That Wheel of Fortune card spins in my head: Everything is going to change.
“Okay, hang on. Be right back.” Honor gives a warning look to the random dude dressed as Freddy Krueger, who has reappeared and is circling us a little too close for comfort. Could be he’s being paid by Axe to scare us, too.
Honor’s held on to her big-sister energy for me, even though I’m an only child, and she’s always fussing over my diabetes. She’ll probably come back with a drink and snacks—and yeah, I probably do need something. I’ve got my insulin pump stashed in my purse, ready for any emergency, but honestly, I’ve hit my drama quota for the night.
I find a chair that’s not too coated in spiderwebs—likelybought in bulk from a Spirit Halloween—away from the party ruckus. I sit and steady myself.
While I’m alone with my thoughts, Bryan resurfaces like the smell of bad milk.
The red flags were all there. For starters, he’s a Libra with a Cancer rising, and I’m a Cancer with a Scorpio moon—astrologically doomed from day one. We never should have moved in together, gotten engaged, or dropped a five-figure deposit we didn’t have on a wedding. Plus, he always loved his Xbox and the Philly Flyers way more than me. Every once in a while, when I went down on him, he’d pat my head and say, “Achievement unlocked,” and when he came, he’d throw his hands up and shout, “Score!”
How did I ever think any of that was cute?
It shouldn’t have taken a “boys’ weekend” to Atlantic City—where Bryan gambled away our Honeyfund—for me to figure out who he really is. I should’ve dumped him ages ago, like after our first date, when he took me through the McDonald’s drive-through for two Happy Meals.
Honor says my “dreamy” nature is her favorite thing about me. But isdreamyjust code fortotally clueless? Maybe it’s not so charming to look at the world through rose-colored glasses, assuming everyone’s doing their best. Or to say yes when your boyfriend proposes with a “temporary” ring shaped like the fuzzy Philly Flyers mascot.
“Hey, Red. Haunt here often?”
I can feel Freddy’s creepy gaze on me before I even look up. His beat-up hat dangles from his razor fingers. He’s objectively unattractive, but it’s his eyes that really make me shrink into my seat. Why does being a woman alone at a party feel like being a sitting duck? My arms are crossed, legs are crossed—I’m practicallyscreamingleave me the fuck alone. Yet somehow, this guy still thinks he’s got a shot. That, or he wants to fillet me.
“My date is coming back any minute,” I tell Freddy. “So yeah, no. Not doing much haunting.”
“Is your ‘date’ the hottie in the black velvet? Because, damn, I’d happily be the third.”
Ugh. “Sorry, dude. I’m just really not feeling it,” I say. Freddy is way too tall, especially now that he’s looming over me while I sit.
I decide to stand up, which creates a whole other weird vibe in our body language standoff.
“Oh, come on,” he continues, stepping closer. His breath is as strong as it is bad. Pickles and mustard and a hard blast of cheap rum. I can’t step back, because the chair is already pressing against my calves. I could sit down again, but that feels like defeat. “We both know you don’t have a boyfriend. Girls who have boyfriends don’t dress like that.”
What the fuckis that supposed to mean?I look around, hoping for eye contact with anyone who can rescue me in case this guy gets handsy. Zero people.
“I…I do have a boyfriend. A fiancé, actually. Sorry,” I say. My secondsorryin two minutes. Also, I’m deeply wishing I could pluck my engagement ring out of Bryan’s chicken-fried steak. A ring on my finger would have hinted that there was a large, buff man coming to my rescue—when in reality, Bryan was a delicate five feet five and got winded carrying groceries. That sensitive topic is also why I haven’t bought a pair of high heels in years. I can’t believe I let that guy dictate my shoe game.
“Come on. We could find better ways to entertain each other somewhere private. Be my partner in crime, Red?”
He’s too physically intimidating to be funny. He has at leastfifty pounds on me and a knife hand that’s rubber but could probably still do some damage if he’s provoked.
“Look,” I say firmly. “I’m not feeling great.” I’m not kidding—my sudden shakiness and prickling sweat make me even more nervous. Am I having a diabetic emergency?
Please, God, not now.
He smirks like he hasn’t heard a word I said. I start to move, quick and unsteady, toward the first door I spot—not sure if I’m shaky from low blood sugar or straight-up fear—but he cuts me off, his body starfishing to fill the entire door, blocking me from reaching the handle.Fuuuuuck.
“Let’s not play games,” he says.
“Agree. Game over,” I tell him. Then I knee him in the balls as I yank open the door, enjoying his baby squeal of pain as I slam it behind me. I find myself in the small stairwell that leads to the back exit of the asylum, where the noise outside tells me it’s packed. Good way to lose this loser. I’ll need to tell Honor where to meet me. Last thing I want is for her to end up alone with this jerk. He knows we’re together, and I’m sure he’ll be out for revenge.
Breathing deep—you are okay, Josie, no attack—I step out into the cold air and am surprised to find a total vibe change in the yard.
It’s less horror, more horrible Halloween party.
Morticia the DJ is enthroned on an LED-embedded platform stage, and the writhing bodies below all seem connected in one pulsating disco delirium on a temporary dance floor. I blink, dazed. It’s a futuristic fantasy; gamers and coders and techies are either dancing or lounging on giant pillows. I push my way past a group of neon-painted dancers and a couple making out on a beanbag. The air feels thick and hazy and weirdly warm, probablythanks to the fog machines and outdoor heaters and not an indication I’m about to faint. Right?
I should really find something to eat.
I feel Freddy’s rubbery grip on my arm before I see his face. Panic floods my system, and I swing around, but he’s quicker this time. His expression is a twisted mask of rage.
