2. Mallory
MALLORY
By late afternoon the next day, I’d developed a new skill: pretending unpacking was a talent I excelled at.
Spoiler: I didn’t.
Cardboard boxes sat in various states of disarray across the living room floor, some gutted completely, contents spilling out like they’d been murdered, others barely touched, their flaps still sealed with packing tape.
I’d managed to hang exactly three items: a mirror, a clock, and my determination to never unpack again.
The sun hung lower now, painting the hardwood floors in stripes of amber light as dust particles danced.
I watched them drift and decided I’d been productive enough for one day.
I took a quick scan of my progress, ignoring the boxes.
Despite not having much furniture yet and only a blow-up mattress for now—they were far easier to move—I could see the vision, and I was excited to get started, to put my stamp on the room and give it personality.
I stopped at the mirror propped in the corner of my bedroom and gazed at my reflection, at the girl staring back at me.
I’d grown accustomed to my unusual eyes and hardly noticed the contrasting colors, but today, the sun seemed to highlight the difference.
My cheekbones were sharp, my mouth soft but full.
I fussed with my mess of black waves, the strands never quite cooperating, and quickly gave up trying.
I wore a simple outfit, my favorite type.
A fitted black tank, the fabric soft from being washed a thousand times, and my favorite pair of dark denim shorts.
Black-on-black was my signature look. A silver crystal pendant hung at my throat, catching the light.
Stacks of rings lined my fingers, and several sizes of hoops trailed up both my ears.
The whole thing read: small-town witch who shops at thrift stores and has commitment issues with people, not cats. And honestly? Accurate.
Taking the creaky stairs to the first level, I spotted Mom deep in the messy kitchen. As usual, she unpacked with no sense of order, much like she packed. Piles of boxes were scattered all over the floor, waiting to have a home.
She knelt in front of a box labeled “KITCHEN” in my handwriting. The box cutter in her hand sliced through tape and folded back the flaps, revealing her collection.
Knives. So many fucking knives.
It was her weapon of choice.
She lifted them out one by one, unwrapping each from its cloth as if she were unveiling art.
A boning knife with a curved blade. A cleaver that looked medieval.
The santoku she claimed was for vegetables but had definitely seen other uses.
They clinked softly against each other as she arranged them on the counter in a fan pattern.
She lifted her head and blew a strand of loose dark hair out of her eyes when she heard me. Her lips curled. “Giving up already?”
“Taking a break,” I corrected, leaning against the small kitchen island, not that you could tell what it was under all the stuff scattered atop it.
“Hmm.” Mom pursed her amused lips.
“Actually, I came to let you know that I’m going to walk downtown. Do a bit of exploring and maybe look for a coffee shop. I’ll bring you back a drink.” We had no food in the house, except for the leftover road trip snacks, and my stomach was screaming at me to eat substance.
“We’ll get to the store tomorrow. Stuff the fridge with all your favorites. Maybe I’ll even attempt dinner.”
“Spare us both.”
“How did I get such a cynical but beautiful child?”
I give her a dull look. “I think you know.”
“Except I cover my sarcasm with sweetness.” She slid a thin dagger into the magnetic wall rack she’d already installed because, of course, priorities. “Stay on the sidewalks.”
“Are you sure the middle of the road wouldn’t be safe?” I retorted.
Her lips twitched. “Smart-ass.”
I knew she worried about me, perhaps more than other parents, but I also understood why.
She’d witnessed firsthand the horrors that lived in the world.
Out on my own, she wasn’t there to protect me, but she tried to let me have some independence, regardless of how difficult it was for her, especially because of what she did.
Her biggest fear was that someone she hunted would find me before she found them.
I grabbed my tote bag from the hook by the door, slinging it over my shoulder, and stepped outside.
The late-July wind trailed its fingers through my hair as I walked, the air warm and floral, carrying faint notes of pine, sugar, and sea salt even though the ocean was still hours away.
Well-kept homes lined the road, many with craftsman porches, cottage windows framed by ivy, and flower boxes spilling over with petunias.
It didn’t take long to find a coffee spot amongst all the shops downtown.
Daily Dose, it was appropriately named and seemed to be a popular spot.
The exposed brick inside gave it an industrial vibe.
Paintings by local artists hung on the walls.
The furniture was charmingly mismatched and inviting.
The chalkboard behind the counter was scribbled with curly handwriting, advertising daily drink specials.
If they served a decent matcha, it was over. I’d be here daily, just as the name suggested.
I waited in line for at least ten minutes until I reached the barista, a girl with purple hair and approximately seventeen ear piercings. “Welcome to Daily Dose. What can I get you?” she greeted. She looked near my age, and I wondered if she attended Elmwood Public, not that I was about to ask her.
“Um, a strawberry matcha, please, and an almond croissant,” I added.
“You’ll love the croissants,” she said, tapping on the tablet. “I’d eat them every day if they didn’t go straight to my ass.”
I smiled in return. Was everyone in town this nice? I wasn’t used to the friendly small talk.
The barista rattled off my total, and I quickly paid, moving down the line to wait for my order, which only took a few minutes.
There were plenty of people around; the downtown area was quite busy.
Even the coffee shop was nearly full with only a single table unoccupied.
I took that as a sign and slid in. Sunlight poured through the glass, warm and golden.
I positioned myself directly in its path, desperately needing vitamin D.
I took a first sip of my drink, gazing out the window to people-watch. The matcha was pleasantly delicious, and I took a bite of the croissant with high hopes. It didn’t disappoint.
I was mid-chew, scrolling through nothing on my phone, when a shadow fell over my table.
My head tilted up, and I spotted a guy. He was tall, probably six-foot-something, with tousled dark hair intentionally messy.
Good-looking by most standards, but something about his crooked grin made me wary.
Perhaps it was the damn dimples I didn’t trust.
He was staring at me, and it made me think perhaps I had food on my face. Why else would he be looking at me?
“I’ve never seen you here before,” he said, his voice like liquid honey as he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “You visiting?”
I swallowed the bite I’d taken along with the commentary I wanted to unleash and went with what I hoped was toned down. “Do you normally keep tabs on everyone coming and going in this town?”
His light-green eyes glimmered. “If they look like you, typically yes.”
Was he hitting on me? If he was, he was doing a poor job and interrupting my peace. “I’m not interested.” I took another bite of croissant, maintaining eye contact to establish dominance.
His gaze ran over me before he pulled the chair out from across the table and plopped down. The fucking audacity. Did my expression look like I was in the mood for company? Perhaps I was being too polite.
“Why not? I’m charming as fuck.”
Oh, I bet he was, which was precisely why I wanted nothing to do with him and his damn dimples. “I don’t trust anyone who’s prettier than me.”
His fingers tapped lightly on the table, his eyes never breaking from mine. He wasn’t afraid of eye contact. I had a hunch there wasn’t much he was afraid of. “Fair. They can be a curse and a blessing. You’d have to stick around to find out.”
I put the pastry down and went for my matcha. “Hmm. That depends on whether this town has a no-dimple policy. Because if not, I’m filing a complaint.”
His grin widened, deepening those damn, criminal dimples. “Harsh. I’m Mason, by the way.”
“Didn’t ask.”
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury, but his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Well, if you need a tour of Elmwood, I’m free. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I promise I know all the spots. Best pizza, best views, the spots nobody knows about, the—”
“I’ll pass,” I interrupted. “I like to figure things out on my own. Independence and all.”
“So, you have a boyfriend,” he assumed, like he couldn’t fathom I’d turn him down. “He doesn’t need to know. I can be discreet.”
I scoffed, unable to believe this guy. “Discreet isn’t my style.” I took another bite, not correcting the fact that I definitely didn’t have a boyfriend, and licked a crumb off the corner of my lip.
His eyes lingered on my mouth, studying me in a way that made my skin prickle, not unpleasantly, which was annoying. Reaching across the table, he snatched my phone and began tapping on the screen.
“Hey!” I protested, trying to grab it back, but he evaded my hand.
“Give me just a second, Freckles.”
I instantly hated the nickname and that he felt he knew me well enough to give me one. We’d just met. Finally, sliding my phone back toward me, he said, “Text me if you change your mind or you and the boyfriend decide to call it quits. Or if you want that tour.” He winked as he stood.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I muttered, intending to immediately delete his number once he was gone.
“See you around, Freckles.”
I snorted. Hopefully, not.