Page 56 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

Talula gave Dahlia a meek smile. “Me, too.”

Then Dahlia waved goodbye and walked away, leaving a dazed Talula on the sidewalk.

“If you’re done with all of that?” Simon growled.

“Jeez!” Talula jumped, looking around for her magical tutor.

“Come,” said the invisible dog. “We have seventeen unicorns to send through a magical portal in a filthy basement. And they’re not happy about it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means watch the horns.”

14

Once the unicorns had arrived safely in Scotland and Simon was left to watch over the café, Talula rode her bike to Dahlia’s parents’ house. The craftsman home boasted a tidy little front porch and an enormous ginkgo tree in the front yard. Talula recognized it a little—Pine Hollow hosted an annual spring cleanup event in the park nearby. She had a vague memory of the Joneses’ first spring in Pine Hollow about five years ago, in their coveralls and mud-splattered boots, taking turns pushing each other on the swing set.

I wish I’d known them better.

Talula tucked her bike by the mailbox and walked up to the front door. Almost instantaneously, Dahlia flung it open.

“Come in, I’m so hungry,” Dahlia gushed. She paused, taking in the whole sight of Talula. “Whoa, that’s a lot of food.”

Talula tried to shrug, but she could barely lift her shoulders—they were weighed down by the majority of her farmers’ market haul plus a few other items she’d been keeping in her Voltlette for special occasions. “I like to be prepared.”

“Girl Scouts watch out,” Dahlia quipped, leading Talula through the entryway, where a homey mix of framed family photos and art covered the walls. The place was warm, inviting, and somehow intoxicating. What was it about being in her crush’s house that made Talula’s body feel abuzz with nerves and excitement? It was a kind of intimacy, she supposed. Moving closer to the center of Dahlia’s private self. Great, I’m getting turned on in Dahlia’s foyer. Talula rolled her eyes at herself as she followed Dahlia deeper into the house. Right into the most stunning home kitchen she’d ever seen in real life. A bright blue gas range with six burners sat in one corner. A modern double-door fridge gleamed nearby. Endless counter space spanned the whole area. There was even a little kitchen island with a built-in wine fridge. Talula never wanted to leave. “This kitchen is beautiful.”

“It’d look better with you cooking in it.” Dahlia winked, taking a seat at the kitchen island. Talula laughed and started pulling out ingredients.

Dahlia poked at a bag. “Why did you bring a cheese shredder?”

“Because sweet potato hash browns.” Talula started rinsing a few ruddy sweet potatoes in the luxuriously deep farmhouse-style sink. “With eggs, chorizo, and a few other things.”

“This is amazing.” Dahlia grinned at her. “Let’s fight all the time.”

“Can we please not?” Talula grimaced. “I’ve been a wreck for weeks.”

“Same.” Dahlia tucked a few loose curls behind her ear. “Maybe we should just hang out more instead?”

“Yes.” Talula looked over her shoulder at Dahlia, her hazel eyes meeting Dahlia’s warm brown ones. Talula’s heart did a fluttery little double-skip. She looked back at her sweet potatoes and cleared her throat. “So, what’s your next story? If you don’t mind me asking after I was a total rabbit penis.”

“You were a total rabbit penis!” Dahlia agreed, leaning her elbows on the kitchen island counter to watch Talula work. “I’m thinking The Great Gatsby, but with zombies.”

“Why zombies?” Talula grabbed a sweet potato and began to peel. She’d always liked the steady fwick fwick sound the peeler made when she got a rhythm going. A light rain began to patter at the windows.

“Because the lost generation? World War I? It sounds cool?”

“Have you heard the phrase ‘write what you know’?”

“I know The Great Gatsby!” Dahlia’s fake outrage was offset by her dimples. “Green light. Daisy loves Gatsby. Old sport. Tom’s racist. Et cetera.”

Talula laughed. “Can’t argue with that.”

The kitchen was warm, the windows full of mist and rain, and Talula found herself relaxing into their usual banter again. “Have you thought about drawing from your own experiences?”

“My experiences aren’t that interesting. Or original.”

“I don’t think that’s what makes a good book.”