Page 99 of Where Roads Lead

“It’s Frankenstein, obviously.”

He tilted his head sideways in examination.

“Are you sure?”

“What else would it be?” I said, hand on my hip at the mild offense.

“My first thought was some type of serial killer, but considering the artist,” he stared pointedly at me, “I figured that couldn’t be right.”

I huffed, reaching forward to grab the candy from him.

“Well, I was sort of in a rush, so excuse my lack of Picasso-ness. Thank you for bringing this.”

“No problem.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “I wouldn’t want to go down in your novel as the man who ruined Halloween.”

I felt my cheeks flame, hating that he knew I’d even alluded to him in my story, never mind the fact that he was quickly taking on the role of leading man.

Deflect, I thought.

“Where’s your costume?” I looked him up and down.

“Did you really think I’d be wearing one?” He raised a skeptical brow.

“I hoped,” I told him with a cheeky smile. “But I’m sure you must’ve just left it at home, right?”

“More like I left it in the Spirit Halloween store back in 2008.”

I snickered.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to…” he gestured toward the house with a vague hand wave, “whatever it is you’re doing in there.”

“Wait,” I called, “don’t you want to stay and see the first trick-or-treater?”

The desperation in my own voice surprised me, nearly as much as the urge I felt to keep him standing there. I didn’t want to see him leave just yet. There was something about his presence that was enjoyable in a way I’d never admit out loud to him.

I could almost consider him a friend, not just because of convenience or loneliness or the scarcity of people my age to be found in town, but because of a real, genuine enjoyment of his company.

He paused, and for a moment I felt like an idiot for asking him to stay for something so trivial.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked, as if his answer depended entirely on mine.

I wonder if he spent so much time helping me because he pitied me. Or because of how lonely I’d told him I was. It would probably be a kindness to him if I let him go home, enjoy his night.

But sometimes I was selfish. And that part of me really didn’t want to watch him get in his truck and drive away, even if I knew it’s what he wanted to do.

“Well, I think you must,” I said, feigning an air of ease despite the inexplicable fluttering of my heart. “I can’t have you being all alone and grumpy on Halloween after all, can I?”

And despite the numerous arguments I expected him to make in favor of going home to enjoy his solitude, he didn’t put up any fight at all.

Will, as it turned out, was not a cat person.

I’d been changing into my Halloween costume when I heard his borderline frantic orders, telling something to ‘go away’ before I opened the door to the amusing scene in the living room.

When I’d left him there, I’d sat him down on the couch in front of the television that was playing Halloweentown, only to find him now in the center of the room, looking as close to unnerved as I could imagine Will could get.

“Can you get this thing away from me?” he asked, staring down uncertainly at the orange tabby circling his leg. “It’s looking at me with bad intentions.”

“Creamsicle,” I corrected. “Please don’t refer to my cat as ‘this thing.’ It’s rude, you know.”