Chapter 20

I’m not.

– Finnegan

“Are we gonna talk ab—” I begin, staring at Marcella.

“No. We aren’t going to talk about anything. Tonight is not a night for discussion. It is a night for bad decisions. The worst ones we can find, actually. I expect you to respect that.” Gaze planted on the city streaming by, she uncrosses her ankles to cross them in the other direction.

It’s been a week of pretending what happened at the bonfire doesn’t exist. A week of business as usual .

Every time I close my eyes, she’s on my lap. I taste her with my every swallow. I feel her. In my hands. On my skin. Throughout my soul.

When she fled the butterfly garden, I maintained the strangest sense of calm as my fingers threaded into my hair where she—almost lovingly—conked me on the head. As the fire died and everyone went home, I waited for the peace to break. I spent the first few days after the experience expecting a panic attack or a breakdown.

Some undeniable feeling I had ruined everything.

But Marcella came to work like normal. She talked with me like normal. She rolled her eyes and prodded and scoffed like normal. For about a week, we have been completely normal .

Then, last night, she sent me a picture to a sold-out Halloween event with the single command: Make it happen .

And now?

Now she’s a butterfly goddess.

It doesn’t at all escape me that this woman purchased her costume over a week ago but only sent me the flyer yesterday. However, I seem to have lost the ability to mind.

She’s ethereal. Massive blue wings pour behind her. The cape ties to her middle fingers, letting the reams of fabric move with her every motion. Her makeup is extravagant, oceans of blue, white, and black. Her short dress leaves room to display thigh-high black tights, and the low-cut neckline means the pumpkin charm she’s fiddling with rests against her bare skin.

The woman is a vision.

And I am severely under-dressed in a pair of khakis with a green jacket.

“I want a candy apple,” she murmurs. “But I don’t want to bite into a candy apple.” Her face turns toward me. “You know?”

“It is an inconvenient and sticky sort of battle.”

She returns to peering out the window, murmuring aimlessly, “I hope they have caramel apple funnel cake.”

“What exactly is this place we’re going to? I made the appropriate phone calls, but I didn’t exactly research.”

Her gaze skids toward me. Then back out the window. “It’s some kind of fair. But scary. There’s a haunted path that takes you through a dilapidated cabin and into the woods while actors with chainsaws and axes may or may not chase you. But before all that, there’s a spooky little town with food and souvenirs. A couple rides, I think.” Pulling her hand from her necklace, she closes her fingers together against the frills of her skirt. “I do not anticipate having a good time. I expect it will be quite crowded. And loud. And have dozens of people paid to grab at the guests.”

“Is there any specific reason you wanted to do this?”

“Yep.”

She provides no further information as the sprawling parking lot for this Halloween town comes into view. A team in safety vests directs us to a parking spot, then Mark and Jeff open the doors for us. Marcella spills out in a flurry of her wings while I step out. In my slacks and jacket. Like a loser who did not think to prepare for dressing up on Halloween, and then did not expect his unpredictable girlfriend to do so, either.

Even from all the way out here, the creepy airs of the town entrance and whistling music sends a chill down my spine.

Beyond bag check, neon flashing lights and smoke screens obscure storefronts. Cackling actresses dressed as witches lure people into their shops. A cauldron bubbles in one corner, and the woman seated before it appears to have a fake rat tied to her finger so she can continuously pretend to throw it in.

My heart hits the roof of my mouth when Marcella’s small hand wraps around mine. Our fingers thread as her grip tightens, and her nails prick my skin. Already when I look down at her, she seems to be in pain. Lowering my head near her ear, I say, “We don’t have to be here. You can tell me what you want out of this and wait in the limo while I get it.”

Her head shakes, then she tugs me into the fray.

“Come, dearie.” A witch intercepts us, mangled fingers beckoning. “Come, try a potion. Finest brew on the street.” She presents the colorful bottles filling the window behind her. “Anything your heart desires, right here…for a price.”

“Are they alcoholic?” Marcella asks.

“Ah…” The witch clears her throat. “…no.”

“Pity.” She points at the display, at a pink flask clearly labeled love potion . “What flavor is that one?”

“Drop of care. Pinch of cinnamon. Strawberry ambrosia. And a dash of lust.”

Marcella, unamused, hums. “Does it come in a pretty bottle or a plastic cup?”

Both. Apparently. It comes in a little bottle with a cork and two labels—one designating that it is a love potion, the other warning that it is not edible. Then it also comes as a fruity soda in a plastic cup.

Marcella gets both, listens to the witch ramble about how we must share the concoction in order to effectively cast the spell, then promptly pockets the inedible trinket before taking her sip of the drink and passing me the cup. “Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.”

I don’t get a taste.

“Wait a second.” She pulls the cup back and looks in at the faintly bubbling fluid. “This is actually really good. Sorry, Finn. You need to get your own.” Uncharacteristically chipper, she takes another sip.

“You’re supposed to share for the spell to work.” I remind her and reach for the cup. “One sip, for the spell, then you can have the rest.”

She turns her back on me. “No. Mine.”

“Pumpkin—”

She slurps. “I know what’s happened… I’ve fallen in love with this drink! You tricked me, you nasty witch.”

Playing along, the actress cackles.

Marcella murmurs, “I may die of a broken heart once I’m done. Woe is me.” Slurp .

I can’t tame my smile as I order a drink for myself, and a third to share, which Marcella only accepts because I get a sip in before she can wrestle the cup out of my hands.

We meander in and out of shops, on the hunt for something apple flavored with caramel.

Unfortunately, there is a shocking lack of such things. But we give it the best shot we can by stopping anywhere offering food and sampling the menus. As we’re sitting in a gothic, bone-themed cafe, Marcella freezes with her brownie halfway to her lips.

“What is it?” I ask, cutting into my tart.

“What you picked looks good.”

I chuckle, cut a bite, and hold my fork out across the table. “If you like it, I’ll get you one.”

Heat crosses her cheeks, but she accepts the offered morsel, licking a bit of the custard off her lip. “You’ll spoil me completely, acting like this.”

“I’m not remotely concerned. I bet you spoil like a fine wine.”

“Hm…” Without looking, she holds her brownie out to me. So soft I can barely hear her beneath the eerie music pouring from crackling speakers all around, she says, “Is this…what forever would feel like?”

Mouth full of chocolate, I stare at her. Managing to swallow, I reply, “What does this feel like?”

Her gaze startles to me, then she shoves the whole rest of her brownie in her mouth and does not reply.