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She hangs up the phone and places her cell on the nightstand. “We should sleep.” She stares at her mug. “The coffee might have been a mistake. We’re going to have an early start tomorrow.”
“We’re?” I question.
She tilts her head. “I’m not leaving your side, remember. And if we’re going to find answers for Colt, the best place to start will be at the Lock Ceremony tomorrow.”
I should be happy that October is going to help me, but I’m tripping over the other part.
“The Lock Ceremony is tomorrow?” My stomach overturns.
She nods and takes a couple pillows off the bed, tossing them to the floor. “You’ll have to participate if you want to get in good graces with the townspeople. Which is paramount. I can only ask around about Colt’s mystery girl so much before they know I’m asking for you,” she explains. “Do you need a lock or a ribbon?”
“Yeah, I didn’t exactly remember to pack them on my way here.” Shit, how could I have forgotten the date of the Lock Ceremony? It’s something that happens every single year.
“We’ll stop by my place and pick them up. I have to get my crown anyway and give Thistle medicine tomorrow morning.” She says it so casually, but if I didn’t live here for eighteen years, I would probably think she’s batty as hell.
“Thistle?”
“A duckling. She’ll likely be back to full health in a few months.”
I smile, just imagining October setting the little duckling into the lake. Just like she did years ago when we were in high school.
Some things don’t change. A warmth of nostalgia cocoons me. Until she takes an extra quilt from the closet and tosses it on the floor.
“Wait—” I start.
“We’re not sharing the same bed, Zoey.”
“You don’t trust me?” I wonder, hurt starting to blossom in my chest.
Her eyes lock with mine, and it’s hard to pull away. Hard to blink. “I don’t trust myself,” she says. “And I don’t deserve you.” She walks to a smoker’s chair and switches off the oil lamp, bathing us both in darkness. “Goodnight, Zo.”
My heart pounds hard and loud in the quiet. “Night, Kenobi,” I whisper back.
Unsaid things haunt me all night, and the fact that she’s close but so far away feels like the antithesis of comfort.
I don’t deserve you, she told me.
What exactly does that mean? I thought she was pushing me away for my benefit, but I’m beginning to realize it might just be because she’s punishing herself.
CHAPTER 15
Zoey Durand
“Mingle. Smile. Try not to act like a social parasite,” October tells me when we walk down steep wooden stairs to the pebble-scattered, sandy shoreline of Lake Erie. Home of the Lock Ceremony.
I catch sight of her tight scowl on our descent. “Is that advice for you or for me?”
She zips up her white puffer jacket. “I can’t remember, were you always this mouthy?”
“I grew considerably more loose-lipped thanks to a girl who told me to speak my mind, but I might’ve always had a pinch of verbal diarrhea.”
Her lips twitch.
“Is she smiling?” I grin.
She skips over that and says stoically, “I could use the same advice too. Mingle. I haven’t been very social since…” Her face turns to stone.
I can only guess, since her curse.
“Let’s go,” she mutters even though we’re already going. She’s a half-second from taking my hand—her fingers brush mine, then vanish. She must think against the handhold. I wish she wouldn’t.
Respecting her wishes of not touching, I just stuff my hands in my coat pockets. Her white fur coat. She insisted I wear it. I like to imagine because she thinks it’s pretty on me. But she said, “It’s warmer than the one you packed.”
October. Always making sure I don’t freeze to death.
I smile to myself. Then I smile at her.
If she notices me, she doesn’t let on.
Wind whips at us, and I subconsciously run my fingers over the black ribbon around my wrist. Feels odd. The glittery blue tiny lock in my jean’s pocket weighs heavy with importance.
Importance to this town.
October unhooked the glittery lock off her middle school diary early this morning. On a pitstop at her house. There is no size requirement for locks. Thankfully.
I was always an observer of the Lock Ceremony. I left before I could ever join, and now that I’m visiting, October thinks a good way to ingratiate myself with the locals is to participate in one of Mistpoint’s longest standing traditions.
We step off the last stair and onto the muddy-colored sand.
Welcome home, Zoey.
On the packed public beach, locals begin to turn. They look at me. Stare and gawk. I stare right back, trying to wear October’s fur coat like a goddess, but I sense the gorgeous coat is wearing me. Heat builds, and October scopes out the scene with razor-sharp eyes.
People aren’t building sandcastles, splashing in the lake, or collecting smooth stones. Instead, white tents are set up with pots of mussels and baskets of crostini. And people really are mingling.
