Chapter 20 #2
“Then maybe stop giving off the vibe of a guy who’d win a bar fight just by looking bored.”
“And I’d still win.”
“If I’m going to die inside, I at least want to do it with a caramel apple in my hand,” Holt adds.
Before we leave, I duck into the kitchen.
General Flufferton is already glaring at me as he runs alongside me into the kitchen. I pour a bowl of the only food His Royal Highness deems edible after rejecting three other brands like the furry little food critic he is. And a fresh water bowl.
“We won’t be long,” I whisper, leaning in to scratch him between the ears. “Defend the homeland. Scratch any burglars. You know, standard cat ops.”
He meows once. Then he dives into the food.
Once outside, we pile into Holt’s truck, where I end up in the front seat. Arrow and Luke are in the back, Arrow’s fluffy mane taking up enough space to qualify for its own zip code.
“I can’t see a damn thing,” Luke gripes. “I’m getting Simba’d in the face back here.”
“Good,” Arrow says, not even pretending to sound sorry. “Let it deepen your character.”
The costume makes it hard to sit normally, the dress riding up no matter how much I tug it down. Holt’s hand rests on the gearshift, knuckles occasionally brushing my knee when he changes gears, and each touch sends little electric shocks up my leg.
“So,” Luke says as we cruise down the winding road toward the festival, his chin resting between the front seats. “We should practice our characters. Get into the roles. Method acting.”
“Absolutely fucking not,” Holt replies, jerking the wheel just enough to send Luke flying backward with a squawk.
Arrow snorts. “You deserved that.”
“Come on!” Luke protests from the back seat. “Arrow, you’re the Cowardly Lion. Give us a roar. Or maybe a whimper. Dealer’s choice.”
“I’ll give you something, all right,” Arrow growls. “A demonstration of natural selection.”
“See? That’s perfect! Lions are noble but deadly.”
“Lions are also known for eating their young,” Arrow adds, glancing out the window. “Want a demonstration?”
I laugh, twisting in my seat to glance back at them. Arrow’s mane is half in Luke’s face. Holt’s funnel glints in the streetlights, and I feel… weirdly content. Like I’ve stumbled into some chaotic fairy tale I didn’t audition for but somehow got cast in anyway.
“I don’t think any of you actually know the story,” I say. “The lion is sweet. Scared of everything. He just wants courage.”
Arrow raises a brow. “Have you met me? I don’t do scared. I do scary.”
“And I respect that,” I say, biting back a grin. “But you do kind of growl when people try to hug you.”
Luke pokes Holt in the shoulder. “The Tin Man needs oil for his joints. You should walk stiff. Like you’ve got a stick up your?—”
“Finish that sentence and you’re walking to the festival,” Holt cuts in, not even looking away from the road.
“That’s not very Tin Man of you,” Luke states. “He’s gentle. Emotional. Just wants a heart.”
“I’ll show you emotional,” Holt mutters. “It’s called rage.”
“Incredible,” I deadpan. “We’ve managed to traumatize the entire cast of The Wizard of Oz in under five minutes.”
“And I’m the Scarecrow,” Luke declares proudly. “Which works because I’m brainless, right? That’s what you were all thinking.”
“No one said that,” I lie, then pause. “Out loud.”
“First accurate thing he’s said all night,” Arrow mutters.
“You two are assholes,” Luke says with a chuckle. “Not the fun kind. The judgmental kind.”
The truck quiets for a moment, only the hum of the tires and the soft shuffle of Arrow adjusting his overly large mane. The playlist Holt queued up earlier keeps playing softly, some moody, guitar-heavy track I don’t recognize, but it fits.
“Have any of you actually seen the movie?” I ask, glancing around suspiciously.
Silence.
Not guilty silence. The kind that comes with a sprinkle of panic and a dash of shame.
“Luke?” I prompt.
He clears his throat. “I may have… Wikipedia’d it yesterday.”
“ Luke. ”
“What? I knew there was a yellow road and possibly some flying monkeys. That counts for something.”
“There’s definitely a witch,” Arrow adds. “Green face, riding around on a broom, cackling. Classic witch shit.”
“And a house falls on her sister,” Luke chimes in. “Right? So really, the story begins with an act of homicide.”
“Technically manslaughter,” I say. “Unless Dorothy aimed.”
“I knew I liked her,” Holt mutters.
“Of course you did,” I say under my breath, turning back to the windshield.
Holt’s hand brushes mine on the console.
Not on purpose, but I don’t move away. Neither does he.
And in this truck, full of velvet, fur, synthetic silver, and emotional chaos disguised as humor, something warm settles in my chest. Like I’ve already found something worth holding on to, even if I can’t name it yet.
The festival grounds are already in sight, and packed when we arrive, the sky painted in those perfect October colors of orange bleeding into purple, last gasps of pink before full darkness takes over.
The air smells like everything good about fall, kettle corn and apple cider, that crisp leaf smell that only happens this time of year.
The parking lot is chaos. Teenagers in reflective vests direct traffic with the seriousness of air traffic controllers. We pile out of the truck, and I smooth my dress down.
We follow the slow stream of festivalgoers toward an arched gateway made of black wrought iron wrapped in twinkling orange lights and thick spiderwebbing.
A giant skeleton grins down from above, animatronic eyes glowing red as it creaks to life with a motion sensor and lets out a hollow, echoing boo .
Around us there’s laughter, the occasional scream from the haunted maze, and the tinny jangle of a nearby merry-go-round.
Inside the festival grounds, the path opens up into a wide clearing filled with vendor booths, flickering jack-o’-lanterns, and oversized decor straight out of a Halloween fever dream.
Hay bales double as benches, and a scarecrow DJ spins music beneath a canopy of black and gold flags flapping in the breeze.
“Photo opportunity!” a man calls out cheerfully, waving one arm while balancing a massive camera rig with the other.
He’s stationed right in front of the main attraction, a genuinely impressive haunted house that looks like it was designed by someone with both a budget and psychological issues.
“All festival photos will be available for viewing and purchase at the exit tent!”
Arrow makes a face like he’s just been told he has to sing karaoke. “Hard pass.”
“Come on,” Luke urges, already nodding to the man with the camera setup stationed near the huge haunted house facade. The photographer grins as we approach.
“Right this way, Wizard of Oddballs,” the man announces.
“Wizard of shut your face,” Holt mutters under his breath, adjusting the silver funnel on his head.
We arrange ourselves. Holt on my left, Luke on my right, Arrow on Luke’s far side. The photographer starts snapping immediately.
“Lion, stop looking like you’re planning murder!”
“Tin Man, the funnel is crooked!”
“Scarecrow, more straw is falling out!”
“Dorothy, perfect, don’t change a thing!”
He takes a photo of us posing. Then he takes another one of all three of the men leaning in to kiss my cheeks at once. I burst out laughing as Arrow’s mane tickles my neck and Luke’s straw pokes my shoulder. The flash goes off mid-giggle.
“Beautiful!” the photographer exclaims. “That one’s definitely going in the festival highlights reel. Check the tent later!”
I step back, cheeks flushed from the attention, the laughter, the unspoken heat of being surrounded like that.
The festival stretches out ahead of us like a storybook come to life. Stalls offer pumpkin spice funnel cakes, maple-bacon kettle corn, caramel apple cider, and a suspiciously gray pumpkin cotton candy I make a mental note not to try.
Overhead, strings of orange and purple lights crisscross like a glowing canopy, woven with fake autumn leaves so convincing I have to resist the urge to catch one.
Every surface is lit up, jack-o’-lanterns grin from haystacks, tabletops, and wooden shelves, each one unique.
Some are terrifying, others artistic masterpieces.
Somewhere, a band plays a rock cover of “Monster Mash,” managing to make it weirdly aggressive and catchy.
The bass vibrates through the ground as people in every costume imaginable wander past Spice Girls with glittering makeup, four different versions of Pennywise, ranging from nightmare fuel to sad clown, and what appears to be an entire bachelor party dressed as breakfast cereals.
“The haunted house already has a long line. We should go to the hayride first,” Arrow says, pulling us forward through the crowd.
Luke takes my hand as we weave through people, his fingers interlacing with mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand is huge, warm. My skin tingles at every point of contact, warmth spreading up my arm and settling somewhere in my chest.
“Cindy?” a female voice calls out. I know that voice, and every muscle in my body tenses.
I turn to find my cousin Sarah, dressed as what can only be described as a sexy witch who lost most of her costume in a terrible accident, looking my way.
“Sarah.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is a minor miracle.
Her eyes rake over me, taking in the Dorothy costume, then the men, lingering on my joined hands with Luke with the kind of focus usually reserved for finding Waldo. “Interesting costume choice. Very… wholesome.”
Luke pulls me against his side, arm sliding around my waist possessively, hand splaying across my hip in a way that’s definitely not wholesome.
“Babe, we’re going to miss the hayride,” he says, voice carrying that edge of impatience guys get when they want to be anywhere else.
Then he kisses me.