I looked down at his open palm and then back up to his unremarkable brown eyes that were only filled with a needy desire for acceptance.
Taking his hand, I gave it a squeeze more than a shake. “Bale Halloway.”
“Nice to meet ya, Bale!” He turned and presented his hand to Corbin with the same vibrant energy, attempting to dispel the tension that had built up around our table.
“Corbin,” he muttered with a quick shake of the man’s hand.
“Didn’t quite catch a last name there, Corbin. As I tell all my clients, a person without pride in their identityrisks losing their sparkle in the universe. It’s step ‘P’ in my seven-step program.”
What the fuck type of drugs did this guy take?
I began to reconsider my initial opinions on his daughter. Harlow may very well be as rare as a godsdamn purple pumpkin if this is what she had grown up with. The corn maze hunt could potentially turn into a mercy killing if she were truly related to this fool.
Corbin made a movement reminiscent of a violent ruffling of feathers that he currently didn’t have.
“Just… Corbin.”
“Aw, come now. There are no strangers in a place like this.” He gestured at the mostly empty space around us.
Taking one for the team, I interjected myself. “Look, Wayne?—”
“Wade,” he corrected, but I waved a hand dismissively at the slight.
“Right,Wade. How are you liking Falston so far?” I inquired without truly giving a shit about his response.
He immediately launched into some long-winded spiel about the beauty of nature, how the town exemplifies step ‘E’ of his fucking bullshit program, and the value of people coming together in small communities.
I drowned most of it out, watching as the rest of the Council shared glances amongst themselves. Something unreadable passing between them all. It wasn’t just a disinterest in Wade’s passion for acronyms; it stank of one of their schemes.
Sheriff Hawkins, for all her faults, graciously put an end to the rambling.
“Wade, I wouldn’t waste your breath.” She led the group away, then tossed over her shoulder as she perched on a seat at the lunch counter. “They aren’t even eligible to vote on matters of the town. Corbin and Bale are merely honorary residents of Falston; their land is just beyond the town’s official borders.”
Not by choice. They had redrawn the maps, leaving our land in an unincorporated grey patch of no man’s land. But one day, Corbin and I would take back what had been lost.
One fall festival at a time.
Chapter
Six
Leaping up onto a weathered oak barrel outside my bedroom, I pushed my way through a hole in the screen to shimmy into my cottage through the open window.
My feline body bent and curled to squeeze through the small space gracefully. Carefully stepping across my desk, I hopped down onto the seat of my swivel chair. The landing of my weight prompted it to spin a half rotation before I leapt off.
Once all four of my paws were on the aged wooden floor, I shifted back into my human state.
Everything in the modest bedroom was precisely how I had left it. The walls of my bedroom were a dusty shade of purple with hues of grey mixed in. They complimented the darker purple bedding on my queen-sized bed, which was just barely made with pillows haphazardly scattered across it.
Underneath the bed, shoes were tucked away, except for a pair of slippers. The fuzzy slip-ons with an embroidered cat face on them had been last year’s Christmas present from Beth, kicked off in haste this morning.
The laundry basket next to the window was full of clean clothes I hadn’t folded in a week, and the accordion closet doors were popped open ever so slightly.
My bedroom was what I liked to call organized chaos. Everything had a space, and it all made sense in my brain, just no one else’s. The desk had multiple piles: invoices, research, office supplies, and that one corner that I refused to acknowledge existed.
However, there was one area of my bedroom that was my pride and joy. It was the bookshelf in the corner, and it was probably the most put-together thing in the small space. Each of my favorite books were in pristine condition, each shelf spotless of dust, and just enough spacing to allow airflow and prevent mold. Not to mention, I had specifically placed the bookshelf in a corner where it wouldn’t sit in direct sunlight to avoid any fading.
I exhaled a breath of relief, my hands brushing off my sweater out of habit. There always seemed to be an invisible, supernatural film that clung to everything after shifting back. Something akin to lotion that was too tacky on your skin, too much humidity clinging to fabric, or that feeling of not having washed all the shampoo out of your hair.
