I tell him about the train crash and the bank robbery. He knew vaguely about the latter and nothing about the former. I forward him the newspaper articles and listen as he reads them out loud, lulled by the hypnotizing timbre of his voice. When he finishes, we talk. At first, about the tragedies, then about Elijah—born into Antebellum America, married after the Civil War. What might have compelled such a man to suicide?
But then, the conversation shifts, and we’re talking aboutHarry and the HendersonsandThe Lost BoysandGhostbusters, and my deep andabiding love for all things supernatural pop culture in the 1980s. I sit in the window seat as twilight turns to dark, telling him aboutTales from the Crypt, which is campy and gruesome and delightfully over-the-top, and somehow, I’m back in bed while he downloads my favorite episodes, and we watch them together.
Over the phone.
Dad brings me more soup. Twig left a whole pot in the fridge. And we go on talking and watching and laughing.
We don’t say goodbye until midnight.
17
THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY
Ihold a penny in my palm and waffle between two wishes:Return the locked tome without incurring Maggie’s wrathorfind the identity of Molly.I can’t tell if my fingers are tingling from nerves, anticipation, or the idea of seeing Jude.
I wish for luck, a vague request that feels like cheating, and toss the penny into the fountain. Water ripples through my reflection. I’m still pale, my eyes a bit shadowed, but I’m not the spectral of death I saw in the bathroom mirror yesterday. It helps being outside in the sunlight, dressed in clothes that aren’t pajamas.
I set my backpack on a bench across from a statue poised in the center of a flower bed, and sit down. I twirl the stud in my left ear and watch the bees buzz, getting drunk on the last nectar of theseason. All day I’ve been antsy. Waiting for the afternoon. Now it’s here and it feels like the bees are buzzing in my hands.
“Hey.”
I twist in my seat.
Jude stands behind me with the sun at his back. He’s dressed in a suede jacket over a tan polo and wears a pair of aviator sunglasses, his dark golden hair slightly tousled from the day.
My throat goes dry.
“You look good,” he says.
“You’re a liar,” I say back, smiling at the ground as I come to my feet and slide the strap of my backpack over my shoulder. “But since I’m pretty sure I almost died from norovirus, I’ll take what I can get.”
A breeze ruffles his hair as he taps the rolled-up sketch of Molly against his palm. “I’ve been thinking aboutTales from the Crypt.”
“Oh?”
“Recovering from nightmares, actually.”
My smile grows as we turn in tandem toward Evermore Books.
“How did you discover this show?” he asks.
“I found a box set at a thrift store when I was like, eleven.” We cross the street. “As soon as I laid eyes on the Crypt Keeper, I knew I had to have it.”
“So, while most girls your age were watching dance trends on TikTok …”
“Twig and I were digging up a VHS playerfrom his basement, and the rest is history. I fell in love.”
“With a skeleton in a bowtie.”
“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a man with strong bone structure.”
A smile teases the corner of his mouth.
“Admit it,” I say, giving him a bump with my shoulder. “You had fun.”
“I had … an experience.”
“Well, prepare yourself for another.” We’ve arrived at Evermore Books with its taxidermy raven in the window. “Maggie’s an icon.”
