Page 61 of Tracking Snow

I stand on the empty sidewalk, fumbling to zip my softening length in my pants. Inside, through the glass, I watch her pick up the spray bottle off the floor and go back to wiping the bar.

Another week.

I don’t really mind groveling, Two says, and he sounds happier than he's been in years.

Is this a game? Six asks, still distressed we haven’t been forgiven. Why are we playing games?

Because look at her, Five says.

We all look at her.

Six is quiet for a moment. Recalculating.

One more week is acceptable, he announces.

I pull my hood up and walk into the dark, not one of us says a single thing. We just keep smiling.

Chapter 19

The 411 on the Man/Men

SNOW

The scent of buttery popcorn fills the air of our apartment, even though Ariel burned the first bag and we had to conduct funeral rites over the trash can.

The rich scent of hot pizza, melted mozzarella, and garlic mingles with the butter on the popcorn. Taking up half of the coffee table on a pink cake stand is a cake Goldie baked herself, and two open boxes of Magic Morsels, cellophane wrappers littering the table and floor. In the corner is an open but untouched veggie tray.

The steel-drum remix of the Hex Island theme loops on the menu screen. Fairy lights are on, blankets are deployed, and somewhere in the throw pillows my phone buzzes with the group chat even though most of the group chat is already in this room.

Hex Island night rotates between our places. Goldie's has the biggest TV, Cinder's has the haunted castle ambiance, and Aurora's is a mystery box, a different rented house every time she's in town, so hosting duty just means texting us a new address and a parking warning.

When it lands on Ariel and me, our apartment is small enough that girls' night becomes a puppy pile.

We're all in some flavor of loungewear. I'm wedged into the middle of the couch in a faded band tee Cinder gave me for my birthday, thin black sleep shorts, and thick white socks shoved half off my feet, my white hair twisted up in a claw clip missing two teeth.

Ariel is curled against me, her long legs tangled with mine, copper hair loose down her back, one tattooed arm buried in the popcorn bowl.

Aurora drops her duty-free bag beside the armchair and folds into it, pink-and-blue hair still damp from the shower, straight off the plane.

"So you know how my account blew up?" Goldie asks from the other side of me. She claimed the far end of the couch in soft shorts and an oversized pink sweater, deliberately letting it slip off one summer-tanned shoulder.

"A brand wants to fly me to Miami for a shoot. A real one." My heart nearly explodes from excitement as Goldie lets out a squeal before composing herself. "But that’s not the wild part. I came home early Tuesday and caught Ted watching YouTube tutorials. Three-point lighting. Golden hour angles. My grumpy werebear husband, who hated how many times I asked him to take my picture until we could get one that wasn’t blurry, now has a notebook on picture-taking techniques."

"A notebook," Cinder repeats, her lips twitching into a smile.

The vampire queen of the Midnight Realm sits cross-legged on the floor, her razor-straight bangs almost hiding her amused expression.

Cinder wraps both hands around a Hello Kitty mug, full of warmed blood that came from one of us. I think it’s mine this time. O-positive, the most common blood type, because apparently my physical features hit the extraordinary quota and the rest of me got assigned basic.

At this point, we have a standing relationship with Denise, the mobile phlebotomist who comes right to our apartment. A blood draw takes less time than cooking Cinder a nice meal, which is basically what it is, just with more tubes and fun little snacks afterward.

Cinder always gets choked up when we do it. Her fingers tighten around the mug, and she has to take a second before she says it tastes like our love for her. She acts surprised every single time because she never expects it, even though we’ve all made it a regular thing.

"He wrote down 'her left side is her power side,’" Goldie says, her bottom lip sticking out like she’s about to die from a wave of feels that inspires. "I found it and cried in the pantry."

"That man would die for your engagement metrics," I say, not surprised in the least. Last time he was in, the big burly bear of a man was talking to me about how many different types of social media stats there are to track.

"Or kill someone," she says with a grimace. "He started responding to haters in my comments. I had to take his moderator privileges away."