That spirit is in him. That’s what alcohol do. You drink it, you invite the spirits to take you over, that man don’t know what’s up and what’s down. Cause he drinkin’ the devil’s juice.”

Big Mamma came back with a glass vial, filled with herbs, a rope tied tight through the cork that closed it.

“Keep it round ya’ neck, you hear me?” Big Mamma instructed, placing the vial into the old man’s hands, although he could barely keep his eyes open… “Ron!” she reprimanded him.

“Ya shoulda seen ha eyes, Miss Althea. They was glowing golden and wild, she tried to take my soul, Miss Althea, she try to eat me alive,” was all he could muster, pulling the vial necklace around his sweaty neck.

“Get home, Ron. It’s gettin’ late.” Big Mamma closed the door and locked it behind him.

She turned to face me, acknowledging my watchful gaze at last.

“Cover the mirrors, child, it’s gonna storm tonight,” was all she said before sitting back down with Sister Avery to continue their knitting.

Netty wasn’t under the covers. And she wasn’t looking for clothes in the closet or brushing her teeth in the washroom. When I went to cover the guest room’s mirror, Netty was missing from her bed. I didn’t question it, or maybe I knew that Netty was up to something, as she often was, and didn’t require any antidotes for her behavior.

When I heard the faint thud on the other side of the bedroom window, I knew it was her. And when I pulled back the curtain and saw her with “Baby Face,” I wasn’t shocked; I was inspired. I don’t know how long I watched them; fascination was my body’s keeper. They went at each other with such passion, such curiosity, such unfiltered desire, tantalized, I ached for the same liberation, even after I closed the curtain, even as I put the last white sheet over the last mirror in the house.

—

“CeCeee.”

“Ceeee.”

“CeCe, wake up!”

Netty’s big brown orbs looked down at me, a wicked smile plastered on her face. My eyes adjusted to the baby blue and khaki floral wallpaper, the slightly slanted wooden ceiling fan above our heads, and the lightning illuminating the sky through our bedroom window.

“Get up, we’re going out!” she said.

“But Big Mamma said there’s a storm coming!” I pulled the covers up over my eyes.

“I don’t see any rain,” said James.

“We’re gonna see those boys!” She lifted my blanket and climbed in next to me, face to face. I could see the dust of freckles on her cheeks. Her loose curls were pushed back in a ponytail. She had the cheekbones for updos; she looked older this way, red-stained on her plump lips.

“What’s James going to do while we talk to boys, huh? Twiddle his thumbs and kick rocks?”

“Yellow Boy will be fine. It’s some local kids going too, ain’t that right, Yellow Boy?”

I stared back at her, suddenly serious, tired, and afraid of storm clouds like children often are.

Netty pulled me out of bed, keeping her gaze steady on mine. She slipped one of her black dresses over my head, and I let her.

She pulled back the white sheet that hung over the long wood-framed mirror, which I had laid there earlier that evening. She gestured for me to look. Her final touch: red lipstick she kept under her pillow. She carefully traced over my lips with crimson. The worst part was that I liked the girl I saw staring back at me, despite her unfamiliarity.

“Big Mamma can’t see me like this,” I said, turning my head away from my reflection.

“She won’t.” James grabbed my hand and pulled me down the stairs. Thunder roared outside. I froze, letting my hand go limp; it slipped from his grasp.

“I got you,” he assured.

So we ventured out in the dark, the smell of rain in the air, and the rolling thunder above our heads. My worry was soon replaced by relief; I’d see Him again. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I know it was innocent.

I tried not to look for Him. Yet, there was nowhere to hide. The five of them sat on folding chairs and tree stumps, brown faces, lit up by a sizable fire.

He was with two of the local boys—Baby Face among them—and a pair of girls. I recognized one immediately: the girl He kissed the night we first met.

My stare ran to Him, and he caught it without hesitation, nodding his head toward the space next to him. And like a moth to a flame, I went. Our legs touched in the dark. His presence became known by every cell in my body. I tried not to tremble when he traced my fingers or when I felt the heat of his gaze clash with mine.

“You good?” He asked.

Netty sat with the baby-faced boy, and James tried his luck with both girls. I hadn’t spoken once since I heard the thunder roll, since we left the house on Cherry St.

James and Netty drank out of liquor bottles and debated the others on music and the best top fifty, and I looked up at the grey matter above our heads; it wasn’t dark that night.

Moonlight leaked on us through silvery clouds. Lightning struck the sky.

“I’m worried about the rain,” I blurted. And then I waited, I waited for lightning to strike me down, for God to feed me to the Bayou Teche, snaking around us like a hungry beast, for the devil himself to drag me to hell. But nothing happened.

Nothing but his gaze steady on my lips.

In the corner of my eye, James finished half of a tequila bottle all on his own.

“The rain? That’s the least of your concerns,” He shrugged.

“The least? If that’s the least, then what’s the worst?”

Danger bloomed in his boyish grin, creeping up his cheek. It made my heart stop. He had the kind of looks that could make your heart stop.

“You already know the answer to that,” he said, and his hand slid to my thigh, finding its way higher and higher.

I could have pulled away.

I could have stopped him.

But I didn’t.

I liked the way it felt.

I liked being prey.

“You don’t concern me, you seem alright,” I hoped in silence, and assumed out loud.

“I’m all right,” he said. Thunder raged.

I cringed.

Don’t speak during thunderstorms. Big Mamma’s words clawed their way out from the back of my mind, roaring like a beast. A warning.

Keep quiet, I swore I heard her say, but instead, I opened my mouth to speak.

“Do you believe in scary stories?” I couldn’t hold my tongue over the storm. It was hard to tell what was reality and what was myth after midnight.

“What kind of scary stories? Do you want a drink?” he asked, touching my empty hands.

“You know, legends and ghost stories…superstitions? Like don’t speak during thunderstorms and cover your mirrors…that kind of thing.”

His eyebrows creased, and his smile faltered, “You want a drink.”

“Sure,” I said.

Thunder raged. I spoke. And nothing happened.

He poured something from one of the bottles strewn on the tall grass. I lifted the cup to my nose; it smelled like rubbing alcohol. He tilted it toward my mouth, and the bitter liquid rushed down. I choked, sputtering against the taste.

“Burns,” I said, catching my breath.

“You get used to it.”

By my third cup, I was practically sitting on his lap.

At a certain point, I forgot where I was. Netty and James faded away from me; there was only the feeling He gave me.

And the spirits.

I swore I could feel them changing me, altering my desires, the words that came out of my mouth; it had to be the spirits. I was practically buzzing, blurry-eyed and overcome with pure glee, no control over myself or the boy who held me.

“Come on,” He said, pulling me to my feet.

“Where?”

“I know a place.”

We walked along the bank of the bayou. His brisk stride left me fumbling behind him in the dark. I tried to talk about things that mattered to me, like the moon, but he didn’t seem interested in that.

He led me to a spot where the moon was out of reach, blocked by the heavy branches of a great willow tree. We nestled into a soft patch of grass near the roots.

His lips found my lips. And his eyes—maybe they weren’t amber.

They didn’t glow.

He pulled me down into the grass, taking something that couldn’t be returned.

My clothes were off when the sky began to leak cold water on our skin. It began as only a drizzle of rain, but the wet irritated my senses as he found pleasure where I did not. He never asked me if I was okay. I searched for his eyes, but they slipped away. So I did too.

I looked to the Teche. Balls of light, no larger than candle flames, lit up the darkest reaches of the water with an orange glow.

The Feu Follet.

“Do you believe in spirits?” I asked Him.

“What?” He was trying to concentrate.

“My grandma says those are spirits,” I pointed at the little balls of light in the distance. He reluctantly glanced in their direction.

“My dad says it’s methane combusting.” His heavy breath brushed against my damp skin, his hands touched my waist, my arms, my body. He didn’t want to talk anymore. I tried not to shake from the cold rain, while he buried himself in me.

When he was done, he let my body go, soaking and cold; he didn’t touch me again. He stood up and said he’d be right back.

His eyes were normal.

I talked during a thunderstorm.

I gave Him all this magic, but He had none.

I didn’t want to stand. I lay there, the clouds hung low, as I felt the steady drizzle morph and crash on my bare skin. It fell harder and harder, in waves, until it covered me completely. I imagined it could wash me clean.

Once I realized He wasn’t coming back, I put on my clothes.

I heard Netty calling out my name above the howling storm. My hesitant footsteps back to my cousins quickly became urgent, despite the wind and water billowing at my face.

When Netty came into view, I saw her on all fours, leaning beside the bank of the Bayou Teche, her arms outstretched toward a shadowy figure lying limp in the grass.

It was James. I rushed toward them in the dark. Netty was breathing hard over his wet body.

“He’s breathing,” She said. Her head fell slack on his chest. I followed suit, listening to the faint thrum of his heartbeat, eye to eye with Netty.

I saw how pale face had become. She was shaking.

“Netty?” I whispered in the living silence only the Bayou Teche could possess.

“They dared him to jump in…it was supposed to be fun, we all did it,” she said, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. Her eyes were bloodshot. The wind whistled through the trees above us.

“James can’t swim,” I murmured.

“We weren’t thinking.”

My eyes met with an empty bottle of alcohol dropped lazily in the moss and mud.

“Spirits,” I said without thinking. That was the default; it was the spirits that made him jump, not James. James knew better.

“Cece, what?” She sat up and looked down at me.

“He let the spirits in, we’ve been drinking—” I tried to explain.

“There are no spirits, Cece! He was drunk, and he thought he could swim, but he couldn’t. That’s it. That’s all.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” she spat, blowing out a breath. “As soon as it happened, everybody ran. I guess they thought he was gonna be a dead body, and they didn’t want any part in it.” Cheeks were stained with tears.

We sat there, the three of us, as the storm passed, the rain coming to a calming halt, although lightning continued to light up the sky. Netty and I sat up, listening to James breathe. Shallow breaths grew deeper, but when his eyes fluttered open, he was still intoxicated.

We let him sleep off the alcohol, lying beside him in muddy grass because he was far too heavy to carry anywhere. And although the rain was merciful, the wind was not; it was a great beast roaring from the heavens. I imagined it being an angry god, because we did not listen.

Before we stumbled home, Netty asked where I had gone before.

“With Him,” I said.

“You’re a woman now. I’m proud of you,” she whispered. I tried to smile as my limbs buzzed from the alcohol.

—

Big Mamma didn’t have a large kitchen for the colossal impact of what came out of it. Everything she gave us, the memories, the meals, she made for us and her neighborhood, all came from a tight, otherwise insignificant space in her home. It was cramped with stale pink wallpaper, littered with lavender and fuchsia roses.

Later that night, I sat at the thin wooden-framed counter that overlooked the kitchen sink, staring at the landline. I wanted to dial home, but it was late, and my parents would be sleeping. Instead, I found myself searching for something, anything really, that had a trace of Him.

Perhaps I felt called to understand what I previously couldn’t. I inspected every photograph, every ceramic angel, every cross, every candle, every bible, and every notebook. I flipped through scrapbooks, pulling out every photo of my grandfather that I could find. I held them up to the light, probing for a glimmer of the unnatural, aching anticipation of the gleam luminating in his eyes. But there was nothing.

My grandfather had high cheekbones and fair skin, and his eyes were grey, not amber. I was pulling a delicate photograph from their wedding out of its sleeve when I saw the letter.

The overhead lights flicked on. The sound of my Big Mamma’s heavy footsteps creaked on the old wooden floorboards behind me.

“He was leaving you,” I said.

“What are you doing up, Baby?” she asked, her Creole accent made thick with sleep in her voice.

“You said Poppa was a spirit man, but he wasn’t, was he?” I held up the faded old letter and stood up to face her, “He left you, didn’t he?”

“What is that you got on?” She said, looking me up and down. I was still wearing the too-tight dress that Netty gave me, the one that hugged my curves and made me look more like a woman, the one James swore Big Mamma wouldn’t see.

“You lied!”

“Who do you think you’re talking to, Cécile?” Big Mamma snapped.

“I just want you to tell me the truth.” I shrank, tears brimming over my eyes.

I still vaguely remember being so young, bawling into my grandmother’s arms. She held me close to her chest, rocking me back and forth in rhythmic motions.

“And I wanted to believe you would make wiser decisions, Cécile,” she knew. She knew that I had broken her number one rule.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mamma! But I have to know. Is it true? Did he really leave you for another woman?” I asked, waving the old letter still clasped in my hands.

“He never made it,” she said. “He ran out of gas on the way out of Franklin. The next morning, a policeman came to me, said he’d been hit while waiting for help on the side of the road.”

We were quiet, listening to the sound of each other’s hearts, beating separately. Big Mamma reached for the hem of my dress, seeking to pull it over my knees, but the fabric ran out.

“Mm,” she hummed. “I never said it out loud, and you better not repeat it, but I don’t miss him. He was mean — and always drunk, gave me bruises too,” And then she began to smile.

“What are you smiling for?”

“Me. Cause I pulled a gun on him,” she said, laughing out of all things. “The night he left, I told him I’d kill him where he stood if he ever came back. I guess the Lord had other plans.”

“Big Mamma!” I gasped, a wavering grin tugging on my cheeks. It fell as the truth pushed me down with more ferocity than gravity.

He was just a man. And I no longer knew what to believe anymore.

And then my grandmother said:

“Sometimes the scary story isn’t spirits and devils, it’s being human.”

She went back to sleep after telling me I’d be in trouble the next morning, as would Netty and James.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat by the bayou until the sun rose the next morning, trying to decide if I could still see the ghost of a great beast in the depths of the Bayou Teche or if it was always just a ditch brimming over with mucky water.

. . .

The first time Logan’s husband cheated on him, he didn’t have a grasp on its effects. Yes, there would have to be uncomfortable conversations, a feeling of loss, but life would go on, and so would their marriage. Daniel confessed the infidelity to Logan late one night in their kitchen, shortly before bed on a weeknight. He had thought quite a lot about what the perfect time for such a conversation might be, and this was what he landed on. Weekends felt too long and insufferable, with not much of anything to do besides obsess over the issue, so those were ruled out first. Vacations just didn’t deserve to be ruined, neither did extended periods of time off from work, so those were a no, as were holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. Days when they were sick were tortuous enough physically, so he didn’t need to add more suffering. All of this is to say that weekdays were left to decide among. Of course, while they were at work, that would be no time for a confession, and the same goes for mornings before work when they were shoveling cereal into their mouths. So a weeknight it was, preferably a Wednesday, since a Monday or Tuesday would make the week feel so long, and Thursday and Friday were too close to the weekend. And so on Wednesday, January 14, in the dead of a Manhattan winter, Daniel told him about the incident. From how he met the younger man on a work trip eight months ago, leading to the one and only night that they slept together. As Daniel had suspected, Logan had no hunch, no inkling, no idea that something had happened, which begged the question from both parties: Why confess now? For Daniel, the answer was easy—he couldn’t live with himself anymore. It was too hard knowing something so personal and important to his relationship that getting it off of his chest felt inevitable, simply a matter of time. But for Logan, the answer to the why remained elusive. If it was a one-time-thing, what was the point of Daniel revealing the secret? If it was so important to get off of his chest, why did he wait so long to do it? And out of all of the times to tell him in such a premeditated way, why the hell did he choose during dessert on a Wednesday in January? Nonetheless, both men managed to go to bed within the hour without a major fight or meltdown. The confession ended with an apology from Daniel, which Logan accepted. Daniel asked Logan if he had any questions, and the only real question Logan had was, “Do you want to stay together?” Daniel’s answer was yes.

From there, life moved on. Their weekly dinners at home, weekends with friends and family members, the occasional leisure trip. Nothing really felt that off.

The second time that Daniel cheated on Logan, the surprise was dulled. Yet again, Logan had not seen it coming, but he felt less incredulity and more numbness. He thought that this time—which Daniel recounted to him in great detail—sounded more forgivable. Daniel had been in the steam room at the gym, and a guy hit on him. One thing led to another, and they were having sex in the locker room shower. The spontaneity of it allowed Daniel to paint an image of himself without premeditated intent, like a victim in the situation. Logan found himself feeling sorry for Daniel, who was unwittingly manipulated into having sex with a stranger while Logan was waiting for him back home, making them dinner.

The third time that Daniel admitted he had sex with someone else, that autumn, Logan was simply perplexed. Given that Daniel depicted the scenario again as a one-off mistake—Daniel’s coworker revealed himself to Daniel, and Daniel gave him oral sex in the office men’s room—Logan could still not grasp how this man—his husband, the man he married seven years ago—had such an astonishingly small amount of self-control. As Logan taught his final class period of the day, he found himself distracted from his calculus lesson and paying more attention to the swirling images in his head. He imagined Daniel closing the blinds of his corner office and having sex with his younger assistant; Daniel, in an empty subway car, giving head to a man he met on the platform; Daniel, in the Ramble, having an orgy. Logan was sweating.

“Mr. Anderson, are you okay?” the girl sitting up front asked him.

“Yes, sorry, I forgot the example for a second,” he said.

For the first time, Logan had less understanding of the differential equation on the board than his students did. He felt totally removed from his body, like the time when he was 14 and he walked into his parents’ bedroom to find his father having sex with his aunt, his mother’s sister. A secret that he kept through his adolescence, past his parents’ deaths, right until this very day. His father, threatening to publicly out him, made him swear to never once repeat it, and so Logan didn’t. So much perspiration accumulated on his hands that sweat was dripping down the tablet in his hand and onto the floor. He started to feel weak in the knees. He tried to remember where he left his water bottle. It was all the way on the far end of his desk, and he was standing at his podium, in front of twenty-four 16-year-olds, gazing at him.

“You look really pale,” Jamie, up front, blurted out again.

“I’m—I—” he muttered, falling onto his right side.

Daniel got a call from the school in the middle of his meeting with his new client, an influencer for whom he was designing a new walk-in closet. His boutique architectural firm catered to Williamsburg transplants and some Brooklyn Heights families with a confounding surplus of money. He knew that the school would only call him in an emergency, so he asked his client to hold on a moment and answered the call in the hallway. That was when he heard about Logan’s likely concussion and that he was in need of someone picking him up from Mount Sinai, where he was already in transit. Returning to his client, Daniel explained the situation and quickly finished reviewing the blueprints. He apologized profusely and called a car to take him to the Upper West Side.

Having awoken up in the ambulance, Daniel was fairly cognizant of his situation once he was given a bed in the ER and, shortly thereafter, greeted by his husband. “Logan,” Daniel said, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hairy hand, “what happened?”

“I wish I knew,” Logan replied. “One minute I was teaching calculus to juniors and the next I was on the floor.”

“The nurse told me your heart rate was high and you were hyperventilating when you woke up. They said you were screaming.”

“Well, I’m fine now.”

“Are you? Did you eat lunch today?”

“I’ve been having trouble keeping my food down,” Logan said, “so I haven’t been eating that much.”

“What? You’re having gastro problems? I had no idea.”

“Yeah, since last Wednesday,” Logan said, referring to the day that they discussed the most recent infidelity.

“You’re not saying, that…?”

“I mean, I am.”

“I thought you said we could move on from this?”

“I did, I did, but Dan, how many more times is this going to happen?”

“So basically you’re blaming me for your health issues. Nice.”

“Not blaming you, just saying, this has been eating away at me,”the tempo of his heart monitor growing more frequent. “And you keep saying—the last time, the last time. Well, when will the last time really be? Because that’s what I was wondering when I passed out.”

“You know what,” Daniel replied, “I find it upsetting that you’re telling me I had something to do with this. I mean, I left a really important meeting to be here.”

“Oh, what a saint.”

“What the hell, Logan?”

“Well, what do you want me to say? I didn’t call you. The school did. And if you don’t want to be here, then go.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Maybe I want you to leave.”

A nurse popped her head into the room. “You really shouldn’t be arguing in your state,” she said.

“I’m just leaving,” Daniel told her. And he did.

Walking down Amsterdam, he checked the time and decided it was too late in the afternoon to return to work. He headed in the direction of their apartment, not far from the hospital. He questioned the accusations that Logan had made against him, a burning sensation running through his bones. Logan made some fair points, but presented himself as weak, immature. Meanwhile, Daniel viewed himself as strong and fortified. It wasn’t his fault if lots of men wanted to have sex with him. After all, he had tried to ask for an open relationship multiple times, and the answer was always no. So this is what he was left with: discreet sexual encounters with strangers. Ever since he was a young boy, he viewed his sexual appetite as a wild and ravenous animal that must be fed the bloodiest of meat in order to be tamed. His desires were unpredictable and unwieldy, and should they not be satisfied, dangerous consequences would ensue. He thought back to his first sexual encounter. When he was 13, his best friend’s father pulled out his penis when they were alone together in the kitchen. His friend had gone to the bathroom and nobody else was around. Daniel found the situation enthralling and strange, wondering what made him special enough for such an intimate moment; the man allowed Daniel to touch it, after all. And such scenarios happened multiple times over the years, when Daniel would come over for sleepovers, video game hangouts, study groups—all he had to do was catch a private moment with his friend’s dad, and the animal within him would stop rearing its ugly head.

While Daniel valued honesty in his relationship, he also did not think that Logan needed to know the full extent of his indiscretions. Although he had admitted three incidents of infidelity over the course of the past 18-or-so months, the reality was that there were numerous more—too many to count, in fact. And such reality was the reason that Daniel needed to admit at least some of the infidelity to Logan, for if he didn’t, then he would be a true liar. Plus, what if he passed Logan an STD? Then he would really be screwed.

The next day was Friday, and Logan stayed home from work while Daniel went about a typical workday. They hadn’t spoken at all the previous night. Neither had eaten dinner, and Daniel had slept on the couch. When he woke up, Logan took the crisp fall air as a sign that he deserved a day of convalescence to himself, what with everything he has been going through. He knew that Daniel never fully respected him for the man that he was, but he liked the attention from him anyway. Daniel was big, tall, brawny, and masculine—everything that Logan wasn’t. And even though Daniel criticized him often, and even hit him once, years ago, for which he apologized—Logan had always believed that that was the price he paid for the affections of the man he loved. Now, amid the frequent affairs, he was having doubts about their future. He stayed in bed for a while, trying to not look at his phone, as he was instructed at the hospital to avoid screens as much as possible. Once he was hungry enough, he decided to treat himself to breakfast at the diner around the corner, where he ordered an omelette and pancakes. He loved the shitty syrup that they gave out in single use plastic containers. His favorite waitress smiled at him when he asked for more. Afterwards, he took a stroll to a used bookstore and got a text from his friend Andrew, inviting him and Daniel to a DJ’s show at a bar in Hell’s Kitchen. Logan didn’t respond for a while, instead chatting with the bookstore employees about how much they’d pay for some used books. They said they’d take anything but textbooks and reference books. Logan decided to buy himself a new tote bag and a Jane Austen book he always wanted to get around to reading. Back outside in the overcast weather, he responded to Andrew.

In his office, Daniel pulled out his “work phone” from his desk drawer. While he claimed to everyone that he simply preferred separating clients from his personal life, the real purpose of this phone was to talk with guys on Grindr, Sniffies, OnlyFans, Instagram. His average was one hookup a day, usually at lunchtime, but if he missed multiple days, then he usually ended up showing up to a quick orgy on his way home from work. Today was one of those days. With Logan’s fainting spell yesterday, plus a particularly busy work week, he needed to blow his load in as chaotic an environment as possible. The beast was hungry. He always felt some degree of post-nut clarity after letting off his steam, but it has been heavier lately, since he decided to start coming clean to Logan. The immense weight of his daily lies was beginning to feel insurmountable, which is why he was particularly disappointed that Logan did not respond very well to his newfound transparency. Up until yesterday, Daniel was looking forward to that rush of pleasure earned from the radical honesty he was embracing. Now, he just felt like the animal he has always been, the little gay boy with a deep voice who had a thing for teachers and married men. Having sex was the only thing that provided relief.

On his way out of the office, he logged onto Sniffies and identified an orgy en route to the apartment, just a pit stop in Chelsea on his way home from Williamsburg. The orgy sounded fun, exciting, and populated. Upon his arrival to the apartment where it was supposed to be, he found a piece of paper taped to the door that read, “RESCHEDULED TO TONIGHT,” with an address and time for later written below. Frustrated with so many hours to kill, Daniel considered finding another one, but decided to save up for later; he knew it would be worth it. Impressed with this level of restraint, he enjoyed some alone time at home, watching a dating show with obnoxious music from the public domain. After the fourth episode in a row, he wondered where Logan could be at this hour on a Friday. Getting dinner with one of his friends, maybe? Then again, they had mostly the same friends. It had always been that way, ever since they met at the rooftop party in Murray Hill over a decade ago. It was a hot summer night in June, just before Pride, and one of Daniel’s best friends turned out to be another teacher at Logan’s school. It was strange that it had taken them so long to meet, considering how many of the same people they knew. Logan caught Daniel’s eye as just another skinny guy in his twenties, but once they made eye contact, he realized that there was something different about Logan. He was more thoughtful, less performative than most other guys. He was earnestly staring off into the crimson setting sun, at the opposite end of 34th Street. Daniel approached him and offered him a glass of rosé, but Logan rejected it.

“I’m good,” Logan said. “I’m a little distracted by the sunset.”

Daniel chucked under his breath. Logan looked at him disarmingly. “Something funny?” he asked him.

“No, no. Just sunsets.”

“Well, I like them,” Logan retorted, which was when Daniel began to understand that Logan never felt a need to prove himself to anyone. They stood next to each other for upwards of 15 minutes in silence, until the sun finally did set. Daniel felt like he might now get away with talking, and he asked him what his name was.

“None of your business,” Logan said, looking into Daniel’s soul. His eyes, piercing and green, had the illusion of a lake in summertime, grassy and translucent. Then, he smiled. “Logan.”

They spent the rest of the evening snacking on tortilla chips and hot dogs, finding out more about their mutual friends, each others’ interests, their similarities and differences. Daniel was desperately hoping to sleep with Logan that night, which, looking back, was a fool’s errand. Logan was never one to give a person exactly what they wanted, unless he wanted that thing too—and he didn’t. “Let’s wait,” he said to Daniel, getting out of the taxi they shared back to Brooklyn together, and he kissed him on the cheek. Cheek kisses, those are one of Logan’s signature moves. One of the things that Daniel found most frustratingly alluring about him. A kiss from a man on the cheek, nothing more, nothing less. Oh, how Logan knew how to drive him wild.

A few hours later, Logan and his friend Andrew navigated mostly naked bodies at the extremely loud bar in Hell’s Kitchen. He had not invited Daniel nor told him where he was going. Though he did not usually drink, he was a couple of cocktails deep, and the rest of the dancing men around him felt like a burst of warm and windy energy. Wearing just underwear, he and Andrew swayed to the rhythms and laughed about the last time they had done something like this together—had to have been college, back when Logan was just a closeted twink. Back then, it was the shame of a gay Catholic schoolboy with a big secret that always felt insurmountable when it came to becoming a well adjusted adult. How could a man, or a boy, who is unlovable for who he is be given any chance to grow a career, a relationship, a life of contentment? It wasn’t until he met friends so out and proud like Andrew that he had seen that there were many ways to be—not just one—and one of those ways was to live unapologetically. Reckless abandon was never one of Logan’s superpowers, but he tended to surround himself with people who exhibited confidence as second nature. Even when he finally came out in his early twenties, just a couple of years before meeting Daniel, Logan never felt fully powerful in his right to be respected for who he truly was. He continually found it easier to settle for less than what he was worth—whether it was his salary at work or his relationship to a serial cheater—he never wanted to rock the boat, should the boat reflect poorly on his altruism. Nowadays, with his parents both dead and nobody in his life to whom he must pretend, he had started asking himself why—why must he take the shorter end of the stick, and whom was he serving with his selflessness?

After rejecting ketamine several times, Andrew told Logan he was going to the bathroom to snort some. Though Logan did not want to do any drugs, he said he would accompany Andrew—plus, he didn’t really want to be left alone. As they walked through the crowded space, past the DJs and go-go dancers, the bartenders pouring drinks and guys hooking up on the dance floor, they passed through a back room, totally dark except for a few dim red neon lights—the room where it all happened. Naked bodies engaged in various sex acts, though Logan walked just past them, into the bathroom with Andrew. Andrew had been following another guy he met, the one with the ketamine.

“Do you want some?” Andrew’s new friend, a dorky but sexy looking guy, asked Logan, as he prepared the ketamine on a small, silver metal spoon with a skull design at the end.

Logan shook his head. “I’m good.”

The nerdy guy snorted up the crystalline powder. Logan looked down at the floor, wondering what Daniel might be doing tonight. Andrew caught his gaze and waved his hand in front of Logan’s face, as if to check for signs of consciousness.

“Earth to Logan, you doing okay?” Andrew asked him.

“Such a shitty couple weeks,” he said.

“You’re really going through it,” Andrew replied. “Do you still have those hemorrhoids?”

Logan laughed. “No it’s not that,” he said, “it’s just, I wondering if I’m actually fucking up my whole life.” He paused. “I’ve never admitted that before.”

“You haven’t? Wow, you’re more in denial than I thought you were. Thank you,” Andrew said, accepting the shovel of ketamine from his new friend, before snorting it himself.

“What wrong?” the new guy asked Logan.

“I’m struggling with my marriage,” Logan said.

“Are you guys open?” he asked Logan.

Logan shook his head.

“Well that’s why. Here,” he said, “just do it.”

Logan looked at the shovel of drugs, the skull staring back at him. He hadn’t done ketamine before, but he’d tried cocaine. How different could this be?

“Okay, fine,” he said, shoving it up his nose with one big inhale. It stung for a minute, and it took Logan a few seconds to regain his composure, though he didn’t feel much yet.

“You good?” Andrew asked him.

“Damn, that stings!” He looked up at the paneled bathroom ceiling. White tiles with black fissures. They reminded him of the ceiling of his classroom, one of the few places he felt confident, and yet he humiliated himself in front of his students now too. How much more of his dignity could Daniel take away?

“Why don’t you go out there and hook up with someone?” Andrew asked him, his voice trailing off as the nerdy guy snorted more ketamine.

Logan laughed. “You know I’m married, right?” But even he couldn’t believe this sentiment as a valid excuse any longer, considering the desecrations in his relationship. Nonetheless, he couldn’t bring himself to cheat on Daniel. No, two wrongs wouldn’t make a right.

“Whatever you say,” Andrew replied. “Give it a few minutes to sink in. Let’s party,” he said, walking out of the bathroom. Logan followed him back through that dark room. As he passed through, Logan felt a few hands grabbing at him. This is what happened in places like this—the bigger the sex act, the better.

Logan tried to pull away, to follow Andrew, currently his safety net in a place he didn’t feel fully comfortable, as the hallucinogen began to settle. He started to feel a bit lighter, different than the heaviness of alcohol but with all of the disassociation. For the first time in months, since Daniel told Logan about all of his cheating, Logan actually felt happy. The music was beautiful, fast electronic beats, and the people around him were sexy. And then—well, he was human after all, just a man, and, oh well, it’s not like his marriage was looking like it was going to hold up anyway. A man’s chiseled hands pushed against Logan’s chest, ushering him to sit down on a bench where other men were getting serviced. “No, I’m good,” Logan said, trying to stand up. The guy pushed him back down, not saying anything. Logan wondered if he’d even be able to get it up with the effects of the new drug, but as soon as the thought occurred to him, he realized that this might be a great time to actually branch out more, to do something selfish for once in his wretched life.

The guy pulled Logan’s underwear down. “Well, just a second,” Logan said, realizing that he was getting hard, and the man started giving him head. The whole thing happened fairly quickly so that Logan was not able to fully process the velocity of the turn of events. He hardly felt present in his body, was struggling to register his limbs, his penis, but luckily the rest went as you might expect it to. Not once was Logan interested or cognizant enough to look down, not until the whole episode was over and he came in the man’s mouth. That was when he opened his tightly shut green eyes and revealed them to the person on their knees below him. And even in the dim, neon, crimson light, Logan was still able to recognize the brawny and hairy man down there as Daniel, just as surprised to see Logan as Logan was to see him.

. . .

Much later, after walking home together in silence, Logan flipped over onto his back in bed and turned his gaze over to Daniel, lying next to him. They had been together so long. To break up, well that would be really hard. Was it worth it? To Logan’s surprise, Daniel was wide awake. The early morning sun began to peek through their custom made blinds and shone streaks of light onto their faces.

“I think I’m a sex addict,” Daniel said.

“I know,” Logan replied, kissing him on his cheek.

“When am I going to see you?” I whispered into my phone

“What?” he whispered back.

I laughed.

“When will we make love again?” I said, and I felt a rush of energy through my body. I can’t explain what he does to me. I love him, and he loves me. It’s just we met at a bad time, right?

“Linda, he’s not leaving his wife.” Pamela, my best friend, says as she’s styling my hair.

“Should I go blonder?” I asked, looking in the mirror. I think he would like that. His wife is blond, but she is not as good-looking as I am.

“I know what you are doing?” Pamela stops and just stares at me.

“What?” I say.

“You are ignoring me. Linda. Jimmy has a friend that he wants you to meet. He’s tall, he has a great job, and he’s good-looking. But most importantly, he’s single.” Pamela say,s bending down, so now we have eye contact.

“What are you talking about, Pam? I am very much involved with someone. Who is this guy? He works at the plant, doesn’t he?

“Yeah, so what. Jimmy works at the plant.” Pamela says, still looking me in the eye.

“Look, that may be fine for you, but I want more. Doug is a lawyer, and he is about to make partner.”

“Yeah, but Doug is not yours,” Pamela says, standing up.

“You know I don’t expect you to understand. But I love him, and he loves me. Ok?” I say, wanting to finish this conversation.

“I think going blonde would be fun,” Pamela says.

I watch her in the mirror as she plays with my hair.

“We just met a the wrong time. Hey, it’s the 80s, anything goes.” I finally say.

“You have the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Shoot, why not go blonder?” Pamela says, totally ignoring my comment.

“Yep, why not!” I laugh.

That’s how things normally went with Pam. She would try to talk me into seeing someone else, but Doug was all I knew. I lost my virginity to him. I was just 18 years old. I worked as a temp at the law firm. It was so fancy in there. I was just so impressed with everything. Even the coffee they used was high-class. I should have known he was hitting on me because he was always asking me to come with him to lunch or meetings. Finally, I did and look at us 10 years later. He’s, of course, older than I am. He’s also really a New Yorker. He’s not from this hick town, that’s for sure. I know he is going to love my hair.

I still lived with my mother. It’s just been her and me as long as I can remember. I never really knew my dad. Mom never spoke of him, but I’ve found pictures she’s hidden away. She’s happy in these photos. Holding hands with this tall, slender man with my nose and body frame. Driving up to my house, I notice my mother isn’t home yet. I walk inside to check my voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Doug. I was thinking maybe I can come over tonight. Give me a call.”

Wow, he still gives me butterflies. I rush to the phone to call him but the line is busy. Shoot.

I hear my mother at the door.

“Yeah?” I yell back

“Come help me with these groceries, sugar.” Mother says, putting her bags down and lighting a cigarette.

I rush in to help her. It is really great living with my mother. We split rent and groceries. For the most part, we get along. She really loves Doug! Of course, she has no idea about our situation.

As I’m putting the groceries away, I notice she’s staring at me. The kind of stare when I know she knows something, and she wants to let me know she knows.

“I saw Doug at the grocery store,” she finally says, putting out her cigarette and sitting down to light another one.

“Oh yeah, did you speak?” I say, wondering where this is going.

“Well, I would have, but he was not alone. He had a woman with him. There were also two little boys. At first, I thought maybe relatives were visiting him. But then she kissed him. Right on the lips, Linda.” She pauses and takes another drag of her cigarette. “I then noticed he was wearing a wedding band, and of course, so was she.”

I looked up to see if she would say more, but she didn’t. She sat deep in her chair, put out her cigarette, and turned the TV on.

I stood there in our kitchen quietly. I didn’t know what to say or do. Should I tell her I know that he’s married? Should I act surprised? Should I act angry? Instead, I just stand there quietly imagining my mother in that grocery store following Doug and his family.

Finally, I walk to my room and lie on my bed. Of course, I start thinking of Doug. I’m sure his wife kissed him, and he didn’t respond. How awful he must feel. I want to ask my mother if they were holding hands or if they seemed in love, but I know she would never accept how I feel. Mother is from a different generation.

I sit up because I hear footsteps.

It’s Mother. She opens my door, and I can see she has tears in her eyes. She’s holding a picture. She softly sits on my bed and hands it to me. It’s the tall, slender man with my nose and build. He’s smiling. He is holding hands with a pregnant woman. But this woman isn’t Mother. Before I can ask any questions, Mother begins talking.

“I met him the summer of ‘65. Handsome and outgoing. I would wonder what a guy like this wants with an ole hick girl like me? You know? He had class. He kept his cigarettes hidden in his coat pocket. He carried a handkerchief. Can you believe that? It was white with his initials in royal blue,” Mother said, but then she seemed to go into deep thought.

“Who is that woman he’s with?” I finally ask, breaking the silence.

“It’s his wife.” She says getting up and leaving the photo.

“He had everything, Linda Rae. What did I have?” she says, sobbing. She walks to the hallway and starts pushing everything down.

“Mother!” I yell

She looks at me and falls to the floor.

“He had everything! A wife. A baby. A beautiful home! He took the only thing I had away from me! And he went to her!

I watch her on the floor, not knowing what to do.

“I couldn’t give him that happy smile she gave, or that beautiful home. I couldn’t even give him a child!” she sobbed harder.

I stand there not understanding.

“He’s my father, right?” I ask

Mother just sits there ignoring me.

“Mother! He’s my father, right?” I find myself becoming angry and not understanding why.

Finally, she spoke.

“He left. He went out of town on business. Word around town was that he had found someone else on those road trips. He surely stopped calling me like he used to. I would drive by their home all the time to watch her. This time, she had the baby with her. I watched her smiling and holding that beautiful child. Her phone rang, and she set the baby down on the blanket to go inside. I had to see that baby. That’s all I wanted to do was see that baby. And as I walked up and saw the baby’s beautiful face, I knew that the baby belonged to me.”

“No!” I scream as I walk back in panic.

Mother looks up at me. She has this weird, calm stare as if she’s looking past me, even though her eyes are obviously looking me dead in my eyes.

“You’ve always belonged to me. I loved you, and you loved me. It was just bad timing……”

Petunia arrived promptly at 7:00 pm because that is what respectful dinner guests do. She read that in her book The 7 Habits of a Highly Adaptive Individual. “Always arrive on time or exactly at the time stated on the invitation.” And 7 pm it was. She rang the doorbell twice. There was no answer. The boysenberry pie she held in her hands was getting cold. No one would dare to eat cold pie, so she pressed the doorbell again. She pressed her ear to the wooden door to listen and see if she could hear any commotion. Some may have thought this a very rude thing for her to do, but she would argue that she was just trying to make sure there was no danger inside, no ruckus she would need to take heed of. But when she listened inside, there was nothing. Hm. How peculiar, but more than that, how rude! But Petunia, if anyone, was not about to back down from a fight. She knocked hard this time, and very rapidly. Minutes into her knocking the door opened. Bridgette stared at Petunia quizzically before saying, “May I help you?”

Petunia smiled a wide grin that showed her two crooked, lipstick-stained front teeth, and replied, “I’m here for the dinner party.”

Bridgette, genuinely confused, said without thinking, “Who comes to a dinner party on time?” Then moved out of the way and let Petunia in.

Petunia made herself comfortable in Bridgette’s home. She handed her her winter coat and said she’d take a room temperature water, since ice made her dizzy. Bridgette had a towel over her wet hair and a Brooklinen robe on. She was not expecting company any time soon. And this bothered Petunia a lot. Grayson, Bridgette’s husband, came down adjusting his tie. He also wasn’t expecting company this early. He asked Petunia if she was Mason’s friend. Yes, she replied. She was a very good friend of Mason’s. Bridgette excused herself to get ready while Grayson talked Petunia through the escrow of the house. They had just bought it a few weeks ago. It was the hardest he ever fought for anything. Petunia nodded as she eyed the family photos on the wall. Christmas cards. Soccer practices. She let her finger trace the edges of the golden frames as Grayson droned on about the finishes. He finally offered her a drink. He was going to get started on the Moscow Mules. Petunia nodded. A drink sounded nice since she was the first to a dinner party that started at 7 pm. It was now 7:20 and no other guests were here. And what was even weirder was that Bridgette and Grayson didn’t seem to mind one bit.

At exactly 7:42 pm, guests flowed into the house seamlessly. Bridgette no longer had that rag on her head so Petunia now admired her brown curls. Bridgette was pretty if she tried and Petunia decided that for tonight, Bridgette tried. Grayson’s booming laugh echoed between rooms. Guests milled about. Petunia flowed into conversations easily. “Oh do you know so and so…” they would ask. “Yes I do,” Petunia would respond and smile. She would softly touch people on the back to show yes, I too, am a friend.

Finally by 8:05, dinner was ready. The guests shuffled into the green tiled dining room, another feature of the house that Grayson insisted on giving another lecture on. The group filed in, cheering for Bridgette and Grayson. They kissed. Someone came through the front door (rather late, Petunia thought to herself). “Sorry I’m late!” They gruffly mumbled as they kissed Bridgette on the cheek. Bridgette squealed, “Mason! We were all wondering if you’d show.” Mason said he wouldn’t have missed it for the world. He then waved at everyone at the table and then walked up to Petunia and said, “Hey, I’m Mason, I don’t think we’ve met?” Petunia smiled, graciously and shook his hand. Across the room, Bridgette’s eyes narrowed.

BRIDGETTE

At 7pm exactly…Bridgette stepped out of the shower and called for Grayson. Did he remember to take the duck out of the oven? The door bell rang, then rang again. Bridgette rolled her eyes. They’d been getting Mormon missionaries daily now and she didn’t have the heart to reject them again but frankly, having multiple spouses sounded exhausting. She would ignore them and they would go away. But then they knocked VERY hard multiple times. “Oh my god, who is that? Gray! Can you get that?” Grayson didn’t respond. Bridgette huffed and grabbed her robe.

. . .

“Hey I’m Mason, I don’t think we’ve met?”

The guest that had shown up on time even though their invitation clearly stated “you know Grayson and I are never on time” was now introducing herself to Mason. But she had said she knew Mason…did she not? Grayson had asked her explicitly and she said she did. But now…here she was…introducing…herself…to…him?

Who was this woman?

Mason had never mentioned knowing someone named Petunia and nevertheless mentioned inviting her to her engagement party. There were no plus ones, obviously. So if Mason didn’t know her…maybe someone else did? That’s it. She looked older, maybe bordering on 50? Clearly she got confused and didn’t know Mason…but knew someone else. That’s it! Someone else invited her! Bridgette tried to remain calm.

Across the candlelit table, Petunia spoke to Mason in between bites of the roasted duck. Her bright red lipstick reflected off of the candlelight. Some more lipstick had even gotten on her bottom teeth. Bridgette could have sworn she knew Petunia from someplace. She needed to get to the bottom of who knew this woman and who invited her to her very intimate event.

PETUNIA

Petunia talked with Mason who pulled up a chair and sat beside her. Again, she couldn’t believe this party didn’t have enough seating for all of its guests. Mason was very charming, even though she usually found adult male blondes sinister. Mason wasn’t like that at all. He listened intently as she spoke and offered her museums to visit when she went to D.C. next month. Mason was Bridgette’s brother, so she found out, and they had been enemies until after college when they finally became friends. This seemed common in most sister-brother relationships Petunia had encountered in the past. Petunia looked across the table at all of the various little conversations taking place. Grayson was loudly explaining where they were sourcing their linoleum for the renovation he was planning to start on the house. A woman named Sherry or Cherry explained how easily civilizations fall into fascism and Bridgette… was staring daggers at Petunia.

Petunia was jolted. How rude. She filed it away in the many rude things that Bridgette had done that evening. Along with taking too long to answer the doorbell…twice.

After dinner, the guests all milled into the living room. There was a Newlywed Game that Grayson had surprised Bridgette with, because everyone knew Bridgette loved games. Petunia excitedly announced that she had brought a pie… a boysenberry one, which was a cross pollinated fruit that originated at Knott’s Berry Farm. Guests were excited by this pie, but Bridgette scowled at Petunia. She explained they actually catered tarts from the local patisserie so Petunia’s pie would not be necessary, plus, the pie was left out on the counter all night and was probably cold.. Petunia, hurt, insisted. They must try it. It was a family recipe and she would love nothing more than to share it with Grayson and Bridgette. Mason stood up and told Bridgette “a little pie never hurt anybody.” He went into the kitchen and Petunia followed him…

BRIDGETTE

As the small dinner party made their way into the living room from dinner, Bridgette pulled Grayson aside. “Did you see that?” she snarled. Grayson, unsure of what his fiancee was referring to said, “Yes, I can’t believe Mason showed up two hours late.” Bridgette said no. She meant Petunia. Grayson wasn’t following so Bridgette dumbed it down for him, like she had the habit of doing for most of their conversations. She told Grayson that Mason and Petunia had just met. So if Mason hadn’t invited her…who did? Bridgette had felt sick. She couldn’t even eat the duck she had so preciously prepared. Grayson tried to calm her down. Maybe someone else invited Petunia, maybe her mother…was she an old friend of Bridgette’s mother? Bridgette didn’t speak to her mother let alone know any of her friends. That could be possible but Bridgette’s mother didn’t know about the anniversary party that night and even if she did, she wouldn’t care. She didn’t show up in any way to Bridgette’s first marriage, let alone her second. No, that wasn’t it. Something nagged at Bridgette in the very corners of her mind. A memory? A premonition? A warning? She would ask the other guests if they knew Petunia and see if anything came up…

As everyone nestled into the sofas and chairs in the living room, Grayson announced The Newlywed Game he had prepared. Bridgette cornered Faith on the sofa and asked if she knew Petunia from anywhere? Faith drunkenly shook her head. She had just met the woman that evening but found her so delightful. She can’t wait to try her boysenberry pie. Who knew Boysenberry was a fruit? Faith was a dead end in Bridgette’s eyes. She was so drunk on champagne she didn’t know anything at that moment, let alone if she knew this strange woman who had come into Bridgette’s home. But this boysenberry pie business had sure caught Bridgette off guard. She can’t submit her guests to eating strange pie from a strange woman…it could be poisoned or worse…taste bad!

Bridgette stood up and said they were having dessert catered from the local patisserie. No need for Petunia’s pie, but she graciously thanked her for making it. But Mason – always the hero, interjected. The guests wanted to try the pie so they should. A little pie never hurt anybody…

Petunia and Mason went back into the kitchen, giggling. Bridgette huffed and sat down on the sofa next to Donnovan and Pete. Did they know Petunia? They said they didn’t, but that she was so lovely she reminded them of Nanny McPhee or that little lady that lived in a shoe. Did Bridgette remember that book? Bridgette did remember this book from her childhood but didn’t see how that helped her current predicament…the Petunia problem.

Grayson put a loving hand on Bridgette’s back. Was she ready to start the game? God, no. But Bridgette politely said yes and everyone cheered. The game began.

PETUNIA

Everyone loved Petunia’s pie. When she resurfaced from the kitchen with Mason, they all grabbed for it like hungry little chickens. She felt needed and that felt good. In her book, The 7 Habits of the Highly Adaptive Individual, number five was, “Be Needed.”

The Newlywed Game began and Petunia realized it wasn’t a Newlywed Game at all, for that required the couple to split into teams and try to guess facts about each other. No, Grayson had devised “Couple Trivia” questions about himself and Bridgette that required their friends’ prior knowledge about them; their traits, their quirks and histories. Bridgette was first. “What’s Bridgette’s favorite place she’s ever visited?”

All of the guests jumped up, excited with answers:

“Paris!”

“No – Switzerland!”

Grayson confidently chimed in. “No you’re all wrong, it’s St. Lucia.”

Bridgette bit her bottom lip, hiding her anticipation about the answer. She shook her head. They were all wrong, even Grayson.

Petunia threw out a guess, “Hawaii!” Bridgette jumped up, shouting, '“Yes!”, but then realized the answer came from Petunia and sat back down with a small nod. The guests cheered! Petunia had guessed right, but Bridgette seemed anything but happy about it. She seemed annoyed and maybe deep down, scared. It was Grayson’s turn next. “What was Grayson’s favorite sport growing up?” Pete answered men’s volleyball, while Bridgette incorrectly guessed soccer. Grayson was great at soccer but preferred men’s volleyball. Petunia enjoyed seeing all of the friends challenge and scream over each other on how well they knew the couple. Soon enough, it was Bridgette’s turn again. When the question came, “What was the name of Bridgette’s imaginary friend growing up?” Petunia knew this one. Lolly. She shouted it and the room got quiet. Bridgette narrowed her eyes and asked, “How on earth did you know that?” Petunia realized a mistake she had made. A slip up. She quickly excused herself to go to the restroom.

In that instant, Mason started choking on the pie.

BRIDGETTE

Lolly. Bridgette had barely told Grayson about Lolly, let alone this stranger, some woman she had no recollection of ever seeing before in her life. Lolly was a coping mechanism after her dad died. If anyone was to guess it, it would have been Mason or, like Bridgette was hoping, Grayson. When Bridgette was helping Grayson pick trivia questions for the party, she threw in some that only Grayson would know. This way Grayson would feel emotionally closer to Bridgette after the party instead of feeling like he knew nothing about her at all, which Bridgette knew would make him feel emotionally detached and inferior. There was a reason behind the madness. Bridgette planned it perfectly. But what she didn’t plan for was Petunia.

Grayson gave Mason the Heimlich until he finally coughed up the piece of pie that was stuck in his throat. It landed in the planter by the fireplace. Sure, a little pie never hurt anybody. Bridgette could hardly register her brother fighting for his life for she was too preoccupied with Petunia.

Making her way to the middle of the chaotic semi-circle that had now formed in front of Mason, Bridgette got the attention of all of her dinner guests. “Okay, everyone. Who knows Petunia?” Bridgette surveyed the room, only met with confused faces. Faith offered a drunken, “Bridge, we all know Petunia. We met her tonight, duh.” Bridgette scrunched her eyebrows and clarified, “No, I mean – who knew Petunia before tonight. Who invited her here?” Grayson, now registering, said “wait, so no one knows this woman who has been in our house all night?” But before anyone could calculate what was happening, Bridgette had rushed down the hallway to the guest bathroom. When she found it locked, she pushed it down with all of her strength only to be met with the cold breeze of an open window. Just like that, Petunia was gone.

. . .

The cops took statements from all of the guests. Bridgette talked manically to a newbie cop who was trying hard to keep up with every word she spat at him. Once she finished her story about not knowing Petunia, how she arrived early yet on time and how she knew the name of her imaginary friend, she was met with a confused expression by the cops. They weren’t following. They asked, Did this woman steal anything? “Well no,” Bridgette responded. And did she hurt anybody? “Well, not technically. But Mason choked on her pie.” As Bridgette tried to explain feeling violated at her engagement party, which was supposed to be the happiest night of her life besides her wedding night which was next year, the cops nodded their heads as they slowly realized they were dealing with a very peculiar situation, which quite frankly never required the cops at all. They left their card, while Grayson led Bridgette back into the house.

While brushing his teeth later that night, Grayson called Petunia crazy and a weirdo, but these were traits that were too obvious and, frankly, by Bridgette’s standards, derivative. What Petunia did was more intimate and precise. Why come uninvited to a dinner party? The thought nagged at Bridgette.

. . .

For weeks afterward, Bridgette would find herself on the train into the city, on her early morning commutes, thinking about Petunia. The thought pecking away in the corners of her mind like some pesky parasite. She’d walk to work and think she saw Petunia swerving through the sidewalk crowds. Petunia was every person that passed through the corner of Bridgette’s eye. Everyone moved on but Bridgette was still there, in her living room, hearing a strange woman say the word Lolly. Yes, it could have been a great guess. It probably was. Bridgette wanted to believe it was. Because what was the alternative?

Eventually, time passed, like it had the habit of doing. And Bridgette was on her way to work again. But this day was different. Because as she stepped out of her door, she was stopped dead in her tracks by…a boysenberry pie.

A boysenberry pie that sat, steaming hot, on her front door step.

And attached to it was a handwritten note, “This time, it’s hot! - P”

Bridgette’s blood ran cold. She dropped the note with a gasp and looked around to try and find its owner. The pie was steaming so whoever left it must have still been close. But as Bridgette looked around, there was no one. She didn’t see or hear a soul.

PETUNIA

In the nearby bushes, Petunia watched Bridgette and smiled to herself.

Because in her book, The 7 Habits of a Highly Adaptive Individual, the last tip was, “Never let them forget you.”

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Barry let out a long, loud sigh… it was safe because his father’s grating voice was coming all the way from downstairs. Barry hated the fact that it felt like he mostly existed to do things his parents didn’t feel like doing. If the carpets were so damn important, why couldn’t his dad close the windows himself? Or better yet, why couldn’t they just run the A.C. like every other house on the block?

“Okay!” Barry shouted back. It was the sort of “okay” that meant he would get around to it when he felt like it, if at all.

Barry was more focused on the music playing in his headphones, and the trees just outside his room. The family’s house was surrounded by forest, and the leaves were slowly turning beautiful autumn colors before falling to the ground. Sometimes, when he focused on music and nature, he could pretend he wasn’t trapped in a prison, forced to do menial tasks for little-to-no thanks.

“Honey!”

This time, it was his mother. Why couldn’t they group their announcements together?

Barry pulled a headphone out of his ear like it was a daunting task.

“We’re getting ready to leave! Come on down!”

Barry let out another sigh. His parents insisted on taking family trips to the park on Saturdays, even though he’d grown out of voluntarily wanting to spend time with them. He climbed out of his bed, ignoring the piles of clean laundry he’d promised to fold, and started to head downstairs, before remembering his assigned task.

Barry walked into his parents’ bedroom. He closed and locked the giant windows in there, just as a large gust of wind blew through the trees and hit the side of the house.

He closed and locked the window in their bathroom, then closed and locked the two windows in the guest room. Then, he came downstairs.

As he rounded the corner into the kitchen, he was met by his parents. He was still young enough that they were both taller than him. They stared down at him, hands on their hips. His father said something Barry couldn’t hear over his music.

Barry popped a headphone out.

“I said did you lock all the windows?”

Barry nodded his head, not feeling like the repetitive question was worth a verbal response.

“Even the one in the basement?” his father asked.

Barry had, admittedly, forgotten the window down there. It didn’t matter, though. There was nothing important in the basement. It didn’t matter if anything down there got wet, and more importantly, Barry hated admitting to his father that he’d made a mistake. So, he just nodded again.

“Good,” his father said. “Let’s head out.”

“Do I have to go?” Barry asked, staring dead-eyed back and forth between his father and mother, hoping someone would show mercy and allow him to stay home and do what he wanted to do most… nothing.

“Yes,” was the simple reply, and it came from both of them at the exact same time.

Barry waited until his parents had their backs towards him before he rolled his eyes, then he followed them out. They drove for about half-an-hour. His parents listened to the news on the radio while Barry scrolled on his phone, taking occasional breaks whenever the car sickness reared its ugly head.

When they reached the lot where they always parked, Barry’s father pulled into a spot, shut off the car, and wordlessly got out of the car. Barry noticed his dad was holding his newest book. It used to be that when the family came out to the park, the two of them would play catch. But ever since Barry had decided to leave the Boy Scouts and quit baseball, things hadn’t been the same. His father had never said he was disappointed in him, but Barry knew that was how he felt.

His father and mother sat beneath a large oak tree. His dad read his book while his mom worked on her latest knitting project.

Barry wandered off towards the playground where he’d spent so many days of his childhood. Today, it was completely deserted, probably because of the weather forecast. The swings swung back and forth, seemingly on their own. The seesaw moved in the wind. It was eerie.

Barry turned to look at his parents. He could see that they were talking now, and gesturing towards him. He covertly took out one headphone so that he could hear what they were saying… his mom was complaining about the fact that Barry had not only shirked his responsibility to clear the table, but not even touched the bowl of porridge she’d so lovingly put out for him. Maybe if she’d asked if he still even liked porridge, she wouldn’t have been so offended. And as for clearing the table… he hadn’t bought the house, the table, the bowls, or the silverware… so why was it his job to deal with them? If he had his way, they’d eat on paper plates with plasticware every day, and simply throw it all away when they were done. Why place an extra burden on themselves?

He heard his dad say the word “responsibility” in a tone that suggested he was talking about how Barry needed to learn responsibility, and that was Barry’s cue to leave. “Responsibility” was his dad’s favorite word, and his favorite thing to rub in Barry’s face when he messed up. Responsibility was overrated, if you asked Barry.

Barry wandered off towards the trees. He knew he’d rather spend this time in the park by himself than under the constant, judgemental gaze of his parents.

Barry walked along the path into the forest. When he was here, he had no responsibility. There weren’t lawns to mow, dishes to wash, or trash cans to empty. It was a beautiful mess that he didn’t have to clean up. He wouldn’t have to rake up the fallen leaves on the path, he could just enjoy stepping on them, and listening to the satisfying crunch as his sneakers crushed them into the pavement.

Barry stepped off the path and collapsed against the base of a tree. He took in the nature for a few more seconds, then started scrolling on his phone again.

Outside the edges of the phone, the sun began to set. A particularly cool gust of wind ricocheted through the trees, making Barry pull his sweatshirt more tightly around himself. When he looked up from his screen for the first time in maybe an hour, he was amazed by how the friendliness of the forest had seemed to drain away. Suddenly, the big beautiful trees felt intimidating. The more leaves that fell, the more the skeletal arms of the trees were revealed.

His mother’s call came echoing through the forest. As much as he detested the prison of his home, he was ready to be back inside.

By the time Barry got back to his parents, his dad had already started the car. The headlights shone into the seemingly empty woods.

“I guess the rain won’t be coming for a while after all,” his father commented, talking over the radio as Barry and his mom climbed into the car.

“Are we stopping to get something to eat?” his dad asked his mom, a sliver of hope in his voice. Barry was hopeful too. The hope was dashed quickly.

“There’s plenty of porridge left over,” she responded.

Barry’d heard what he needed to hear. The headphones went back in his ears, and he stared out the back window as they drove away from the park, back towards the house.

After a few moments, Barry saw his dad reaching his hand towards the back seat, snapping his finger at Barry. He pulled out a headphone– “--earth to Barry!”

“What’s up?” Barry asked.

“Listen,” his father said, turning up the radio.

“... the body was recovered from the Coopersville River…” said the radio voice.

“That’s only ten minutes from us!” his mom cried, before his dad shushed her.

“... have led investigators to believe he was killed by the same person who killed two other teenaged boys earlier this year. This person appears to have entered the home of the victim through an unlocked window. Citizens of Burlington County are cautioned to keep an eye on their children, and to make sure to lock all doors and windows.”

Barry shivered again, although this time, it wasn’t from the cold.

“Burlington County Police’s person of interest for these crimes is described as being tall with long, blonde hair,” continued the voice on the radio.

“That’s despicable,” Barry’s father said, shaking his head. “Barry, don’t do anything stupid and get yourself kidnapped.”

“Right,” Barry said in a hollow voice, slipping his headphones back in. But not even the deafening music in noise-cancellation mode could distract him from the only image in his head… the window he’d left open in the basement.

The journey home felt like an eternity, and Barry spent the whole time ruminating. A human being couldn’t possibly fit through that window, could they? What were the odds that this criminal would find their house, and find that one window?

When they made the last turn on the way home, Barry’s mom suddenly turned to face his father. “The dry cleaning!” she said. “We gotta grab it before they close tonight, I need my blazer for tomorrow!”

“Right,” Barry’s father said with an impatient sigh, “let’s just drop Barry off then go grab it.” He looked up at Barry through the rear-view mirror. “God forbid we force our son to spend more time with us…”

Barry’s heart began to pound. He couldn’t even think about his father’s snide comment because of the thoughts spiraling through his brain. He was sure it was unlikely that this criminal had found the open window. But in the off chance they had, Barry would have to face them alone.

The car circled the cul-de-sac and stopped in front of the house. Barry climbed out and walked towards the house as his parents peeled away, racing back towards the dry cleaners. As Barry approached the house, it looked bigger and more intimidating than it ever had. The wind was whistling loudly now, and it was blowing so harshly the leaves were turning inside out and being pulled from the branches.

As Barry entered the house, it felt cold inside. He wasn’t sure if the temperature was unusual, or if the house always felt like this and his imagination, always overactive, was scaring him. But one way or another, he knew he had to go down into the basement and close the window.

Barry approached the door to the basement apprehensively. He opened it slowly, trying not to let it squeak. He flicked the light switch. Nothing happened.

Barry turned around and ran into the laundry room, opened the cabinet beneath the sink, and pulled out the family’s flashlight. He returned to the basement door, then, with a deep breath, started to descend the stairs, his path only illuminated by the shaking beam of the flashlight.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he paused. The family’s basement wasn’t finished, so it was a cold, damp maze of wooden wall frames and grey stone. He walked slowly to the far wall and turned left, wincing as he stepped through a spiderweb.

Crash! He jumped after accidentally knocking a couple of boxes off of a shelf. He continued walking until he reached the open window. The wind whistled through loudly. Barry looked around for any suspicious signs, but didn’t see anything. He placed the flashlight on a shelf, grabbed a small stepladder, and closed the window. He latched it shut, then jumped off of the stepladder, finally catching his breath. He shook his head and let out a small laugh. He’d been so scared for nothing. Nonetheless, he ran back up the stairs, closing the basement door behind him.

As Barry walked into the empty kitchen, the rain began. It was only soft for a few seconds before it started pelting against the windows. Thunder rattled the foundations of the house. The sense of relief and calm Barry felt belied the angry weather outside.

Barry was feeling so grateful, he decided to surprise his parents by clearing the table before they got home. We walked over to the table and, half paying attention, picked up the bowl of porridge he’d left. When he went to lift it up, he was shocked by how light it was… and that was when he realized it was empty.

It hadn’t been empty when he left it.

Barry felt his heart rate picking up again. No. His mother had eaten it. Or his father. His mother or father had eaten it, and then left the empty bowl at the table. That made sense, didn’t it?

Barry slowly backed out of the kitchen. Suddenly, the whole house felt dark. Barry started turning on all the lights – the family room, the dining room, the living room… but when he turned on the lights to the living room, he had to do a double-take.

The living room was where the family kept a lot of items of sentimental value, like the baseball bat Barry used to play with years ago. The living room was where the family kept their three wooden chairs, lovingly made for them by Barry’s grandfather around the time he turned five. Barry had been so proud to have his own smaller chair that sat right between his parents, that way, he could read his Goosebumps books while safely surrounded.

Barry felt a crunch beneath his foot. He lifted it up and saw he’d stepped on a piece of splintered wood, from his chair. While the chairs belonging to his mother and father were fine… his chair was in pieces.

Barry backed out of the living room and towards the stairs that led to the second floor. He looked up into the darkness, frozen in place, listening for any sounds. After a few moments of hearing nothing, Barry was reassured. He turned to walk back into the kitchen… and then he heard the floor creak upstairs.

Panic tore through him. He started to run towards the front door, out into the storm, to wait for his parents to come rescue him in the pouring rain. But then, he felt a strange pull. Almost as if something in the air was dragging him away from the front door, and back towards the center of the house. Normally, Barry would have fought that feeling… but tonight, something felt different. So instead of leaving, he calmly walked back into the living room, and picked up the baseball bat he hadn’t touched in years.

Barry slowly climbed the stairs. The storm was picking up now. Barry had learned the trick of counting the seconds between the lightning and thunder to figure out if the storm was getting closer… and it was.

Barry reached the landing, then rounded the corner and started up the next flight of stairs. He went one step at a time, staring ahead of him, and wielding the bat.

The first doorway he reached was the one to his parents’ room. He flipped the lights on and jumped into the room, ready. The bed was unmade, but the room was empty.

He backed out of the room and walked into the bathroom. He turned the lights on and yanked the shower curtain back. There was no one inside.

He left the bathroom, then turned to look at the door to the last room... His own.

He walked towards his room, one step at a time.

He flung the door open and turned the lights on. He ripped open his closet and rifled through the clothes, knocking some pants and shirts down in his haste. Nothing.

Barry turned to look at his bed, then felt his blood run cold. There was someone in his bed.

But then, he did a double-take, and realized he was just looking at the piles of laundry he’d promised to clean. He let out a sigh of relief, and then a nervous laugh. He dropped the bat and rolled his eyes at how worked up he’d gotten.

He decided there was a lesson in all this, and started to finally fold the clothes. He folded two shirts and a pair of underwear, and then… he heard it. The sound of someone breathing.

As Barry backed away in fear, someone tall, thin, with long, blonde hair rose out of his bed, knocking away all of the dirty clothes. Barry screamed and grabbed the baseball bat.

When Barry’s parents arrived home five minutes later, they called out for Barry. He didn’t answer. Confused and concerned, they looked in the kitchen, the family room, the dining room… and stopped to stare with dread at the broken chair in the living room.

They raced upstairs, praying nothing bad had happened… that Barry was just listening to loud music in his headphones as usual.

When they entered his bedroom, they found him. He was panting, holding the broken remains of the baseball bat in his hands. Laying at his feet was the unconscious body of the criminal the radio had described.

Barry’s mother, shaking violently, called the police. His father had no words, but put his arm around him, offering Barry a much-needed gesture of approval.

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