“Hey, Bulan,” I say. “You aren’t peeing in the water, are you?”
“Absolutely not!” Bulan recoils. “That was uncalled for! A warlord has dignity.”
I raise my eyebrow. “A warlord? You?”
“Indeed I was! Many centuries ago,” says Bulan, his sorrow puddling around him. “Alas, I am now nationless. And armless. Would you grab me a towel?”
Pleased at his tacit acknowledgment of my superiority, I grin and duck out—but not to comply with his request. Instead, I take a shower of my own. While working my hands through a surplus of shampoo bubbles, I ponder Bulan’s existence.
Following my freshman year of college, I’d been forced to spend a few weeks with Grandma. Obviously it wasn’t ideal, but I hadn’t figured out how to get on-campus summer housing, and James’s bachelor pad reeked of poor male hygiene. Grandma was ecstatic I’d come to visit after more than five years’ absence. Her friends got excited too. Which is why I spent most of my time hiding from them at the public library.
The way Bulan talks, it seems like he was as well-established a fixture in Grandma’s house as her yard flamingos. How could I have missed that when I came to visit? Like, who ignores a severed talking head? I know I’ve been single-minded about getting my degree and qualifying for my CPA license and starting my job. Which might’ve meant I was triple-minded. In other words: too busy. I guess I was just too busy.
And now the tap’s running cold.
Once I’m dressed, I use a kitchen towel to create a landing pad where Bulan can dry off. He may be a severed head, but once you look past that, he really is a model house pet.
“By the way, Sabby, you missed a visitor,” he says as I pat his ears. “While you were singing moodily in the shower.”
A tired hope flickers in my chest. Could Dave and Amanda have returned, after everything, to pay me for the wedding? I would do anything to avoid eating more frozen Italian illness-food tonight.
“Please tell me they were newlywed vampires,” I say.
“Alas! I cannot.”
Though I deflate slightly, I cover it with a scowl. “Then who? Baldy?” We both shudder. “A mourner for Grandma Rose? Remy, recovered from amnesia, demanding to know why ghosts were onstage last night? That fairy guy, Roach? Someone who can rescue me from tidal hell?”
“A person.”
How dare Bulan be so coy. “You’re really not going to tell me who it was.”
“I’m not your butler, Sabby.” For some reason, he blows a wet raspberry at me. “Besides, they left a note.”
It’s true. I find said note freshly tucked beneath the doormat. The text is short and to the point and written in absurdly polished penmanship. It reads:
Sabby,
I was glad to hear you arrived home safely last night. I’m sorry I missed you today. If you’re free, I’d like to see you again soon. Maybe you can join me in a forage on Wednesday night? I suspect you’re a night owl like me. If you want to come, here’s my number.
Yours,
Hanry
“Yo,” I call out to Bulan. “Hanry’s asked me out on a date! Whoo!”
“Don’t say ‘yo,’?” he replies from the other room. “You sound lame.”
So what. I pocket the note, stunned to feel my lips tug upward in an unrestrained grin. I don’t know how I’m managing to smile when my life is crumbling around me.
But then again, this is an invitation for a date. Not even some kind of casual hang, but adate. WithHanry. And he wrote, “Yours.”Yours!
Last night I was ready to be done with Salem for good, and done with handsome foraging men too. But maybe being stuck here for a few more days won’t be the worst thing imaginable after all.
Just the second-worst.
11I’VE REALLY GOT TO START LOCKING THAT DOOR
ONCE AGAIN, I AM NOTin Manhattan on Monday morning. But today, I havegoals.
