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My heart pangs. Babette has told me that she dreams of being romantically touched, but she can’t make that end point. Like she’s forever charting a course for land that she sees in the horizon. Endlessly sailing, never able to reach shore.
Aunt Effie has recovered from her heart attack. “Some innocent canoodling won’t hurt.”
Babette laughs at the word canoodling.
I’m on guard. On edge.
“But there will be no dating,” Aunt Effie decrees. “I will bury myself alive before I attend a Brambilla-Durand wedding. That goes for both of you.” She points between Babette and me.
I bristle. There is no point in arguing now—not when Zoey and I aren’t even dating, not when we likely never will—but my insides curdle at the idea of choosing Aunt Effie and my position in this town over Zoey.
Babette stirs her honey with downturned lips. “No need to fret. I’m not dating anyone, let alone a Durand.”
I won’t make any promises.
In my heart, I’d love to be Zoey’s girlfriend. But that heart is also dead somewhere in the lake, and I know whatever our future holds, my aunt will likely get the outcome she wishes.
Aunt Effie is waiting with pursed lips for my response.
“You don’t have anything to worry about,” I say with bite.
“Good.”
An intensity passes between us, a reminder. As if she’s silently telling me, Remember, child, I know everything.
I try to stand my ground.
But she knows far too much.
“I have to go,” I say, grabbing a coat off the rack. It’s not my favorite white fur coat—that one is with Zoey. But this pink plaid full-length peacoat has earned second place in my heart.
“I’ll text you the details of the event,” my aunt calls out to me. “Invitations go out tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, OB.” My sister waves from the stairs.
“Night, Baby.” My birds squawk at me in loving chirps before I head out the door. On my way to her.
CHAPTER 20
Zoey Durand
I didn’t break any rules. She never explicitly told me, “Zoey, don’t go to the museum and find my name.” But then why do I feel like utter fucking garbage? Like I just spoiled the ending of Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker. Not that October has ever cared that much about the Star Wars franchise, and I’m pretty sure I called her and talked her ear off about Kylo Ren and Rey when it did come out.
So yeah…I already spoiled the whole ending to her. And hot take—I actually really loved that movie, even though I know it’s not a fan favorite of the films.
What does that say about me? That I like the unpopular things. Maybe I have bad taste. Shit, that’s true. I probably have bad taste.
And again, why am I pacing?!
I stop in the middle of the Poe room. Mr. Kelly’s ghost could fly into this room right now, and I don’t think it could disturb the guilt that’s compounded tenfold. What if October thinks this is some sort of betrayal?
Shit.
Sweat builds under my pits. Deep breaths, Zoey.
A knock sounds on the door. “Zoey?”
Her voice freezes me cold, even if it’s the sweetest sounding thing I’ve ever heard.
“Zoey?” she says again. “Are you asleep?”
“No,” I call out and reanimate. One foot in front of the other, I reach the door. October stands before me, searching me quickly from head to toe like she’s taking an assessment of my well-being since she’s been gone.
“All toes and fingers are accounted for,” I try to joke, but I fear the humor falls flat.
She frowns. “What’s wrong?”
Can she see the panic in my eyes? I step away from the door, wringing my hands together nervously. “We should talk.”
She shuts the door behind her. “I have news too. You first.”
“No, you should probably go first.” What I have to admit could destroy us.
She shakes her head, concern building in her eyes. “Mine can wait.” She walks towards the bed and pats the mattress. “Sit with me.”
“Yeah, good idea. This is definitely a sitting conversation.”
Worry builds in her strict posture. “You’re scaring me, Zo.”
“Can ghosts get scared?” I wonder, more to myself than to her.
She frowns deeply. “Zoey, I’m serious.”
I climb onto the mattress beside her. We sit cross-legged. Face-to-face. It feels a little like our first night in this room together. “I’m just confused is all,” I admit. “And guilty. I feel really guilty.”
She touches my ankle, her fingers brushing over the exposed skin between sock and pantleg. That single touch sends a wave of warmth through me.
“Just tell me what’s going on,” she says softly but not at all tenderly. Like ice that’s trying its hardest to melt but can’t. And fuck, does that almost undo me completely.
I suck in a breath, trying to get my bearings in order to explain my betrayal. “I wish I brought my Grogu plushie.” I cringe. “That’s not what I need to say, but maybe having it would make this easier.”
