Chapter Thirteen #2
Damn werewolf appetite, I grumbled as I set my fork on my empty plate.
“Hey Nettie?”
I looked up. Willow was peering curiously at me, her fork still clenched in her left hand. I noticed both her and Juniper’s plates were empty.
“We were going to go pick out our pumpkins after this,” Willow continued. “Want to join us?”
My heart sank. On the surface, her request was sweet and friendly, but I was aware of the venomous undertone it held. Willow invited me to join them. Only me. There was no mention of Rowena. No one acknowledged her, or even glanced in her direction.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to call them what we called unruly female werewolves who caused trouble back on Hollenboro, which conveniently rhymed with the word witch .
But as my nostrils began to flare, I felt a slight squeeze on my knee.
Even through the thick fabric of my dress, it made me flinch.
Then there was another squeeze. It was Rowena. Her touch was meant to calm me down. It was her subtle way of telling me it was okay. To go with them.
I flicked my eyes in her direction, careful not to turn my head. Rowena realized I was looking at her, and she gave the faintest hint of a nod.
“O-okay,” I replied, and Willow’s face lit up. “I’ll come with you.”
We gathered up our trash and tossed it in the large metal bin next to the food stall.
I was several feet behind the other witches as we walked toward the pumpkin patch, and I craned my head over my shoulder to catch a few glimpses of Rowena.
She was still sitting at the picnic table, alone in a sea of happy, chattering witches, inspecting the purple polish on her nails.
I knew what she was doing. She was pretending she didn’t care. That being snubbed and ignored by everyone else in town didn’t bother her.
I invited her to come with me to the festival, even though she didn’t want to.
And I’d just left her alone.
The pumpkin patch looked even more ethereal at night.
There were mounted faerie fire lanterns across the entire field, glowing in festive shades of orange and green.
A large ornamental display was stuffed with autumn leaves, stacked straw bales, and a very tall scarecrow dressed like a witch.
A small tent near the edge of the field was selling warm apple cider.
It was beautiful. But as I took it all in, lagging behind while the three witches I hesitated to call friends happily jogged into the field, all I could feel was nausea.
Nausea and guilt. The stir-fry was suddenly heavy in my stomach as I wandered through the pumpkin patch.
We had pumpkin carving events on Hollenboro, and every year I’d been thrilled to participate.
I would be the first to scour the available pumpkins, carefully inspecting each one until I found one perfect for carving.
Then my sisters and I would gather up all the flawed pumpkins to make into soup.
But here? I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I tried picking up a pumpkin near the straw bales, inspecting it in the light of the faerie fire lanterns.
At first it looked decent, and I felt relief at the thought of being able to scurry away with my pumpkin already chosen.
Then I turned it over, and realized it had a large, knobby wart on its side.
Goddammit. I gently put the pumpkin down, forcing myself to not kick it across the field in frustration.
I turned around so I was facing the apple cider tent. The other three witches were still in line, happily engaged in conversation while pointing at various spots in the pumpkin patch. They didn’t seem to notice – or care – that I wasn’t with them.
Screw it, I scowled, spinning on my boot heel and stomping back toward the town square. I was going to find Rowena. I’d invited her here, and I was going to keep her company.
Other witches be damned.
Thirty minutes later, I found Rowena.
By that time, most of the festival-goers were clustered around the picnic tables, with their chosen pumpkins and a set of carving knives in hand.
It made it easier to search for Rowena, since the wandering crowd was starting to thin.
I’d spent so much time shouldering my way past other witches and getting slapped with fluttering cloak fabric that I was twitchy and tense.
But with most of the crowd now seated, I came to a frustrating conclusion.
Rowena wasn’t here.
“Rowena?” I whisper-yelled as I wandered around the outskirts of town, peering around buildings and scouring the gardens behind the town hall.
After a few minutes, I turned a corner and accidentally stumbled upon a witch couple sitting on a bench, both sitting in positions that indicated they did not want to be disturbed.
“Sorry,” I muttered, my face burning as I walked away. Mostly from embarrassment, but also because a deep, primitive part of me wanted to do the same with Rowena.
I continued strolling through town until I reached the end of the main stretch of buildings.
All that was in front of me was the picked-over pumpkin patch, which was now eerily quiet and bare of people.
A few shadow elemental bats fluttered in the orange light of the faerie fire lanterns, their inky forms leaving gaseous black trails in the air.
In the distance, the dark, tangled abyss of the forest was both a shield and a warning.
I knew that beyond the boundary of the wards, the local wolf pack was likely hunting at this time of night.
Then I saw her. At the back of the pumpkin patch, seated on one of the straw bales beneath the scarecrow, was a familiar black-cloaked figure wearing a pointed witch hat.
As I approached, I noticed she didn’t look upset. She looked… calm. Almost pensive. As if the other witches weren’t snubbing her. As if she was out here simply because she enjoyed the silent peace of an empty pumpkin patch on a beautifully chilly autumn night in Maine.
Although, as I took a seat next to her, I realized she had a point. It’s so tranquil out here. And after thirty minutes of forcing my way through noisy crowds, I too enjoyed the silence.
I scooted my body over a few inches, so our sides were touching from our shoulders all the way down to our thighs. Rowena kept her head low, her eyes downcast. I had a feeling that me saying something wasn’t what she needed.
So instead, I delicately placed my hand on top of hers, giving her thumb the faintest hint of a rub with my own.
“I’m not good with people, Nettie.”
Her sudden voice, and the gravity of her confession, rattled my aching heart. I responded by giving her hand a gentle squeeze, and she leaned her shoulder further into mine.
“Hell, if we’re going to be honest, neither am I,” I sighed.
“When I was growing up, I had a few friends, but I was teased a lot. I was the only red-haired person on my island, and the kids used to call me carrothead or tell me that gingers had no soul. All silly childish stuff, but it still hurt. I didn’t understand why I was different. ”
What I didn’t tell her was that I was also ridiculed for my wolf form, since for werewolves, hair color dictated fur color. Other kids used to tease me and say I didn’t blend in well enough with the foliage, and that was why I was such a crappy hunter.
I wanted to tell her, though. There were so many things I wanted to tell her.
But I couldn’t.
“I think your hair is beautiful.”
I lowered my head so Rowena wouldn’t see me blush. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her slender hand, with those poison-purple nails, reach up and touch a strand of my red hair.
Gods. My whole body melted like butter. If I didn’t get control of myself, I’d lean my head into her palm and start purring like a cat, begging for her to touch me more.
“Rowena…” my voice came out soft and a bit raspy, and I cleared my throat so she wouldn’t hear the arousal in my voice. “…can I ask you something?”
I felt her palm tense beneath mine, but she nodded.
“Why are they excluding you? Did something happen?”
My stomach lurched. There it was. The big, ugly question that had been hanging in the air as long as I’d been in Wisteria Grove. I’d finally mustered up the courage to ask it.
There was a long, contemplative pause. I could see – and feel – the web of intricate emotions on Rowena’s face as she tried to formulate a response. To figure out the best way to word her answer without giving too much away.
Without breaking down too much of the barrier between us.
“It’s…” She licked her lips, then bit down on them. “...complicated, Nettie. I wish I could tell you more, I really do. There’s a lot of history to Wisteria Grove. History that’s hard to explain to outsiders.”
Outsider. The reality that I’d been here a week and a half, falling for a witch who didn’t even know I was a werewolf, came crashing down like a felled tree.
Why was I doing this to myself? I’d agreed to let myself stay for one more moon cycle, as long as I could run off on Halloween and keep my full moon frenzy under control.
But a few weeks wasn’t enough. I wanted more time.
Time I couldn’t have.
I swallowed hard, refusing to let tears pool in my eyes.
Enjoy the moments you have with her. Take advantage of this time, and stop dwelling on the future.
“You know, Rowena?” I spoke up. She lifted her head so she was facing me, and I was once again hypnotized by those dark, glossy eyes.
“When I first left my island, I had this big dream of seeing the world. I’d only ever heard about the mainland from books. I thought traveling was my dream.”
Rowena scoffed. “I find that surprising, since when you first stumbled into my shop, you barely knew what money was.”