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“That panicked answer and your earlier quivering smile. I doubt my potatoes elicited such fondness.”
“Piss off.”
“Watch your tongue, Mr. Jillson. I speak it how I see it.”
Grumbling, I shoved a hand through my hair. “He and I are working on saving Lover’s Loop gazebo. That’s all.”
“And Elton John only produced one hit.”
I prodded my chicken. “God, imagine if you could only pick one—which one would you pick?” Hands down: “Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word.” I tossed Uncle Ben a challenging smirk. “‘Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting.’ Or Thursday, in this case.”
He stroked his beard, shrewdly eying me. “‘Can You Feel The Love Tonight?’ Stop changing the subject.”
“Stop assuming how things are with Hunter and me.”
Uncle Ben grimaced and conceded with a nod. “Tell me about your plan to save the gazebo.”
I told him our plan.
“It’ll make a good story. You might be able to claim some historic value, but most likely your biggest power is in exploiting its sentimental value. Stir up emotions.”
“How do we do that?”
“Keep researching your lost letters story, it sounds powerful. Uncover more.”
“More stories? Love stories?” I hummed it over. “The gazebo is covered in padlocks and initials . . .”
Uncle Ben smiled. “Including my own.”
Back in the basement, I pored over K’s letters again. His guilt and remorse were palpable. Or maybe it only felt that way because it triggered my own.
That thought was how I ended up bowed over my desk, penning my own apologies to everyone I’d wronged. Amongst them a letter for Tyler and Uncle Ben, and the one I struggled writing most: Liam’s. I rewrote his three times, unable to capture how sorry I was that I habitually hurt his feelings by claiming he had none.
I simmered in shame before stowing the letters into a folder. Writing them was one thing. Actually handing them to anyone was another game altogether.
With curiosity and boredom as a motivator, I opened the Demon-Slayage chat archives and clicked on a random date earlier in the summer.
July 24
DaMage: Dinner is Fettuccine al Pomodoro with a sprig of basil.
Me: Cool. I’m eating takeout.
DaMage: Careful there, I might fall asleep from the overabundance of details.
Me: It tastes good.
DaMage: Tut-tut. Never any glimpse into the man behind Fawkes.
Me: Wouldn’t want to ruin the mystery.
DaMage: Can’t have a mystery without clues . . .
Me: And red herrings.
DaMage: Oh, you veil enough facts from me. I’m sure of it.
Me: . . .
Me: I’m a male student in my third year of university.
DaMage: That really narrows things down.
Me: My favorite fantasy movie is Jumanji.
DaMage: Okay, you got me there. Last admission I expected. Which version?
Me: Robin Williams’.
DaMage: What about LOTR?
Me: Nope, Jumanji.
DaMage: But . . . Why?
Me: Do you want to spend all night chatting about me? Or kick some demon ass?
DaMage: . . .
His non-committal response gave me a nervous tickle.
I scrolled down the chat, through tactical suggestions to the end.
Me: You’re a fucking brilliant mage. Why are you hitching your star to my knight?
DaMage: Why Jumanji?
Me: It was the last movie mom and I watched together before she died of a stroke.
DaMage: God, Fawkes. I’m sorry I pressed.
Me: Your turn.
DaMage: Sure you want me to ruin the mystery?
Me: Time’s ticking.
DaMage: It’s simple.
DaMage: I write to you, and you write back.
I swallowed a lump in my throat and fished my phone from my pocket. I juiced it in my palm for a few minutes, before mumbling, “Fuck it.”
I spun off a text.
Me: Want to crash an alumni party with me?
An answer came almost immediately. Had Hunter been staring at his phone, too?
Hunter: Let me slip into a tux. If we do this, we do it right.
I smirked.
Me: Bring a corsage.
Hunter: You’ll let me pick you up and drive you?
Me: Don’t you know? I’m all about second chances.
Black suit. Teeth brushed. Phone in pocket.
I straightened the collar and slipped into dress shoes.
Pretty decent. My sandy bangs were behaving for once. Pity nothing could be done for the arrogant tilt of my nose.
I jogged upstairs for my uncle’s good opinion. His jaw unlocking and hanging open was judgment enough. “Next you’ll be telling me you’re ready to move out.”
“You clearly haven’t seen the state of my bank account.”
I told him not to wait up—like he would—and enjoy Downton Abbey for the fifth time, earning me a sofa cushion to the head.
Still chuckling, I answered the knock at my basement door.
Hunter.
My gaze ping-ponged as I took all of him in. His hair was neatly coiffured, his dress shoes gleamed, the gray suit fit perfectly, and the white shirt under his jacket shone like it was newly bought. Maybe it was. Or maybe Hunter took better care of his shit. His wheelchair was different too, fancier—he’d used sleek spoke guards to accessorize.
Hunter rolled back and scrolled a slow gaze from my head to my toe, lips curling.
