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“So happy,” I admit.
“Good. Then it was worth it.”
That’s it. That’s all he says. He just looks down at me with this ridiculously pleased expression, like my happiness is enough to make him happy, too.
And, damn it, that might feel even better than winning.
It’s nearly ten when we finally make it home.
The festival ran a little later than expected because of the Great Pumpkin Pie Showdown of Shadowvale—or whatever people are teasingly calling it—and how we had to clean up afterward. Well. I say we, though Cindy slunk away with her metaphorical tail between her legs while Vincent and I jumped in to help the organizers. I had to go and ask Mayor Pete for my notebook back—because no one in Shadowvale will doubt after that display that it’s mine—and then Vincent disappeared for approximately three minutes and returned with another funnel cake despite already eating enough today to feed a family of six.
We stuck around to watch the closing part of the festivities. Monique sang a fabulous rendition of I Put a Spell on You, and I took Vincent’s hand, holding it tight as the night’s sky filled with orange and purple fireworks to signal that Shadowvale had finished another successful festival.
Now I’m upstairs, exhausted, happy, and curled into one corner of my couch while Vincent sits beside me.
One thing I discovered after today, it’s that when Mr. Whiskers was sitting on my lap as I watched another movie, the cat was actually watching the movie with me. Over the last four decades, he’s watched a ton of movies. Whether it was on the rare occasion that he let someone adopt him so that he could be spoiled throughout the winter months, or because he’d sit outside a window and watch the television from outdoors, it didn’t matter. It was some sort of enjoyment he got while he was in his feline form, and when we made it back to the apartment and I was nervous about what was going to happen next, it was Vincent who suggested we settle down and watch a film with the last couple of hours he has left.
And if that was a big surprise, the fact that he purposely requested Hocus Pocus had me side-eyeing him for a split second before I agreed.
A few minutes into the movie, he taps my thigh, then points at the television. “Look. See? Three witches. There’s a blonde and a brunette and a redhead.”
Um. Okay. “Haven’t you seen this one before? I mean, I put it on, like, just last week…” I pause. “You hissed at the screen!”
“Of course I did.” He points again. Gesturing at Winifred, he says, “Mary Ellen.” He points at Mary. “Alice.” And then Sarah… “Susan.”
“Susan? Wait… the asshole witch that cursed you?”
He looks pleased that I remember. “Every time you put this on, I was reminded of them. There were technically three witches who I pissed off when I stole the love spell. Alice was the librarian of the Spellbrook Library. She was the brunette. Mary Ellen was the redhead who used her magic to immobilize me. And Susan… the blonde… she was the head witch who cursed me to be a cat.” On the screen, teenaged Thackery Binx appears in the flesh. “Just like what’s about to happen to him!”
Vincent narrows his gaze on the screen. “You know what. I don’t think I ever really noticed the similarities before. When did this movie come out?”
“In the 90s?” I guess. “I don’t know. I’ve been watching it since I was a little girl.”
He snorts. “After my curse. Why do I get the feeling that one of those Spellbrook witches sold our story to Hollywood. I know I told you that I have plenty of money, pumpkin, and I do… but I think I’m owed some royalties for this.”
Rolling my eyes, I lean my head on Vincent’s shoulder. The action is so natural… so comfortable… that I don’t even realize I’ve done it until he starts playing with my hair again.
“Wait… are you telling me the witches who cursed you remind you of the Sanderson sisters?”
“I’m saying there are quite a few similarities that might interest a lawyer.”
“Did they sing like Monique did?”
“What? No.” He pauses for a moment. “But they did hum.”
“Okay. How about sucking the life out of children?”
Taking me seriously, he muses over that question next before admitting, “Not that I know of.”
“Come back from the dead?”
“Kate, they were witches. They hated warlocks and had me trapped against the wall. I didn’t have time to ask for their entire résumés.”
I laugh, and Vincent grins before nuzzling the side of my head—until Thackery transforms into Binx the cat and, I swear, his entire attention shifts right back to the television.
“Best part of the movie,” he crows.
“Of course you think that,” I say, giggling.
