We pass the iron gates, fiberglass skyscrapers climbing into the sky, and old buildings choked in ivy, rotting under their own decay. Above, the stars scatter like silver dust across a misty sky, while headlights slice through the fog.
I grew up here, listening to ghost stories about how this town was haunted. I never believed them. To me, the place has always felt enchanted.
Once I glide into the parking lot and kill the engine, I open the door for her.
She rolls her eyes and steps out. I hold her hand, and she tries to tear herself away, but I grip harder, squeezing gently.
I lean down and brush my lips against her forehead. “This is a date, Lilac. Start acting like it.”
“A date I didn’t agree to,” she snaps.
We stroll to the counter, and I pay for our skates. I amble her toward a table, peel off her shoes, and slide the skates onto her small feet. Then I remove my shoes and put on my own.
Techno music pulses through the speakers, and neon lights flash brightly, assaulting my eyes.
A waiter dressed in white pours a glass of beer and sets the jug on the table, then collects our orders before leaving.
Lilac types on her phone, then sips the foamy beer.
She also doesn’t know that we’re going to be married yet. For my plan to work, I need information about her father.
“Lilac.” She continues to play on her phone, so I repeat, “Lilac.” It’s like she doesn’t hear me. I clear my throat. “Lilac.”
“What?” she answers.
She does that a lot, ignoring me when I call her name.
The waitress brings our meals.
She digs into her mozzarella sticks. “I’m sorry. I was distracted by something on my phone.”
I down my glass of beer. “Where did you go to high school?”
My question startles her. “Uh… in Florida.”
I scrunch my nose. “What part of Florida?”
She sets her phone down on the table, then bites her bottom lip, her shoulders tense.
“Destin. It’s a small town.”
“What was the name of the high school you attended?”
“Uh… Northside High.”
“Tell me about your parents. You never mention them.”
Her body stiffens. Eyes wide. “What’s with the questions?”
“I’m just trying to get to know my girlfriend.”
“I’m not your girlfriend. You’re going to marry someone else.”
I ignore her.
“Since you’re in my business… were you diagnosed as a psychopath?”
She’s deflecting; therefore, she confirmed my suspicions—she’s lying about where she’s from.
