Sweetly (25 page)
Samuel’s grin softens a little, becomes proud instead of ecstatic. “You’re welcome, Gretchen,” he says quietly, and I suddenly realize his hands are back on my shoulders, as though we’re dancing.
And then it’s silent—nearly so, anyhow. The woods fall still, with just the occasional swirling of fireflies and croak of a tree frog.
“I…” Samuel looks down. One of his hands slides off my shoulder, down my arm, then brushes along my fingertips just long enough that I could have ignored the touch if I’d wanted to. But something happens, as if my body made the decision before my mind could reconsider; I turn my hand over and entwine my fingers with Samuel’s. Our eyes simultaneously move from our interlocked hands to each other’s gaze. A cloud drifts in front of the moon, making everything darker, Samuel and I mere silhouettes in the night.
“No one likes me,” Samuel says quickly, warningly. “They all think I’m crazy. And I’m, well… I’m not easy to get along with.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not that bad,” I say, though it isn’t until the words are leaving my mouth that I realize I’m whispering. “Once someone learns how to ignore half of what you say.” Somehow his doubt gives me power, and I take a small step forward.
Samuel exhales and looks down—when he looks back up, I can just barely make out his bright green eyes in the blackness. He takes a tiny step toward me and then lets the hand still resting on my shoulder drift down to my lower back.
“Promise you won’t ever hate me,” he murmurs, so softly that I almost miss it. “I can’t have you hate me too.”
“I could never hate you,” I say back, breath trembling in my lungs from a strange new longing, strange new desire for Samuel to pull me closer. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
My body kicks in, does what my heart wants, long before Samuel has the opportunity. I grab Samuel’s arm and pull myself toward him.
Samuel releases my hand and brings his palm to cradle my cheek, and then the scent of bright leaves is all around me. When our lips meet, the scent swallows me, everything blurs, and I’m certain there’s nothing to fear in this forest. There’s nothing else here—no witches, no mysteries, nothing but Samuel and me.
K
illing a werewolf is no small task. You’d think I would remember every last moment—the scent, the feeling, the sight of a monster leaping toward me. But that’s all blurred in my mind, overpowered by the sensation of kissing Samuel. I remember every moment of
that—
every sensation, every time he touched my skin, every time I took a breath and my lungs were filled with the scent of leaves and sandalwood.
We kissed in the forest—I can’t remember if it was for hours or minutes. I locked my hand in his as we walked back to the street and didn’t want to let go when he dropped me off at the chocolatier. Part of me thinks it’s a mistake—that he’s just confused. When I wake Wednesday morning, I spend a few moments trying to convince myself that I’d just invented the entire evening.
No. No, I don’t have that good of an imagination. Besides, if I try very hard, I swear I can still feel his arms around me. I couldn’t have made that up. I rise and pull on shorts, then look for my brush to pull my hair into a ponytail. I desperately need a shower. But I’m hungry, way too hungry to wait on food. Wonder if it was the kiss or the hunting that left me famished?
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Sophia says with a grin as I make it downstairs to the chocolatier storefront. She’s fully dressed and holding a clipboard, doing inventory. I glance at the clock above the register—it’s noon. My eyes race to the RSVP board by default. Six new ones. Seventeen altogether.
How many of those seventeen will vanish this year?
“Wow,” I mumble, turning away from the cards. “Talk about oversleeping. Guess I was tired.”
“No worries,” she answers. She’s particularly bouncy today, long waves of hair framing her heart-shaped face like a picture.
“You’re in a good mood,” I note with a grin.
“It’s been a good morning,” she says, nodding. Her cheeks flush pink and I groan.
“Ew—is this a story about my brother?”
“No!” Sophia objects, laughing loudly. “Well, not like that. I mean, I’m mostly happy because I got six more RSVPs to the festival. But Ansel… um…”
“Tell me,” I say, letting my head fall backward. “Just leave out the squickable details.”
“It’s not that bad,” Sophia assures me. She’s bubbling over with the desire to tell me—I can see it from here, even through morning bleariness. “We just had a really nice night. There was some kissing. That’s all. See? Not squickable at all.”
I know I should recoil over what exactly “a nice night” might entail, but seeing as how I was kissing Samuel just last night, I find myself smiling. “Fine, fine, that’s not so bad,” I admit. I’m not sure if I’d be so cavalier, though, if my head wasn’t swimming with the memory of how tightly Samuel had held me.
“You’re still okay with it?” she asks, and I can tell that if I said no, she would break my brother’s heart. The trouble is, I
want
to say no—but not because I don’t want them to be happy. Because I don’t trust her, and I know my brother does.
I nod, looking away. “Sure, it’s fine.”
Sophia grins and grabs a Coke from the refrigerator. “Are you going on another walk today, by chance?”
“No, why?”
“Well… I have to look for the festival tablecloths. They’re somewhere in the attic. With the mice,” Sophia says, wrinkling her nose.
“And you want help?” I ask knowingly. Sophia nods. “Okay, okay, but let’s do it now, while I’m too tired to know what I’m getting myself into.”
“Deal,” she says. She motions for me to follow her upstairs, where she tugs down a ladder from the ceiling. Heat rushes out like a wave.
“I’m having second thoughts,” I tease as we climb. Sophia starts to laugh but instead coughs violently as a tornado of dust swoops around us.
“Okay, they’re near the door somewhere, I’m sure. I wouldn’t have hidden them—I use them every year…”
“Why not just keep it all in one spot?” I grasp either side of the hole in the ceiling and yank myself upward, into the attic.
“Things after the festival are hectic. I always end up throwing stuff around,” she says thoughtfully, then takes a few steps away from me. I narrow my eyes and look around the dark attic, shrouded in golden light from a tiny arched window at one end. There are boxes everywhere, clothes racks covered in dry-cleaner bags with formal dresses and suits inside them. Piles of books, mostly candy related, trunks and old side tables and a laundry basket full of shoes. Sophia shuffles behind a stack of boxes taller than she is.
“Just look around. They aren’t in anything, I’m sure… probably just on top of something,” she calls out.
“Right,” I murmur, and carefully step across the plywood floor toward the opposite corner of the attic. More trunks, old desk supplies, an ancient television… There’s a stack of what looks like fabric on top of another laundry basket, this one filled with newspapers. I drop to my knees and grab the fabric. No good—baby blankets. The top one has Sophia’s name embroidered on it; it’s pale violet and well worn, with frayed hems. I glance over my shoulder cautiously before moving on to the second blanket in the stack. Not terribly surprisingly, it reads
Naida,
pink embroidery on a graying blanket that I think was originally yellow. I flip the top layer back, to the third blanket in the stack.
Lorelei
.
I do a double take and pull the blanket out; it unfurls like a flag across my lap. It’s brand-new, a sunny yellow with perfect creases, as though it hasn’t been unfolded in ages. Lorelei Kelly… I fold the blanket up quickly and set it back underneath the other two.
“Any luck?” Sophia asks from the other side of the attic.
“No, not yet,” I answer, scanning the room. There has to be something else here to tell me who the mystery sister is. I dash to a bookcase that’s full of photo albums. On the top shelf are pale pink baby books with names on the spine—Naida, Sophia. No Lorelei—but I do see the tablecloths on a chair in the corner. I grab them, but as I do so, I unclasp the chain of my necklace and let it slide down my shirt to the floor.
“Got them!” I say triumphantly.
“Awesome!” Sophia answers. She emerges from the other side of the attic. “I’ve got to stop putting stuff up here.” I hand her the pile of tablecloths and we head for the ladder, slipping out of the thick heat and into the cool upstairs.
“Can you get the stairs?” Sophia asks as she balances the fabric against her.
“Sure—wait,” I say, and bring my hand to my chest. “My necklace… I was wearing it this morning…”
“Did it fall off?” Sophia asks, glancing around at the floor.
“I guess so—hang on, I’ll go see if it fell off up there,” I say with a shrug, and before Sophia can object, I head back up the steps.
“’Kay—I’ll take these downstairs, then come help you look,” Sophia says, and I hear her feet on the steps. I fly across the attic floor, snatch the necklace up, and halt in front of the bookshelf. Lorelei has a blanket—she must have a baby book up here somewhere… but no, everything other than Sophia’s and Naida’s books are outdated encyclopedias or ancient copies of
National Geographic
. I turn in circles, scanning the attic for any sign of her, listening carefully for Sophia’s feet on the ladder. Frustrated, I yank Sophia’s baby book off the shelf. Pictures, ultrasounds, hospital bracelets, stickers. No Lorelei.
Naida’s book is crisper, used less. It’s mostly the same, just with fewer smiles and laughs noted—being the second child means there’s less thrill in a baby’s first smile, I imagine. I flip to the front, to the ultrasound picture.
An ultrasound picture that doesn’t look entirely unlike the one in Abigail’s baby book back in Washington, before it was hidden away with everything else of hers.
Medical typography is fading across the top, but I can still make out the faint gray dot matrix letters.
14 weeks.
Baby A.
And beside her,
Baby B.
Naida was a twin.
I hear Sophia’s feet on the landing. I turn the page quickly. Only one hospital bracelet, only one photocopied birth certificate. Only one baby in the photo of Mrs. Kelly holding her newborn. Naida’s sister had vanished before she was even born.
I swallow hard. Another missing sister, another girl hidden away in Sophia’s house. Girls who have vanished tucked under beds or hidden in attics. I feel shaky, as if I might collapse under the weight of the mystery, of the lies, of the secrets.
Why, Sophia?
“Did you find it?” Sophia’s voice calls up. I inhale sharply and thrust the book back onto the shelf.
“Yeah,” I answer. I swallow hard again. “Yeah, I’ve got it. I’m coming down.”
I make my way to the landing and lower myself; Sophia closes the attic, sealing up her family’s secrets once again. She turns to go back downstairs but finds my eyes.
“You okay, Gretchen? You look sick.”
“Just the heat, I think,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m gonna go lie down.”
Sophia frowns. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made you go into the attic of hell. I’ll get you something to drink and some crackers, okay?”
“Sure,” I say, nodding, then turn and head to my room. No, Naida and Sophia’s room. What was supposed to be Lorelei’s room as well.
You and Naida are mirror images. The twin who survived, the one who didn’t vanish—at least, didn’t vanish for a little while
.
You share the same destiny
.
I
t’s cat-washing day, the only upside being that I’ll have a chance to tell Samuel about Lorelei. And a chance to see Samuel for the first time since we kissed. It’s been a week—a very long week—but with all the festival preparations, I haven’t been able to get away inconspicuously.
Samuel zips up on his motorcycle and pauses for me to get on. I swing onto the back of his bike and am not afraid to hold on this time—but not only because I want to be near him; feeling the grind of the motorcycle and the rhythm of his breath is grounding. I hide my face against his shoulders till I feel like Gretchen, not like a reborn Naida.