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And I remind myself out loud, “I’m not a horrible public speaker.”
“You aren’t,” October says adamantly, like there is no other truth.
“I can do this.”
“You can.”
“I’m actually kind of awesome.”
“You are.” October is smiling out at the road, and honestly, her smile does more than our pep talk. My lips begin to rise, warm affection melting inside me, and all my troubles are shoved hard to the wayside.
She’s smiling because she cares about me. She doesn’t want to see me fail. She let me borrow her outfit.
I inhale these comforting, loving sentiments, and I take an even bigger readying breath. “But maybe I shouldn’t read any passages…because I have none to read.”
“That’s smart anyway. Just answer their questions vaguely. If someone asks, what is your goal in publishing this book? You’d say…?”
“I want to be a gazillionaire,” I joke.
She shoots me a look. “Try to take this seriously.”
I sigh. “Okay…I guess I want to publish a book about Mistpoint to highlight our best landmarks and bring in tourism.”
“You guess?”
“Be more confident,” I nod to myself. “Noted.” I gather my hair in a messy bun. Burning up.
“You can do this,” October reinforces. “Just remember the more you make fun of Mistpoint Harbor, the more my aunt will be offended. We don’t need to cross her tonight.”
“It will be hard not to default to that,” I admit, “but I promise I am taking this super seriously. I mean, you brought baked goods. It doesn’t get any more serious than that.” The sweet scent of buttercream, caramel, and honey drizzle has been torturing me since I climbed into the Jeep. I peek at the delicious, mouth-watering cupcakes in the backseat.
Her hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I’m sure I’ll be scolded for it.”
I frown. “Your aunt didn’t ask you to bring them?” I thought October was instructed to make them for the event, so I’m a bit shocked the baked goods are voluntary.
She shakes her head, eyes pinned to the road.
“So you made them for me?”
“For your event,” she counters like I’m being silly.
“You made cupcakes for my fake book event,” I tell her, unable to hide my growing smile.
“The event is real,” she shoots back in a way that also says, you’re being absurd. “Even if your book is fake.”
“So you wanted me to have cupcakes at the real event for my fake book.”
Her cheeks flush. “What are you getting at, Zoey?”
“I just didn’t know ghosts could care. But this ghost seems to care a lot about this event of mine,” I say into a shrug. “That’s all.”
October doesn’t say anything for a long moment like she’s trying to pick her words carefully. Finally, she says, “All events have to have sweets. It’s just an understood thing.”
My face hurts from smiling.
She glares at me. “You can stop.”
“I can’t though.”
She rolls her eyes and swerves the car into a parking spot. My smile fades fast when I realize we’re here.
The local bookshop, owned by Edgar Johnson who no longer has a sense of smell, contains long rows and rows of hardbacks new and old. Most of the store dedicates itself to selling trinkets, homemade baubles, and then franchised merchandise. Marvel, DC, Harry Potter, Star Wars, The Fourth Degree, and Halway Comics merch take up a good portion of the store.
A handmade banner hangs ominously over a wooden podium. It reads: Local Author Zoey Durand Book Event!
“What’d I get myself into,” I mutter and accidently run right into Edgar’s wife. Jasmine Johnson, a petite black woman with gray braids twisted in a cute bun. “Oh hi, Mrs. Johnson.”
“You like it?” She must’ve seen me eyeing the banner. “Edgar made it himself. We didn’t know the title of your book, so he had to improvise. He was so excited putting it up this morning.”
“Looks great.” I force an unsteady smile, feeling the sourness from guilt. “Thank you for all the trouble you’ve gone through; you didn’t have to—”
“We’re glad to. Edgar and I—we love hosting local events, you know that.” She smiles warmly. “You’d spend hours over there in that chair when you were about eight. You remember that?” I watch her point to the worn leather chair, right near the shelves with Star Wars paperbacks.
Mrs. Johnson remembers me? As more than the daughter of the Mother Murderer?
“Yeah, I remember,” I breathe. “I loved coming here early in the morning. When the fog wouldn’t clear yet. It’d smell like coffee and morning dew and paper…” I trail off, realizing her husband can no longer smell. I add fast, “Not that smelling is that important. I mean, there are so many other things I love about this place…the chair—so comfy.” I’m dying.
Where is October? I swing my head to the left. That’s right—she left to go talk to her aunt. Which is great. She can’t witness my demise.
