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We move the gathering to the Moonlit Tavern: a witch-owned tavern with charmed food and drinks. The air is filled with magic, smoke, incense, and floating globes of light. Soft goth music hums in the background.
The festivities continue for another hour, dissolving into dancing and drinking games. And I have another win: I don’t let myself look at Sterling all night.
Well, not more than once or twice.
I’m at the bar getting another drink when Farrah’s so-called favorite brother approaches, donning what can only be described as a charming smile. At least, it’s pretty clear he’s trying to charm me.
“I hope I’m not too forward,” Val says, “but I’ve been looking at you all night. Your hair—it’s stunning.”
I touch the front of my hair, blushing. It was embarrassing, at first, when I started getting white hair in my early twenties—just a few streaks back then. It’s now taken over my bangs and a patch off to the side of my head, but I’ve gotten used to it. He’s definitely not the first guy who’s commented on it.
“Thanks,” I say, grinning. “All natural, if that’s your next question.”
Someone else jumps in before Val can. “That’s his last question.”
The words are practically growled, jagged, and at first, it almost doesn’t sound like Sterling. But it definitely is. He looks like he wants to kick his brother’s ass—poor guy—and I have to stop myself from laughing.
Men are ridiculous.
“He can ask me anything he wants,” I say, taking my drink from the green-haired bartender.
Val gives his brother a look I can’t quite decipher, but Sterling is unmoving. He crosses his arms, his biceps rippling.
After a moment, Val deflates. “Whatever,” he mutters, walking away.
Finally, I laugh, turning my attention back to Sterling. “What was that—”
But Sterling is already leaving, too.
“About?”
Chapter 5
Sterling
My fathers’ garage may not be haunted, but it is never-ending. Boxes with familiar scribbled handwriting climb up the walls and disappear into the attic above, threatening to overtake everything. Like towers of childhood memories.
If they said they cast an expansion spell on it, I would believe them. How does one space hold this much junk? It seems like every few months, they’re calling us over to help set up for a garage sale, and they’re about right on time.
Of all the ghosts I’ve been forced to face, this one isn’t so bad.
I’m the first to arrive, naturally, sorting through the abundance of junk while my fathers are still inside sipping on their tea. Truthfully, my siblings and I are part of the problem. I wince as I pick up an old baseball mitt, one that comes from my failed attempt at the sport. I then tried two more, both equally bad, before giving up and joining the chess club.
“There’s no way some poor kid wants this thing,” I mutter. “It has to be ancient.”
“You never know.” Pops is quiet on his feet as he makes his way over, plucking the item from me. “It’s still in perfectly good condition. You only ever used it… once? Twice?”
“If that.” I snort and shake my head. “You’re telling me they don’t have better mitts these days?”
He tosses the item into a box with the rest of our old things, one labeled ‘for sale.’ “How much could they have changed?”
I think it should go in the donation pile instead, but it will probably end up there if the neighborhood kids don’t pick it up first.
“I appreciate you coming over,” Pops says. “As hard as we try, we can’t keep this place in shape.”
“Because you’re not trying all that hard.” I gesture to the treadmill and give him a pointed look. “You just bought that six months ago, and you’re already selling it.”
He sighs. “I hate running.”
