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The children of the Mother Murderer killing Zoey’s ex-boyfriend—it would’ve been a great tale.
A great lie.
I frown at Amelia. “Why would your mom go along with the truth? She gains nothing from this, and I have nothing to bargain. She could’ve said fuck October and thrown me in with the Durands.” I’ve been expecting to be lumped in with them.
“You’ve been my best friend since we were in diapers,” Amelia reminds me. “She adores you.”
It crashes into me. That this all boils down to love.
I can’t help but smile. One of the oldest sayings in the museum is never fall in love in a cursed town.
And yet, love is the most powerful thing here.
Puddles dry up on the wooden deck of The Drunk Pelican that overlooks the harbor. Zoey and I sit on top of the picnic table with my sister, Brian, Colt, and Parry.
Dirtied. Spent.
But still kicking.
Brian brought out a cooler, and we all drink beers and bottles of white wine.
We watch the clouds clear as the rain stops. Bright afternoon sun finally peeks through and glitters the lake where docked boats sway more gently. The historic lift bridge in the distance lets sailboats pass. Through the windows of The Drunk Pelican, we can hear the jukebox playing Frank Sinatra’s “That’s Life” again.
I peek at Zoey who smiles out at the beautiful weather. She shuts her eyes and basks a little in the sunlight. I have so much I want to tell her.
The anticipation mounts the longer I wait, but I don’t want to ruin this peaceful moment. I splay my fingers over hers on the picnic table.
She curls her fingers around mine, and I look out at the shimmering water. All of us have met grief in this town. We’ve all lost someone. But those of us born in Mistpoint Harbor are crafted from the things stronger than bone. The things that grow out of ash.
The things that endure.
Stories often told here are the miserable, dastardly ones, but there is good to be found. Reasons to stay. Reasons to love Mistpoint.
The beauty of the lake.
The old endearing bar behind us with a broken jukebox and salty catfish.
The late nights at The Wharf where Uncle Milo puts on Lou Monte’s “Lazy Mary” and Julius LaRosa’s “Eh Cumpari” and everyone dances.
The people who’d create mysteries to protect you.
The people who’d crawl through mud for you.
The people who have profound love for you.
With the song still playing, Brian stands up with the swig of beer. The sole survivor. Quietly, he leaves inside The Drunk Pelican.
One by one, they go as silently as the next.
Colt gazes out at the sun while he slips off the picnic table. Without looking back, he heads towards his home. The madman in the lighthouse.
Babette ties her hair into a high pony with gloved hands. The girl who hates to be touched. After a quiet wave to me and Zoey, she walks in the direction of the Wharf.
And then there were three.
Parry DiNapoli nods to us in a goodbye, trying to smile, but like the rest of us—we don’t know when Zoey plans to fly back to Chicago.
He soaks in the sun before slipping away. The boy who’s afraid of the dark. He walks inside The Drunk Pelican.
I sip from a wine bottle. “And then there were two,” I say out loud, glancing over at Zoey, her cheeks smeared with mud. “The girl who survived her ex.”
Zoey takes the bottle. “And the ghost girl who came alive again.” She drinks a hearty swig.
We share a small smile, but my lips flatline. The peaceful moment is coming to an end. “How much time do we have left together? Before your flight?”
Zoey is staring at my lips.
“Zoey,” I snap. “You can’t seriously want to kiss me right now.” God, do I love that she does.
“Sorry, Jesus, maybe your lips shouldn’t be so pretty.” She blushes. “They’re otherworldly.” She takes a bigger swig.
I give her a pointed look. “Your lips are something to be admired. Something worth kissing.”
“And yours aren’t?”
“I didn’t say that.” I eye her lips, craving to kiss her.
“Don’t lie, Kenobi—you don’t want me to be more obsessed with myself than I’m obsessed with you.”
That is true.
I smile.
“Aw and now she’s smiling. I made October Brambilla smile. Call the press again!” She’s shouting towards the lake. “Celebrity Crush!”
I stroke her muddied hair. “You’re insufferable.”
“The ghost loves me.” She leans into my hip.
“I do.” I really do. Our eyes meet in a tender second, and reality creeps back towards us. “You asked where I was this morning. Where I went.”
“Yeah?” She straightens up, turning more towards me. Our knees knock. She hugs onto the wine bottle.
“I was with Colt.”
“My brother?” Her blonde brows shoot up. “Why?”
I explain how he called me. Asked me to meet him at the lighthouse. How we talked for hours about Augustine Anders and my future. How I’m not going to turn myself in.
