Not a Willow staff member. Not bad news.
“Iggy?”
I scrubbed a hand down my face, convinced I was hallucinating. But when I lowered it and blinked again, he was still there, wrapped in thick black leggings, a silver puffer jacket, and a lilac scarf, beat-up sneakers on his feet, blue fuzzy socks tugged halfway up his calves. His pink hair was a disaster, half hidden beneath a bright yellow beanie topped with an orange pompom.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I rasped, my voice wrecked from lack of sleep.
Iggy bounced on the balls of his feet and grinned, clapping his hands together, the sound dulled by sparkly grey mittens.
“Oh good, you’re awake.”
“I am now,” I muttered, leaning against the doorframe. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
I waved him on. This wasn’t the hour for cryptic bullshit. I was a sleep-deprived addict in early recovery. If I murdered him and stuffed him under my bed, a jury would probably understand. As long as they were all recovering addicts too.
“I thought we could go watch the sunrise,” he said.
My eyes widened. “You want to . . . what?”
Was he out of his mind? It was late February. Freezing. I was used to LA sunshine, and even with Iggy’s claims about unusually decent UK weather, this still wasn’t exactly ideal.
“Come watch the sunrise with me,” he said, like it was the most reasonable suggestion in the world.
“Not a chance.”
“Oh, comeon,” he whined, pouting. “There’s a little lake just past the gardens. We’ll grab some blankets, raid the kitchens for snacks, and watch the sun come up.”
“Iggy, it’s freezing, and I’ve barely slept.” I crossed my arms. “Also, you’re the one who’s terrible at getting out of bed. Why areyoueven up?”
His gaze dropped. He started twisting his hands together.
“I dunno,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d go outside.”
And there it was.
He didn’t say it, but I understood anyway.
He hadn’t slept because his brain wouldn’t shut up. Because drugs were whispering. Because the numbness was calling his name and he needed something—anything—to drown it out.
I just wished his chosen distraction didn’t involve going outside at the ass-crack of dawn.
With a sigh, I let my head drop forward. “Fine.”
Iggy squealed, clapping his mittened hands, and I’d never admit it out loud, but when I peeked up at him through my lashes, that bright, relieved smile made the bizarre wake-up call feel worth it.
“I reckon we’ve got just under an hour,” he announced. “So move it.”
After pulling on an extra T-shirt, my thickest hoodie, and a jacket, I followed him through the empty manor house towardsthe kitchens. The place felt eerie this early, like we were sneaking through an abandoned house on a ghost hunt.
In a way, I guess we were.
Not hunting them, though. Running from the ghosts of bad choices and old habits, trying to replace them with something better. Something cleaner.
Iggy dug through the cupboards until he found a tote bag and began filling it with snacks. I pretended not to notice when he slipped in an extra box of his favourite British treat—Jaffa Cakes—which he insisted were cakes, not biscuits, because they went hard when stale and there’d been a court case about it and everything.
I contributed by making hot chocolate, pouring it into an oversized thermos I found shoved at the back of the pantry. If we were going to face the sunrise, we were at least going to do it warm.
