by Knox, Abby
Before I think about what I’m saying, I address the guys. “Listen, that ghost tour is fucking amazing and you need to sign up. Now.”
One of the dudes looks at me with an expression that makes me think I might have made him pee his pants. The other one shrugs and grudgingly signs everyone’s names on the sheet and pays the fee.
“Wise decision,” I say as the men slink away from me and the girls chatter excitedly after thanking me for the recommendation.
Dahlia looks up at me with so much sweetness in her face and a hand to her chest like she’s about to make some big declaration of gratitude.
“Save it,” I say. I don’t need gratitude, because it was only pure machismo that made me feel like coercing those guys into making her happy.
I take my shirt from her, water still dripping from my hair down my neck. “You could have just put it in your bag.”
She averts her gaze to her lap. Shyness is not a look I’m used to seeing on her. It’s kind of adorable. “I could have, but then your shirt would smell like my breath mints. And then the likelihood of a random emergency tampon flying out of it when I return the shirt to you would be about 3 to 1.”
I laugh, and she seems relieved. “Most men don’t like tampon jokes.”
I shrug. “Most other men are nitwits.”
Why did I feel the need to say that? Why does being around her make me want to put all other men in their place? Maybe I should start with, why does it feel so nice to be around her?
I was so hopping mad when I finished at the dunk tank that I was going to march straight over here to tell her she could forget the whole scavenger hunt stop at the bar. But I don't have it in me to say any of that. Instead I’m taken over by the strange sensation that I just want to make her happy. To do anything to keep her smiling.
“You hungry?” I find myself asking.
“Kind of,” she says with a grin.
“You wanna … (gulp) …grab dinner?”
She sighs regretfully. “I would, but I have to judge the pumpkin pound cake competition in a little while and I want to have a clean palate.”
Confused, I tell her that’s what I thought the ballot boxes were for.
She brightens up again. She loves explaining how the games work. It’s so fucking cute. “Yes, that’s for people’s choice. To cast a ballot you pay a dollar. But then we have judge’s choice, which will decide the grand prize winner.”
I shake my head even as my body shivers from wearing wet clothes in the cool air. “Isn’t there anyone else?”
She bites her lip. “Well, Amanda Hall has been helping collect the entrance fees from all the vendors and overseeing the ticket booth, otherwise I know she would help.”
I sigh. “You need to learn how to delegate.”
Her eyes widen. “That’s a great idea.”
“Oh shit,” I say. “No.”
“Yes! You judge it with me!”
“I’m wet.”
“So go home and dry off and when you get back, we’ll do the judging. Deal?”
“No.”
“But you’re wet and hungry and those pound cakes smell delicious.”
True. And so does she.
Her pleading eyes are too much for me.
I grunt out, “Fine,” and slosh away to my truck.
Chapter Four
Dahlia
Seven pumpkin pound cakes sit before me on the gingham-covered table. I have so many feelings I don’t want to identify or name or cope with, I think I could eat every single one of these deep amber, fragrant desserts all by myself.
I find that thought especially interesting, since, in the two weeks right after Blake and I broke up, I barely ate a thing. As I was a third year transfer at college in my late twenties, living alone in an off campus apartment, I didn’t have a core group of friends looking out for me, so I was left alone to wallow. Life as an older student can be very solitary. When I got myself together, I dumped all my feelings and energy into my studies.
And now, after earning my hospitality and history degree, I’m back in my hometown, flirting with disaster all over again. I both dread and anticipate Blake coming back to help me judge the baking competition. Some of me wants to kick myself for putting myself through this, but most of me is elated that he’s promised to come back to help me.
Does he actually want to spend time with me or did I just wear him down? Or worse—did he taking pity on me? It has to be obvious how few volunteers I have for this shindig. It’s odd. City Hall is in the midst of a mass exodus of employees, which I don’t understand. I was beyond thankful for this generous job offer right out of college, but I came in with the understanding that the previous tourism director had up and quit for no apparent reason. Something weird is going on; I just know it.
I’m reminded of my lack of volunteers when Amanda Hall walks up to where I’m sitting. I smile and greet the mayor’s wife, but she doesn’t seem all that interested in pleasantries.
“I noticed you decided to do a ghost tour tonight,” she says, friendly enough at first. But just enough.
“Uhm, yes. Yes, I did. I just decided to do it this morning, to give us a little something edgy to end the festival. It’s going to be at Milton House, with a few stops along the way. You remember Esther.”
Amanda’s face changes from the painted-on smile of a middle-aged politician’s wife to something else entirely. “Yes, I do remember Esther. Poor dear. That’s so thoughtful of you to want to include that drafty old house in the festival. You’re so brave. It’s probably a good thing you don’t know the real story of that house, or you might cancel the whole thing.”
I smile at her. “Oh, I do. I went through all the archives and news articles dating back to the time the house was built. I know all about it.”
She eyes me for what feels like the world’s longest minute. “I see. Well, then I guess I was mistaken. You’ve clearly got it all figured out. Good luck to you, sweetie.”
Amanda smiles sweetly at me, but that smile doesn’t reach her eyes and it’s got a whole story behind it. She walks away and I have to fight off a full-body shiver.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I jump at the man’s voice, but for an entirely different reason. It’s relief, even though Blake means it as a corny joke.
“Very funny,” I say with a smirk.
He chuckles but plops down next to me with a serious expression. “No, I’m serious. You look spooked. What happened?”
The look on his face is all seriousness and concern. I feel a familiar warmth flood through me. Don’t get attached to that look, Dahlia Jane. Don’t you dare get attached.
“I’m fine,” I say with my usual bright smile. “I’m all good.”
I can tell right away he doesn’t believe that for a second. “Out with it. What happened?”
I fidget with the serving knife while replaying for him the whole scene with the mayor’s wife. When I’m done, Blake looks wary.
“I do not like the sound of that,” he says. “Wonder what she meant?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m not going to worry about it right now. Come on, let’s eat some pound cake! I’m starving.”
Blake studies my face, making me blush. “Yeah,” he says, his voice sounding oddly rough as he stares at me. “I could definitely eat something.”
Oh god. He didn’t mean anything else by that. Right?
Feeling his eyes on me as I slice off a piece of cake for him, my hands shake slightly. Not even the most objective, logical part of my brain can deny it now. He totally meant that as innuendo. He wanted to make me remember things—things even more delicious than cake. And there’s really only one thing more delicious than cake, and it’s not pumpkin pie.
Oh god.
I hand him his plate, but he doesn’t take it from me. Without breaking eye contact, like he’s daring me to look away, he grabs up the piece of cake with his hands and shoves it into his mouth. He chews it up with the most in
appropriate yum-yum noises I’ve ever heard, and then, as if that weren’t enough, licks his fingers clean. Slowly. All the while daring me to look away from him.
If his goal is to make my nipples tighten and make me feel lightheaded? Mission accomplished.
Chapter Five
Blake
Dahlia knows I’m flirting now. Likes it. Wants me to keep doing it, unless I’m painfully mistaken.
And as much of a pain in the ass as this whole festival can be, I might be having a fun time. When the little 12-year-old girl who wins the cake contest hoists the grand prize antique Bundt pan over her head and hollers like she’s just won the Women’s World Cup, it’s a nice moment. I’m not made of stone. I consider the possibility that maybe I’m the one who’s the actual pain in the ass.
Dahlia stares at me incredulously as I stay around to help her shake out the gingham tablecloths and pack up the tables from the contest. “You can go if you want,” she says. “It’s almost time for trick or treating. You probably have things to do at the bar.”
I kick at a particularly stubborn collapsible leg of the banquet table and it folds with a loud clank. “What kind of a man would I be if I left you to do all the clean up? Kenny can handle things while I’m gone.”
The way she looks at me with that shy, slightly embarrassed smile is so endearing that I want to grab her and kiss her so hard she forgets her long list of responsibilities for the entire evening.
Once we finish cleaning up, she walks with me toward the bar.
“You’ve done a lot of work, do you know that?”
Dahlia waves me off. “I’ve had some help.”
“For as long as I can remember the Fall Festival has consisted of one face painter and an apple bobbing contest that caused an outbreak of the flu. So yes, you are amazing and I’m incredibly proud of you.”
She makes a dismissive snort but in the golden twilight I can see her grinning.
“I mean it. Did you see the look on that girl’s face when you handed her that stupid bundt pan? You’re a rock star.”
Dahlia laughs. “You’d better stop or I’m going to get a very big head.”
She stops walking and turns to me. The fading gold and purple sunset makes her skin glow even more than usual, and her eyes sparkle. I think I see a tear there, and I’m kicking myself for going too far with my compliments. We stare at each other, both of us remembering the way we used to be together. I remember it every day. I have to stop kidding myself; I never stopped thinking about her.
“Thank you for helping me today,” she says.
I chew on the inside of my cheek. The thing I want to do has the potential to go really well or really fuck everything up again for the both of us.
I don’t know how long we stand there, making eyes at each other.
With a regretful sigh, she points out that trick or treating is starting soon and that I need to head back to the bar to get ready.”
I mutter, “Yeah, you’re right.”
“And then there’s the scavenger hunt, plus the bar is open late tonight. You have a long night ahead of you,” she says.
I nod. “Yup. And you should go get some rest before your first annual ghost tour.”
She sighs. “Yes. I really should.”
I give her a wink. “Get going. And I’ll see you tonight for our big Halloween bet.”
Dahlia exhales and treats me with a small smile. “Right. Tour starts at midnight at the picnic shelters, and then I’ll meet you at the haunted house.”
Chapter Six
Dahlia
After leaving Blake at the bar, I float off toward the square to hand out candy to a couple hundred little fairies, zombies, firefighters, Captain Americas and ghosts. After the trick or treating chaos wraps up, I head home for a quick nap. I snuggle down under my comforter and set my alarm. But before I set it, I quickly check social media to see the progress of the scavenger hunt.
To my surprise, I see that Blake has already been tagged in about a dozen pictures by participants in the game. And he doesn’t look all that upset about it. The Blake I know hates all of this nonsense. It becomes abundantly clear that he’s doing this for me. All of it.
A part of me feels bad for manipulating him into helping out so much today. But I realize why I’ve sought him out. Because for me, it’s always been Blake. He was my first everything. My first kiss, my first sex partner, my first love. My first and only.
I go to sleep for a couple of hours with one question on my mind: Is he playing along just to get me back in his arms, or has he actually changed for the better?
Chapter Seven
Blake
I mosey over to the rotting picnic shelter where the ghost tour is scheduled to begin and end.
As I wait for Dahlia, I look over the neglected structure and think about how I’d love to have the chance to fix it up.
I recently put in a bid to the city council to let me take on the project. I could do it myself almost entirely in my Gramps’s wood shop. And since I’m not a large construction company and have no employees, I know my bid has to be lower than anyone else’s.
I don’t understand a lot about local politics but I know I saw something in the paper about the council getting into a huge argument with the finance department over the project, and the whole thing getting tabled until the next meeting. Which kind of sucks, as it would have been nice to have new shelters built in time for visitors to use on the day of the festival. Then, in the following week’s newspaper, I recall reading about the finance director quitting. The past couple of years has seen several department heads quit unexpectedly, which is how the city came to offer the tourism job to Dahlia.
City government and finance might not make any sense to me, but hell, I’d probably rehab every picnic shelter in the entire town for free if Dahlia asked me to. Surely that’s a bid not even our mayor could refuse.
While I wait for the tour to start, I reach into my back pocket and count out my tips again. Dahlia was right. The bar ended up making a huge profit off the scavenger hunt, and the clientele wasn’t nearly as obnoxious as I’d first assumed they would be.
I would normally stay extra late on Halloween, but I have new plans, which, if all goes well, will take up the rest of my night, so I called in a couple of extra servers to help Kenny. I’d rather spend time with Dahlia than squeeze out more tips for me from drunk customers after midnight.
Chapter Eight
Dahlia
It’s midnight, the tour is ready to begin, and at first, it looks like I have no participants.
It makes no sense. The entire town came out for the festival today, which means the ten sign ups I had originally was already a fairly modest start.
But now, nobody has even bothered to show up, not the people who signed up at the festival, nor those who registered on the city website. In fact, now that I’m looking at my phone, the sign-up page that I’d added to the city website has been erased. Why would people sign up, pay the fee, and then not come?
I slump down at one of the picnic tables and allow myself to feel sad for five minutes, in the dark, with nobody looking.
“This where the tour starts?”
I look up, and Blake is standing over me, looking confused.
Quickly, I wipe away a tear that I stupidly let fall. “It’s cancelled. Nobody showed up.”
“Listen, I paid my $20 online and I expect a tour.”
Now I’m the one who is confused. “It was a dollar, for charity.”
“Oh,” he says with a mischievous wink. “Well, I guess I overpaid then.”
I need to set the record straight. “Blake, I know you only signed up because you felt sorry for me.”
He crosses his arms over his wide chest. “First of all, I didn’t sign up out of pity. I signed up because I wanted to … to support you. Do you understand the difference?”
I bite my lip to keep the grin from spreading, but who am I kidding. I can’t hide my smile any more than I can stop
the warm fuzzies that spread through me any time Blake shows me his tender side.
“Well? Who are we waiting around for? Lead on, tour guide. I want my money’s worth.”
Chapter Nine
Blake
I hoist my backpack and sleeping bag, and grab Dahlia’s things from her.
“I can carry those,” she says.
I ignore her protest and press her to get on with the tour.
The first stop on the tour is, of course, the graveyard.
It should come as no surprise to me that Dahlia has done her homework. I learn a few things about the town’s founders, about some local war heroes, murders, historic battles, stagecoach robbery gangs, famous criminals, and unfortunate disease outbreaks. I don’t say it out loud because I don’t want her getting her hopes up that she’s got a chance of winning this ridiculous bet we made, but this tour is not bananas at all. I think a lot of people would find it really interesting.
When I see Dahlia shivering, I ask her to skip over the vacant lot where everyone thinks there used to be a hotel where Lincoln once slept.
“But…” she begins to argue, but I’m overcome with the urge to warm her up with a huge bear hug.
I can’t hold back. My arms pull her in close, unzipping my coat and wrapping it around her. Her slim-fitting trench coat might look hot as hell on her, but there’s no way it’s keeping her warm enough.
That’s my job now.
The more time I spend with her, the more I feel as though we have things to talk about. Dahlia’s body stiffens at first, not expecting my embrace. I wait for her to push me away or scold me. She would be right to. But instead, she relaxes against my chest and gingerly squeezes me back, her arms around my ribcage.