I jerk back so hard I hit my head on the edge of the suitcase. A dull thud, followed by a flash of pain.
“Are you okay?” Lily-Anne calls worriedly.
I draw a shaky breath, pulse hammering as I search the empty air for Nova’s ghost. She’s vanished.
“Yep—I’m fine,” I manage.
“It’s the one with the fluffy keychain…?” she prompts.
Wrong pocket, I realise.
I find the charger in a smaller compartment. “Got it.”
Sour smoke clogs my nostrils as I rezip the bag, heat prickling my skin. As I straighten, I see Nova, her memory slouched in the backseat like a phantom. She’s wearing her leather jacket, red lace dripping at her wrists, glimmering eyes peering at me through thick eyeliner and sheets of black hair. She stubs a cigarette against the leather, then she nods in Lily-Anne’s direction, voice husky as she croons,“She blushes so prettily, doesn’t she?”
Slamming the door, I press my back to the Audi as I wait for a string ofcars to pass, my chest painfully tight. I exhale, trying to clear the smoke from my lungs.
It’s just a magazine. Just paper and ink.
But it’s one thing to stumble upon a photo online or in a store, and another thing entirely to find it coiled up in my car like a viper.
I draw a long breath, trying to rein myself in. Then I climb back behind the wheel, my tone smooth once more.
“Here you go.”
“Champion! Thank you.” Lily-Anne shoots me a grateful smile as she plugs her phone in.
Once I’m back on the road, she starts hummingEnglish Summer Rainunder her breath.It’s fitting, in that slightly ironic way.
Then I remember the thermos.
“What’s this?” she asks as I hand it to her.
“Coffee, as promised—sans latte art. I didn’t trust the foam to survive the trip. It should still be hot.”
She takes a sip, then her eyes drift shut. “Mmm, this is delicious. Were you a barista in your former life or something?”
“More or less. Back in university, I worked mornings at a café.”
Her eyes light up. “Lucky me, living with a barista.”
A smile tugs at my lips.
“And then you became a music manager?” she asks, watching me curiously between sips.
I nod. It’s a period of my life I rarely speak about—the glamorous, chaotic career of my twenties, tangled up in the tragedy that ended it.
“What do you do now?”
I knew this question was coming. Even so, I’m not sure how to answer. If she’s expecting a recording studio, a wall of gold records, or brunch with a washed-up rock star or two—I’ll be sad to dash her hopes.
I shift in my seat. “I work on the coast.”
“Like a pirate?”
She’s teasing me, and I relax slightly.
“Yes. But pirating aside—I work on an oyster farm.”
