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“The rain is letting up,” October whispers, and this time, I tighten my hand around hers.
To Brian—my dad (so weird)—I nod to him and go through the motions. Still in a state of disarray. “I’m looking at plane tickets tomorrow.”
He simply nods back. But he sniffs hard, wipes his runny nose with his shirt. “Here.” He digs in his pocket and hands me what he refused to give Colt.
The catamaran keys.
“Save your money tonight. You and October can stay on my boat. It looks like the storm will pass soon. It shouldn’t be that rough at the dock.”
I stare at the keys. “Thanks…” Should I call him Brian? Is that strange now?
He walks away, leaves into the kitchen. The back door clatters behind him, and all I know is I want to be alone with October. I want to be out of the Pelican and somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.
CHAPTER 29
October Brambilla
“Right now I don’t care about myself—”
“You should,” I cut Zoey off while I lock the catamaran from the inside. “There is no one you should protect more or care about more or respect more or love more than yourself.”
“Shouldn’t you follow your own self-loving logic, Kenobi?” Zoey tosses her backpack-purse onto the galley countertop. “Or do you really think you care about your safety more than mine? Because you’re giving that aft window a nice threatening glare.”
I am glaring out of the aft window. On edge knowing her curse is attached to that angry weasel. If he followed us here to hurt Zoey, he’ll have hell to pay—I swear to that. But we need to be prepared. I grab the only chair out from under the chart table and I wedge it underneath the door handle.
He won’t get in. Not tonight, at least.
I back up from the door. “I’m not the one with the stalker.”
“And I’m over-the-moon happy about that.” She slips me a small smile, and my chest swells with bittersweet longing.
This might be our last night together. Whatever happens from here, we can’t really foresee. Zoey is leaving for Chicago, and my life is headed where I never expected. But I can’t rewrite the past, and I’m done living in a dead purgatory.
Zoey opens a few cupboards. “How sure are we that I’m cursed?”
“Seeing as how I asked Colt to escort us to the docks in case your unhinged ex jumped us from the shadows”—I peer into the mini-fridge—“I’d confidently say one-hundred-and-ten percent.”
Seven jars of buffalo dill pickles. Fizz Life soda cans. Leftover fried catfish and hushpuppies.
Interesting.
Brian’s 42-foot sailing catamaran might be collecting algae on the outside hulls, but the inside is surprisingly tidy. I don’t remember seeing much of the inside from the few times I was invited on his boat as a teenager.
Pots and pans are stored neatly in the galley cupboards. The U-shaped booth’s dining table is wiped clean. No dirtied clothes or unorganized clutter. And still, the catamaran appears lived-in. Photos dangle on a wire with clips, and the pantry and fridge are well-stocked. We help ourselves to cheese cubes, grapes, and crackers.
Zoey finds a bottle of white wine. “Over a hundred-percent—that sure, huh?” She pops the cork, and I slide two plastic wine glasses over to her while she asks, “What happens if I lose a finger in two years or get in a car accident?”
She knows the answer.
“Hmm?” She has a fucking wiseass smile.
Zoey shouldn’t be this cute. Standing there, gesturing at me with her wine glass with a hearty dose of confidence, her messy blonde hair framing her pretty face.
I ease back against the galley stove. “Your first misfortune is your greatest,” I tell her what we’re told as young kids. What she already knows. “And so it will be written in history.”
“And so it will be written in history,” Zoey repeats with a short nod. “My dad always told me that to be double or triple cursed usually means you’re dead.” She winces. “I guess he’s not my dad. He’d be my…?”
“Grandfather.” I can imagine she’s tumbling through a lot of emotions. I felt a mess of them when I learned my parents weren’t missing but just willfully gone. I watch as Zoey skates her fingers along the chart table’s maps and navigation tools. “Are you angry at Brian?”
“Strangely, no.” She frowns. “I just keep looking at Brian’s things and thinking, you’re my dad. This is my dad’s boat. My dad’s binoculars.” She picks up the binoculars, then plucks a photo from a clip and flashes me the picture of a little Zoey, about six or seven, on Brian’s shoulders. “He’s told me this is his favorite picture—out of all the fucking pictures.” Her eyes well. “I just thought he was a grouchy older brother who liked to do shit with me, who brought me to and from school, who cut the crusts off my PB&Js.” She passes me the photo.
