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My breath smokes the cold air, and I hug my free arm around my waist. She’s not picking up. My phone rings again.
And again.
Fuck.
A second passes and I’m listening to her answering machine. “If you meant to call October Brambilla, you almost found her. Try calling later.”
Almost found her.
I expel a heavy breath, about to call again just to hear her voice a second time.
My answering machine is just an automated voice. I’ve never even bothered recording a personal message. Not that many people are ever trying to find me.
What if Amelia already ran into October and told her about my arrival into town? What if she’s purposefully screening my call?
Hurt punctures my confidence, but I’m still holding out some hope that October won’t be pissed if she sees me. We’re still friends.
At least we were yesterday.
I ditch my suitcase on the sidewalk and creep into her yard. Light still glows from her bedroom window. Top left. Lacey white drapes obscure the inside.
Okay, time to find a stone. Or a pebble. Definitely not a rock. I scope out the bed of purple pansies and quietly tiptoe through them to snatch a flat stone.
I brush the dirt off because if I’m going to throw a stone at October’s window, it should be a clean one.
How absurd, Zoey. I almost laugh at myself.
Seriously, if I told myself three days ago that I’d be creeping through the Brambilla’s flower bed, I’d have also told myself to seek professional help.
Too late for that.
I lick my dried lips and eye my target.
The stone sails out of my hand and connects with the window. What I think is going to be a light tap on the pane in reality is more of a soft crack. I hold my breath.
It didn’t shatter, thank God.
But a nasty fissure runs through the glass.
Note to self: don’t underestimate your own strength.
I see a shadow move, and then a girl shifts the lacey curtains and opens the window with two hands.
October sticks her head outside. Brown hair billows around her heart-shaped face. The strands flutter in the wind. Ethereal sort of exquisiteness that causes my lips to tick up, blush to rise. She’s six years older than I remember, but she carries the same self-assurance. She’s the kind of beauty that’d be carved out of wood and attached to the bow of a ship. She’d lead Vikings into battle and pirates out to sea.
“Zoey Durand.” She says my name like I’ve been caught in her web. Neither friendly nor coarse. More cold and unfeeling, like she’s calculating how to eviscerate her prey.
Her icy gaze is just as ruinous.
I blink slowly. My eyes pinned to her. “Amelia told you.”
She assesses me in a slow up-and-down. “Stay there.”
I don’t have a chance to reply. She closes her window and disappears. Cold nips at my neck and I rock on the balls of my feet.
“She doesn’t hate you, Zo,” I whisper to myself. “Amelia is wrong. She got it wrong.” My words do little to pump up my spirits and sunken morale. October Brambilla is kind, even if she seems like a cold ice queen. She’s the person who broke into my locker just to give me pastries and an encouraging note. Every day.
For three years.
I cradle that truth close to my chest as I blow out a nervous breath.
This will be the first time we’ve been face-to-face in six years.
It’s my last thought as her front door opens. Now in a white faux-fur coat and knitted mittens, she steps over the flower beds to meet me on the small patch of grass.
October stands tall and confident like she was birthed on Mount Olympus. At least she carries herself with the raw grace of a god.
I can’t mistake what’s on her shoulder. Two tiny birds. She’s not just a Wonder Woman, Aphrodite, supreme beautiful being—she had to go and become a Cinderella too? She would be a Disney princess. Do the birds flit around and dress her in the morning?
It’s unfair.
How awesome she is.
How lackluster I am.
The bluish-feathered birds perch on a place I wish I could touch. Her shoulder. Chirping with their tiny beaks. Both have white heads with blue bodies, but one appears more violet-colored.
As soon as October approaches, the birds fly at me.
“Fuck, fuck.” I duck as her birds flap at my face. Going for my eyes! “Are they attacking me?” Did October just sic her pet birds on me?! I shield my face with my forearms and wiggle left and right to avoid being pecked to death. “Octo—”
“Figgy, Rosemary—bad girls.” Concern pitches her voice. Is she scared I’m going to smack her pets out of the air? “Come back here now.” She whistles a tune repeatedly.
One pecks at my cheek. I wince.
“Figgy.” October rushes closer.
I’m crouching, hands over my head. Face in my lap. Waiting for the Death by Two Tiny Birds to end. And a breath later, the flapping and chirping stops.
