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Wax drips off wide cylindrical candles onto a round table where Babette and I sit, and I’m not loving being relegated to a chair. But there’s not much else I can do.
“The power has been out for a solid thirty-minutes, and I haven’t combusted,” I tell my brother.
“Be serious.”
“I am! I think I’m fine. What’s the worse that could happen?”
Babette glances up from her phone. “Lightning could strike you dead. The ceiling fan could crash down and kill you—”
Brian literally drags my chair (with me in it) three feet away from the ceiling fan and the table. No one else finds his precautions unnecessary. Literally, Parry and Colt come in and lift the table, carrying the thing to where I am. Careful not to tip over any of the lit candles.
Babette places her chair at the table like we didn’t just shimmy three feet to the left for absolutely nothing.
They care.
I know they just care about me. But I can’t be scared about a looming curse. I can’t freak myself out or else I will jump at every boom of thunder and crack of lightning. Which, honestly, is more frequent after the power outage and eerie with the glow of fire.
Brian is hawk-eyeing me.
“I’m not moving,” I assure him. “See. I’m sitting. I’m breathing.”
He grunts, half-satisfied.
Parry brings more chairs over to the table, and October slips in the one closest to me. Her hand finds my hand, and our fingers thread. She’s not leaving my side. Like Brian, she fixates on every little creak and rustle in the bar. Her clutch tightens whenever the shutters rattle, and I’m fully aware that October is on edge, seconds from pulling me to safety.
The wind whistles like a ghostly spirit is in the Pelican, singing a haunting tune. I’m not scared. I’m not scared. I intake a tensed breath. “Let’s just forget about the possibility of me getting cursed tonight.”
“How about no?” Brian shoots back.
I expect Colt to protest. Figuring he’d be way more interested in the news Babette literally just unearthed. But he’s not trying to dig into Augustine Anders.
I’ve been gone for six years, and the five people in this bar care more about my life than the mystery we’ve all been trying to solve. They love me. I recognize, in this moment, how deeply I’m loved, and I think I took this feeling for granted when I was eighteen.
When I left.
I didn’t realize being loved unconditionally isn’t found as easily as a one-way plane ticket. Being loved can’t be purchased. Only discovered.
Maybe October is right—I needed to go. I needed to experience new things, a new city.
And I needed to come back. To make sense of what’s most important to me.
You can rediscover love in Chicago. I have people who care there, excluding my issues with my ex (obviously), but I can’t tell if it’s the same or if the love here is just a different, rare breed.
Colt, Parry, and Brian join us at the round table—Brian securing his seat on the other side of me. I’m more conscious of how Brian watches Parry sit next to him. How he tugs Parry’s chair closer and whispers something in his ear.
Parry nods. They almost seem…friendly.
They did kiss, Zoey.
And they do like each other, but I’m just not used to seeing them evade the jugular. Parry tries to slump back, but he recoils as a gust of wind wooshes through the bar and extinguishes the candles on the table. Darkening our surroundings.
Fuck, it’s almost nighttime.
The sun should be setting about now, but with the gloomy skies and shuttered windows, time is harder to discern.
With the mystery girl, Chicago problems, and my heart being rebuilt and torn with October, I forgot that Parry is afraid of the dark.
Brian didn’t forget. Striking matches against the box, he relights the candles.
“You okay, Pear?” I ask him.
He brushes a hand through his sun-kissed hair. “I’m dealing.”
On the other side of Parry, Colt squeezes his friend’s shoulder in comfort. Just as Parry jerks from a scraping noise against the siding of the bar. He eyes the locked door. It honestly sounds like nails or a machete raking against the building.
“Whatever’s outside will pass,” Brian says gruffly, sinking back down and shaking out a match. He extends an arm over the back of Parry’s chair. He keeps checking on Parry every minute or so.
“Are you alright?” October whispers to me.
I realize I’m clenching the life out of her hand. I loosen my grip. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” I’m not scared. I’m not scared. To everyone, I say, “I just want to focus on the missing girl.”
Not the eerie noises.
Not fear.
Not curses.
Definitely not the waxy candles on the table that remind me of a séance—and I swear if some ghost of Colt’s haunted past flies out, I will scream.
“Yeah, I think we should settle this,” Parry says, probably also wanting the distraction. He tears his focus off the latched door and onto us. “Baby’s intel is four or five people deep.”
