Silas shook off his melancholy. The Night Owl, the town’s always-open diner, was a regular haunt and the five of them met there often. When they’d arrived, they found the doctor and the dancer already there, not surprising since he’d heard them agreeing to meet for coffee.
Lila placed her elbows in a small puddle of strawberry milkshake, and he knew she wanted to find out what Ma McMaster wanted from Ruby. He couldn’t help feeling a little curious himself. It had to be important if Ma had deemed it necessary to come back from wherever they went after this.
He looked across the table to where the three females sat, all with their chins in their hands, all their attention on the couple across the aisle.
“Ruby, what did Ma McMaster want with you?”
Ruby’s eyes didn’t leave the other table. “She wants me to scare a bride into running from her wedding.”
Normally, this would cause a flood of chatter—How? Where? Why?—from the other woman, but this time there was, in modern parlance, crickets.
He couldn’t understand their interest in the dancer and the doctor. From where he sat, nothing was happening at all. Their conversation had died off and now the couple weren’t speaking—weren’t even moving. They were simply sitting there, facing each other, eyes locked. They hadn’t said or done anything for, he estimated, a long minute. Maybe more.
And yet the air between them felt … electric.
The way they looked at each other troubled him. Call him melodramatic, but it seemed like they were having a deep conversation without a word being spoken—and it wasn’t one he, or the others, should be privy to. It felt intense, intimate, and a little dangerous. And somehow and strangely, ridiculously improper.
He shifted his weight, uncomfortable, vaguely scandalized. And hot. Strange because ghosts were immune to temperature.
Lila sighed and looked at Silas. “I heard you managed to manifest some music in the dance studio,” she said, impressed. “That’s some high-level energy work, Captain Blackwood.”
Silas nodded. “I’m not sure how I did it. I was angry with that boy for walking away from his duty.”
“Boy?” Lila scoffed. “Please. He’s a man in every sense of the word. And if I were younger and not dead, I would flutter my eyelashes and swish my beads in a bid to catch his attention. And if he saw me dance, he would drop straight to his knees in awe.”
Silas shook his head. Lila had no issues with blowing her own trumpet. She was frequently absurd. But he knew she tried everything she could to separate herself from the legend, the girl with the broken body and shattered skull, the one whispered about on ghost tours and written about on theMeet Our Locals Who Refuse To Leavepamphlet they handed out to tourists. She hated being treated as a cautionary tale instead of being celebrated. Lila believed she’d been destined to be famous; maybe she would’ve been if fate hadn’t played such a mean trick.
Ruby’s eyes had yet to leave the couple. “Anyone with a brain can see the heat rolling off them. I’m surprised the table hasn’t caught fire.”
Silas understood her words but not her meaning. What did the table have to do with the couple and the way they looked at each other?
Ruby’s naughtiest grin flashed. “Anyone want to wager how soon they’ll end up in bed?”
ChapterFive
The next day, at the one and only dance session she’d agreed to, Wren glanced at herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. Today she wore her favorite dance outfit: a black tank under a slouchy, loose cotton top falling off one shoulder, and loose cotton pants. She was barefoot, and she’d pulled her hair up into a messy bun on top of her head.
She was, ridiculously, nervous. She danced with A-list pop stars and idols, and she’d been the choreographer and dance partner in Kyro’s music video that had won an award at the VMAs. She was good at what she did, and steering a bunch of teenagers in a tiny town in western Massachusetts shouldn’t test her creativity. So why did she feel a bit jumpy, so on edge? Maybe it was because thiswasher hometown, and the residents were people who’d watched her grow up. They knew how hard she worked and had seen her practicing in the old community hall with its hard floor, the memory of which made her body ache. Over the years, they’d listened to Luna boasting about her, and many followed her career.
They knew her history, her friendships with Poppy, Thom, and Hayes. Even with Benji, Poppy’s fiancé and Thom’s brother. They were probably gossiping about Kyro and his proposal. They’d recall that they’d met Alex, that he’d eaten at their establishments and slammed back tequila at the local bars. They were probably wondering when she’d “settle down.” She needed to prove to them, herself, that this was her choice, not a retreat. Or an exit.
Wren heard the buzz from her phone on the bench and picked it up, her heart bumping when she saw it was a voice message from Alex. Her finger hovered over the microphone icon, wanting, but also not, to hear his familiar voice.
“Wrennie, when am I going to hear from you? I need to talk to you. I have things to say, things I need to hear from you. Will you, for the love of all that’s holy, call me back?”
The sound of his voice hit her hard, releasing memories she’d thought she’d buried, but which came in hot and fast. The endless hours in dance studios—shouting, laughing, collapsing on the floor with their feet braced against the mirror, lungs burning. The fist bumps and the hugs, and feet and fists drumming in childish temper tantrums. Then that unbelievable moment when the routine fell into place, when it soared, and joy filled every inch of the room.
She remembered late-night burritos and hot dogs. Beer and tequila. Falling asleep, heads together and limbs tangled, on trains, on couches, on studio floors. The ferocious arguments followed by frustrated tears. They’d shared dreams, revealed insecurities, and old childhood hurts. And all of it had been wrapped in the easy, soul-deep certainty that trust was absolute and that they were each other’s person.
Then Wren forced herself to remember how it had ended.
Their kiss, the one they’d avoided for years. The magic of it. Unable to express herself, she taught him the dance—one born out of a decade of experiencing every emotion with him—that she’d created for him. His meeting Jess, and the way he handed over her routine as if it hadn’t been her love letter to him.
She’d told him all that. With tears sliding down her face, every scrap of courage burning her chest and throat, she’d asked him to choose her. Reminded him that they knew each other, that it was real, and tested. How could he choose short-term Jess over long-termthem?
He’d walked away.
Should she meet him again? Hear what he had to say? She so wanted to, just as she wanted to rewind time, to be the girl she was before he walked out of her life: happy, professionally fulfilled, her best friend and creative partner at her side. The possibility of “them” hovering just out of reach. She was so damn tempted.
