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“To what?”
Her eyes snap up to mine. “Protect you—make sure you don’t get yourself killed, you idiot.”
Oh.
I do my worst at stifling a smile.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not funny.”
“You keep saying that.”
Her lips almost tic up. Our hands are still together. Warm and soft and wanting. We both look down. Noticing the simple yet devastating embrace. One we can’t shake off that easily. We’re destroying each other.
Annihilating our tenacity and the persistence we’d cradled for six years.
The determination to never meet again.
And now we’re touching.
Now we’re not letting go.
And the minute passes in a long beat. Too long.
Because when we both do finally break apart, thick tension strains the air. She glances away. Can’t look at me for a second. Hurt punctures my heart, and I’m waiting for October to cast me out. The anticipation wrenches my soul.
“October—”
“I’m not done talking with you,” she interrupts quickly. I let out a deep breath before she says, “But we have to go somewhere more private.”
“Where did you have in mind?”
CHAPTER 6
October Brambilla
She’s back.
It’s hard to believe I’m seeing the blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl in the flesh. My aunt called her a frightened little rabbit—and for the most part that’s how I’ve always seen Zoey. Fragile. One good kick away from shattering completely.
But she does seem different now. She’d have never even risked coming to my house when we were teens.
Swiftly, I shut the door to the small shed. No one but my younger sister and I use this old, wooden solace. A canoe and a couple bicycles lean against worn siding. While a small cot, nightstand, and lamp are shoved in the corner. A table takes up the middle of the uneven floor where different shells, beach glass, and trinkets are scattered.
I watch Zoey appraise the beach glass and shell windchimes that cascade from the wooden ceiling.
“Babette has really improved from making earrings…” Zoey says with genuineness that compels me towards her. She’s always been sincere, even naïvely so. “These are beautiful.”
She remembered my sister’s hobby. A part of me craves to take Zoey’s hand and draw her down onto the cot, to spend hours catching up. Truly catching up.
But I can’t.
Things are different now.
I’m different.
Even if we kept in touch through texts, we never dug deep enough to uncover the depth of what happened here.
“We’re not talking about my sister,” I say with force, urgency. I don’t love that the importance I carry derives from my lineage. From the Brambilla name. But instead of shying away from who I am, I’ve had to embrace it.
Aunt Effie—bless her wretched heart—once told me, no one listens to cowering, stammering little girls. Speak well and like you’re someone to fear.
I couldn’t have been older than five. And she was right. So I don’t try to soften my words as I say, “Why are you back, Zoey?”
Her cheeks flush as she spins to me. “I’m…I…” She crosses her arms over a black turtleneck. Pushing up her breasts, and I imagine what it’d be like to lift off her sweater. To snap off her bra—to press my lips to her lips and shove her against the shed wall.
To feel her smooth skin beneath my fingers that’ve longed for warmth. To consume Zoey like she’s been silently consuming me.
You shouldn’t think this.
But I can’t stop.
Does she still wear those thick razorback bras? Her sun freckles along her nose and cheeks have faded. Does she still have the constellation of freckles on her lower back? Or have those faded too?
Has it all disappeared?
Just as her blue eyes begin to drip down me, I snap, “Spit it out.”
Hurt crosses her striking features. Features made of genuine, delicate things that completely, masochistically shatter me. Hurt is followed quickly by a flash of concern. “October—”
“You can’t ask,” I interrupt her quickly. “Rule number three. You can’t ask about my curse, Zoey. And there’s no Exception Clause to that one.”
Her concern just churns through her. She’s always been terrible at hiding her feelings. She wears them on her face like the world’s worst poker player. I fell hard for that.
“Have you been cursed?” Zoey says.
I arch a brow. “Way to rephrase.”
“But have you?”
“Yes.” That one word feels hollow. Not enough. Not the full gravity of the situation. So I do a ridiculous thing and spill more. “I’m a ghost, Zoey. I died months ago. So whatever it is that made you come back, I promise it’s not worth being here. You need to leave.”
Zoey steps closer to me. And then closer. One more step. I cage a breath, unable to drop my eyes off hers. Something unexplainable strings her to me and me to her. I felt the tug the moment she entered drama class years ago. The moment her eyes locked on mine with confusion and questions and need.
She stops a breath away.
