Page 67 of Haunt Me, Maybe

“Relax,” Briony said. “The meeting is nothing. Super quick. Normal.”

I gave her a look, not believing her for a second. I’d been here long enough to know better. Heard the conversations in this café; saw the interactions outside the window. I lifted a brow, and she caved.

“Fine. There will probably be at least one dramatic interruption and possibly an argument about folding chairs. Happy?”

I smiled despite the tightness in my chest and hung up my apron. Might as well get this over with. Wes stood beside the apron hooks, next to the window. Face stern, he watched the square with a stillness that meant he was already scanning for threats.

“Nervous?” he murmured, lips curled in a half smile. My silence was answer enough. I knew he heard us talking. “It will be fun,” he promised. “Entertaining at the very least.”

He would know, I guess, having been in this town for so long. When was the last time he attended a meeting? Perhaps he carried as much anticipation as I did. Probably for different reasons, but still. If he could manage, so could I.

Swallowing my nerves, I grabbed my coat and left the cozy warmth of the café. The town square in October felt like stepping into a postcard someone spilled cider on.

Pumpkins lined the courthouse steps—some carved, some painted, one with a suspiciously realistic raccoon perched inside it. Strings of amber lights zigzagged overhead. Hay bales had been added recently and arranged into makeshift benches around the fountain, which currently held a pile of mums instead of water because “last year someone dyed it orange,” Briony informed me, solemnly.

People drifted toward the town hall in clusters, a couple I recognized from the café, and others I didn’t. The owner of the flower shop next door—Mrs. Dixon—wore a shawl patterned with acorns. The hardware store twins were arguing about whether inflatable ghosts counted as “classy.” Someone had brought a crockpot.

“See?” Briony bumped my shoulder. “Wholesome civic engagement.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Because I had better adjectives.

Wes moved at my side, unseen, hands in the pockets of the jacket only I could feel the echo of. Every time someone brushed too close to me, his posture sharpened. It was kind of hot—not that I planned on telling him.

He was already far too good at breaking me apart. He didn’t need more ammo on what I found attractive. Still, I couldn’t help but tease him about it.

“Possessive much?” I whispered, fully aware that I looked like I was talking to myself.

He glanced down at me with a smirk. “Don’t start.”

“Or what?”

He held up his wrist, showing the ribbon that ruined any lie I tried to tell. “Or I’ll tie you up and show you what possessive really means.”

My jaw dropped, and I was thankfully saved from having to reply with something witty by Fenn’s fervent response.

GROSS.

He rode in my satchel, as usual, with only the top of his warty head visible if anyone looked closely enough, which no one ever did. People only saw what they expected to. All of us in the square converged on one set of open doors in the front of the town hall, but I stopped before entering, my nerves getting the best of me again.

I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like what I heard in there, and it had nothing to do with the small-town drama Briony said always took place.

What if there were more omens? What if they’d gotten worse?

Wes paused beside me, the silk ribbon now hidden beneath his sleeve. I could feel it from here—the faint tether of him anchored to me.

“You’re tense,” he said, as someone walked through his torso. It was strange, knowing no one else could see him despite him being very, very real.

“I’m not,” I replied, instinctively.

“You are.”

She is, Fenn croaked from my bag.

Traitor. Could I not have one moment to panic in peace? Must everyone point out my apparently shitty poker face and raging emotions?

Briony stuck her head back out the door, her silver hair glinting in the moonlight. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I groaned. It was time to face the music.