I grab my brush and run it through my hair, ignoring the pain as it catches on the gobs of gel I used until it sits in an artfully messy way that looks like I care but not too much, and take a deep breath.
Pale skin. Dull brown hair. Brown eyes. I look so achingly average.
Hopefully, my lack of personality will make up for my mediocre looks.
Urgh, this is going to be horrible.
Chapter twelve
Sunshine
Iam now fully aware of what our date is, and to say I’m a little concerned would be an understatement, but I’m going into this with as positive an attitude as possible.
“The backyard?” I ask, hoping I didn’t hear him correctly. I just spent hours torturing myself for him to keep me in my own backyard? It’s not that I’m not excited about it, but when he said date, I assumed he meant we would be leaving the house. Honestly, not leaving the house sounds nice.
“Yes,” he says, looking smug and proud of himself.
“We live in Louisiana. The outdoors is made up of 70% humidity and 30% mosquito.”
“Don’t you worry,” he replies confidently. “I’ve taken care of everything.”
He ushers me outside right as the sun is setting.
The garden looks one step away from being set ablaze. There are citronella candles. So many candles. Entirely too many freaking candles! It has to be a fire hazard. It looks less like a romantic date and more like we’re summoning something evil that’ll convince us to sign a contract handing over our firstborn in exchange for fame and fortune.
Not that I’m opposed, but I really don’t think this is a first date activity.
Maybe a third or fourth?
“Ember,” I say slowly, “are you wanting to date me or sacrifice me?”
He ignores that and gestures to the small wrought-iron table he’s set up near the brightest patch of flowers; the flowers growing in the phoenix ash glowing in the waning twilight.
“I thought we spent enough time inside with the dead, and maybe you would enjoy sitting amongst things that are still alive.”
I soften immediately. Seriously. It’s like melted marshmallow goo in my chest right now. He’s so thoughtful. He can’t say something that poetic and expect me to maintain my sarcastic shield. It’s not fair.
I take two steps forward and immediately trip over something.
“What…” I look down.
Extension cords. For the string lights, I’m guessing. The string lights that are currently off.
“Why are the lights off?” I ask. Maybe he has something planned for later?
He glances at the dark strands overhead, his gaze sharp with annoyance. “Theywereon. They blew a fuse.”
“You blew a fuse,” I whisper under my breath, chuckling at his perturbed expression. A mosquito lands on my neck, and I slap hard to rid myself of the bloodsucking bug. I try to think of something, anything, to say that will help salvage this less-than-ideal but still completely adorable situation. “This is so… romantic.”
“Sit,” he says, pulling my chair out like an old-timey gentleman. I could swoon at the chivalry.
The chair wobbles precariously as I perch on the edge of the seat. He notices my struggle and crouches to fix it, and in doing so, he bumps the table with his massive shoulder. One candle tips over. Wax spills everywhere. We both lunge for it at the same time. The table tilts, and the four other candles tip over and spill their wax all over the beautiful lace tablecloth before dying out. The red wax dries in puddles, looking more like a pool of blood than a candle.
We both freeze, our hands outstretched but useless against the cooling wax.
“This is going extremely well,” I whisper with a chuckle.
He exhales through his nose, a puff of smoke showing his growing frustration, cracking through his confident aura. “The table isn’t on fire. I call that a success.”
