The guesses keep flying, and before long, the kids are tugging their parents down the street, ready to start trick-or-treating. Jake and Charlie head off with Noah and Meadow, Theo perched on Jake’s shoulders, every so often emitting a loud “WOOOAR” which echoes down the street. Ryan and Claire join them with Poppy.
Zoe and Tamara flit after them all; their candy referees on patrol. Chase makes a production of flipping his shell back onto his shoulders before jogging to catch up, jumping into the air, and bellowing “COWABUNGA” loud enough to scare the birds from the trees.
Which leaves me on the lawn with Betty, Logan, and Reid, and a steady stream of kids in costumes shuffling up the walkway for candy.
Miso takes the opportunity to launch a one-dog campaign against Logan’s turtle shell, stalking him with all the subtlety of a cartoon villain. The second he turns his back, she lunges, tiny teeth snapping at the edge of the foam until it wobbles on his shoulders.
“Goddamn gremlin,” he mutters, twisting to swat her off, only for her to dance just out of reach and circle back for another go.
Betty hoots from her perch. “Get him, baby Yoda! Bite the mutant!”
Logan shoots her a murderous look, shell askew, while Miso crouches low and waggles her butt, ready for another strike.
By the time Chase, Zoe, Tamara, and Eli circle back from trick-or-treat duty—Logan breathing a sigh of relief as Tamara picks up Miso and distracts her from destroying him—the street is a full-blown circus.
I’m bent over helping a tiny firefighter adjust his plastic helmet when I hear the sharp click of heels on asphalt, and look up in time to see a real-life witch.
Pamela.
She floats up the driveway in a bougie designer witch outfit—black silk cape, pointy hat that looks as though it was imported from Milan. Dylan trails behind her, sulking in a skeleton onesie two sizes too small.
Pamela’s eyes flick over the decorations, the fog, the crowd of neighbors and teammates she doesn’t recognize on my lawn.
Her smile is sharp. “Well. This isspirited.”She turns to me,gaze skating over my porch. “Bit much for a renter, isn’t it, Ms. Parnell?”
I straighten slowly, meeting her head-on. “Good thing I’m not renting, then.”
She waves a manicured hand. “Ah. Well, very…cute. Over the top, though. A lot of fussing to be festive.”
Dylan pipes up from behind her, voice nasal. “Mom says only losers decorate this much.”
The air shifts, and every conversation, every laugh, every whistle cuts off behind me. The entirety of the Storm boys turn their heads in perfect unison. Logan and Eli both take a step forward, shoulders squaring like they’re about to make the evening news, but Logan falters when Eli’s eyes cut to him, perplexed.
Pamela doesn’t even notice, too busy fixing her cape, until Dylan gasps. He’s noticed Chase standing in my yard, and his eyes go wide.
“Oh my god, you’re Chase Walton,” he blurts, barreling past his mom to stand in front of Chase. “You’re, like, my favorite.”
The pivot is so fast, I almost get whiplash.
Pamela’s head snaps up. “Chase Walton? From the Storm?” And suddenly, she’s right there beside her son, lashes fluttering at his giant, ninja turtle form.
“That was the fastest attitude change I’ve ever seen,” mutters Tamara. “Pity his mother still needs one.”
Eli snorts. “Kid went from troll to fan club in ten seconds flat.”
Logan mutters something that sounds like “unfuckingbelievable,” but he stays put. His eyes are on me, soft in a way that makes my chest fizz even in the middle of all this madness.
Zoe folds her arms, voice dripping sugar and venom as Dylan asks for an autograph and forgets to say please.
“How convenient. Chase, honey, make sure you sign nice and big so it distracts from the manners lesson they both skipped.”
Chase plasters on his brightest, fakest smile, ignoring Zoe’s venom. “Of course, buddy. Got something for me to sign?
Dylan practically rips the paper candy bag out of his own hands and offers it up. Pamela leans in, watching with glassy-eyed pride as Chase scrawls something across the cardboard in the world’s most illegible handwriting.
“There you go,” Chase says, handing it back with a flourish. “One of a kind.”
Dylan beams, and Pamela sighs a breathy thank you, clearly starstruck. Then they sashay down the sidewalk to the next unsuspecting neighbor.
