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“Okay, okay.” She takes a sharp breath. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. Maybe I’ll go.” She stands off the bed. I watch her walk naked towards the door, and my stomach lurches.
“Where are you going?” My voice spikes into a higher panicked register. Don’t leave now. We have some hours left. I’m kicking myself for running her out.
“I’ll be right back.” I hear the smile in her voice while she’s out of sight, in the hallway. “I have to get something.”
I slip underneath the comforter and sheets. Forcing myself not to smother my face with the pillow in agony. I remember the feeling of coming with Zoey. Being so close to the woman I love—and I try, I try to push away the nagging, tortured thought of this being the end.
The end of our love story.
The fake book she’s supposed to be writing. I wish I could skip to the last page. I wish I could reread the parts where she says she loves me.
Stop wishing. Ugh. I am about to grab that pillow, and then Zoey returns with her backpack-purse. She slings the thing onto the bed and hops onto the mattress that bounces with her weight. And now she’s straddling me. Only the blankets slip to my hips, covering my waist and lower.
“I have something for you.” She digs into the backpack-purse.
“You bought me something?”
“Sort of. The tickets cost a decent amount, but I had to wait in the longest queue for them. I thought I’d get booted because my internet sucked ass. Somehow, I was lucky in Chicago. Got the tickets, went to the thing, and waited in her line, which was actually pretty short compared to everyone else’s line. But I got this.” She hands me a photo of Jane fucking Cobalt with her messy signature in the corner.
My mouth drops. “You went to the FanCon tour and you’re just now telling me?!”
“Are you fangirling? Is this what a Kenobi fangirl moment looks like?” Zoey is grinning.
I would shove her off my lap, but I like her there. And plus, I can’t stop gawking at Jane’s signature. The picture isn’t on photo paper. Zoey must’ve printed this off the internet. Six cats surround Jane, and she cuddles her oldest black cat Lady Macbeth against the crook of her neck.
It’s adorable.
I look up at Zoey, my eyes misting. “Our rules—we were never supposed to meet again—but you went to the FanCon tour. Just to get her signature for me.”
“Yeah,” Zoey admits softly. “I did do that…I guess a part of me always thought, maybe we would meet again. A part me always wanted to, and I thought if we never did, then I could mail it to you. I thought about doing that…you don’t like it?” She suddenly frowns, seeing me set aside Jane Cobalt’s signature.
“I love it,” I say softly. “But there’s someone’s signature I’d love more.”
Zoey realizes what I’m implying, and she groans, “Oh come on, I’m not as awesome as Jane Eleanor Cobalt.” I’m surprised she knows her middle name, but then again, I’ve probably mentioned it a dozen times.
I catch her chin, then splay my fingers against her cheek. “No, you aren’t,” I agree and her chest rises and falls before I whisper, “You’re better.”
Zoey starts crying. “Fuck me.”
“I already did.”
She laughs, wiping her cheeks, and we share kisses and tears. Zoey finds a photo of just her among Brian’s collection of family pictures. Sorry, Brian, this one is mine. It’s a photo from her eighteenth birthday.
Colt shoved vanilla cake in her face, and she’s laughing.
She signs it with a Sharpie, her tears dripping on the photo. I rub my splotchy cheeks, my throat swelling closed, and we’re hugging when she hands me the gift that feels like a real goodbye.
We don’t let go.
Her hands tangle in my hair. Mine are lost in hers. “I’ll love you forever,” Zoey whispers. “No matter where we are or where we go.”
CHAPTER 30
Zoey Durand
I wake up and October is gone.
I pat the spot on the bed next to me. Cold. Did she make a quick exit? Vanish out of thin air? Sitting up, I hold my legs, trying to fight tears.
Knives stab my lungs with each inhale. Is this how she felt when I left? Like the world is sideways, and intaking oxygen is like swallowing razorblades—I throw a pillow onto the ground. Anger—anger is better than sadness, right?
Crawling out of bed, I slip on my clothes from last night, and I gather my things around Brian’s boat.
My dad’s boat.
The photos.
The longer I’m here alone, the more everything slams against me, and I slide down the galley fridge and cry into my palms. I don’t want to leave.
I can’t leave.
Mistpoint Harbor has the strongest grip on me—not because of these stupid curses or some strange, fate-driven chokehold.
