HUGHES
Idon’t know why I hugged her. Probably because I’m terrible and awkward at flirting.
Willow looks at me like I have three heads.
I laugh, trying to play it off as a joke as I release her. “You can’t tell me you don’t think I look great in the trench coat.”
“At least you’re not wearing it with sweatpants.” Her eyes slide down my body to my boots. “At least I assume there aren’t sweatpants under there.”
“I’d open this up and show you, but I’m actually very close to freezing to death here.”
“I knew it!” she crows. “I knew you were cold. The Trekhaven is on First Avenue. They have warm coats.”
“My nana bought me a coat, but it’s bright red,” I complain to her. “And it has a matching hood. I’ll look like ski patrol.”
“Then buy your own coat, asshole.” She laughs.
“You don’t know my nana. If I show up in a new coat, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Oh my gosh.”
“Oh come on, if your granny bought you a gift and then you went out and bought an identical one, she’d be ticked,” I protest.
“No, actually, I think she’d be very happy if I came home with a new sex toy.”
I double over laughing. “Stop, you’re pulling my leg. Your own grandmother bought you a sex toy?”
“Shh!” She giggles. “Not so loud, this is a family-friendly event.”
“What kind of sex toy? I mean, like, what does that even mean? Like a dildo?”
“Yeah, it’s called Santa’s Beast and—”
I collapse, hand over my mouth, against a speaker pole. “You’re lying!” I grab her arm, and she hauls me up. “You’re lying. That’s horrible.”
“I know, right?”
I almost—almost—ask her if she’s actually used it, but that would be really awkward.
“Ah, young love. How revolting.”
“Lilith, heyyy!” Willow waves to a pale-skinned young woman with long raven black hair and dark, soulless eyes.
I shiver, and not from my poor clothing choices.
Lilith’s dark eyes bore into mine for an excruciatingly long moment, then she turns back to her customer. “Steep these leaves for five minutes in boiling water,” she instructs, handing over a sachet of parchment paper.
I stare at the older woman.
Lenore Merriweather.
“Hi, Mrs. Merriweather. I’m so sorry for your loss,” Willow says, going in for a hug, thinking better of it, then patting Lenore awkwardly on the shoulder. “Gran is making quiche lorraine for you.”
The widow stares at Willow. Her face is splotchy and red. She looks like she’s about to faint. “I hate quiche.” Then, silently, she turns and hurries away.
Willow tugs on her sweater collar.
Next to me, a black cat seems to materialize out of nowhere and meows loudly.
