Page 86 of Within These County Lines

Xander exhales and deflates into his seat. “Sure,” he says, his voice softer. “I can play you my favorite music from 2015.”

I nod. “I’d like that.”

He takes my phone and queues a playlist. “Do you like ‘Wildest Dreams’ by Taylor Swift?”

His words fade as I remember what he said earlier about his heart. And I wonder—if he always listens to what his heart tells him to do, why isn’t he kissing me right now?

36

The road rises and falls in lazy waves before dipping into the valley known as Fairmont. The roller-coaster ride mimics my emotions, high, low, and uncertain, and my stomach doesn’t seem to want to settle anytime soon.

We’re getting closer to answers. I can feel it. But what happens after we break the curse? Is there still a we when the magic is gone?

I’ve spent all year set on leaving behind this town and everyone in it. But the thought of driving off without Xander riding shotgun guts me. Right now, we’re bound by this weird in-between, this need to escape. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want it to be more—or if I said I wasn’t scared Whitley might be right about him.

When the curse lifts, I’ll finally know if Xander is different or just another name I have to leave behind.

“You’ve arrived,” my phone says. But we’re parked outside a brick building that’s split into a pawn shop and a home improvement store. Both have Closed signs pressed against their glass doors.

I check the time again. The women’s center should be open for another hour, according to their website. It also says they provide free, anonymous counseling, legal support, and education for the women of West Virginia. Dara is listed as their program coordinator.

“Do you think it’s upstairs?” Xander asks, tilting his head toward the second floor.

“Only one way to find out.” I kill the engine, rip the keys from the ignition, and step outside.

The hot air hits me like a wall. It clings to my skin, dragging beads of sweat down my spine. The street is deserted. Most of the parking meters flash red. No one strolls the sidewalk. No doors swing open. It’s like we’ve stepped into a ghost town, a perfect setting for a boy no one else can see.

“Over here,” Xander says, waving me down a narrow alley. I follow him between the buildings and onto a path littered with overturned trash cans and warped wooden planks. Tucked behind the storefronts is a smaller, blue-brick building. A white sign above the door reads Fairmont Women’s Center.

We pause.

“Do you think she’ll believe us?” Xander asks.

I shrug. “When she realizes we can see her, we won’t have to do any convincing. That’s the easy part about this curse.”

He smiles. “I never expected to make so many new friends so quickly.”

“Hopefully she’s nothing like her stepbrother.”

His smile flattens and his gaze falls to the fly-infested puddle at our feet. “Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”

“You first,” I say, opening the door. Its hinges cry out like a dying rabbit in the middle of the night.

The waiting area is sterile and quiet, boxed in by white cinder block walls. A row of faded blue plastic chairs lines the perimeter. They’re all empty. No people to count. No music.

A receptionist sits behind a plexiglass barrier with thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. She sizes us up.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

It’s not Dara. The woman on the website had long hair as black as mine, and hollow, sunken brown eyes. This woman has cropped hair and round, watchful eyes.

“Hey, yeah,” I say, stepping toward the desk. “We’re looking for someone.”

“We?” she asks. “Who’s we?” She leans to the side, searching the empty lobby. The tap of her pen against a notepad quickens.

I turn to Xander, who is standing just beside me. He spins his thumbs in his hands and pulls in his lips.

I forgot. Again.