Chapter 21
Nikolai
“I still can’t believe you haven’t really been downtown,” Isabelle says, balancing on the edge of the sidewalk like she’s
walking a tightrope. Overhead, the last vestiges of sunset fade out in favor of the stars. “Do you do anything but school and hockey?”
“Well, there’s you.”
She wobbles in place, her mouth dropping open. “Oh, that’s dirty.”
“You walked right into it, sweetheart.” My lips twitch as I steady her with a hand on her back. She’s wearing a pair of ripped
jeans and a pumpkin-patterned top with an oversized yellow cardigan. Her hair’s loose, held away from her face with clips.
When I met her on the sidewalk just around the corner from her house, she looked around with exaggerated carefulness before
leaping into my arms for a kiss. “Are you sure you’re not cold?”
“I’ve endured way worse for the price of being on theme.”
“Do you want my jacket?”
She eyes it longingly. “Nope.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.” She lifts her chin, candy corn earrings bobbing. “Cold? What cold?”
I peel off the jacket and drape it over her shoulders. She scowls, but burrows into it all the same. I hide my smile as she
surreptitiously sniffs it.
“It’s on theme. Black leather is very Halloween-ish.”
“I like the way you think.” She jumps off the curb, taking my hand. “Moorbridge is so pretty, come on.”
She leads the way into the heart of town, past rows of houses already decorated for Halloween. Most of the storefronts are
closed by this time of night, but streetlamps and strands of orange lights looped around the trees illuminate everything.
The restaurants are still busy; as we pass, music and conversation bleed into the air. She points out the arcade, the bookstore,
and the movie theater. The bakery apparently sells used records, but only on weekends, and the noodle shop on the corner has
great lunch specials.
“Which you’d know if you came here as a freshman,” she says as we round another corner, heading for the park. “So really,
I’m acting like your tour guide right now. I should’ve done this ages ago.”
“Movie specials on Tuesdays,” I recite obediently. “And the arcade sells beer, but the slushies are better.”
She beams. “You’re listening.”
“Obviously.” I push her against the nearest surface—the brick exterior of what looks like a bar—and give her a rough kiss.
The gloss on her lips tastes like pumpkin spice. “What’s this?”
She twists around. “Oh, Lark’s. College bar. I’m sure the guys will drag you here eventually.”
The name rings a bell; Mickey mentioned it the other day. The season has gotten off to a rough start, so we haven’t had much
reason to celebrate, but I like knowing where we’ll go when we turn things around. Visualizing victory is half the battle.
“What about you?” I run my fingertips over the exposed part of her midriff. “If I came here after a win—”
“Love the confidence,” she says, her voice hitching, “but—”
I take a step back as a couple guys leave the bar, and she cuts herself off. They look like students, chatting among themselves as they decide which direction to go in.
“Ugh.” She yanks on my shirt until I follow her behind a car. She crouches, observing the group with a scowl on her face.
“Why are we hiding?” I whisper into her ear.
She jumps, shaking her head. “I hooked up with the guy in the red shirt a couple times last year.”
I snag my thumb in her belt loop and pull her closer. “Him? Really? What’s his name?”
“What, are you jealous?”
I give the guy a closer look. Backwards baseball cap, red T-shirt just tight enough to show off his muscles, and a cocky sneer
on his face. I tighten my grip on Isabelle. “He looks like a douche.”
“Don’t get too excited,” she says, rolling her eyes. “He wasn’t that great.”
“In bed?”
She’s blushing furiously, which is adorable, but I don’t let her off the hook. “He wasn’t as good as me, was he?”
“Nik.”
“I’ll bet he didn’t fuck you as good as I do.” I suck on her earlobe, earring and all. “And that you didn’t come as hard when
he touched you.”
She shudders. Her hand covers mine. “I didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Didn’t come.” She jerks out of my grasp, steadying herself. She flops the arms of my jacket over her hands, her gaze settling
somewhere near our feet. “He didn’t make me come.”
I straighten. “Oh.”
“I faked it.” She shoves her hands underneath her armpits, rocking back and forth. “Which I know is so embarrassing, okay?
I don’t think he noticed, but I didn’t want to run into him again if I could avoid it.”
“That’s not embarrassing.”
She snorts, passing me on her way back to the sidewalk. “Sure.”
“Really,” I say, hurrying to catch up. “Sounds like a him problem. You come when you’re with me.”
She crosses the street, heading for the park—and the festival—on the other side. I barely glance at the road before jogging
across as well. I reach for her wrist, holding her in place gently. She looks over her shoulder with a surprisingly vulnerable
expression.
“Did I say something wrong?” I rub my thumb over her wrist. “You come when you’re with me, right?”
“Yes.” We’re under a streetlamp, and the light is bright enough that I can see the blush on her cheeks. “Yes, God, of course.
But before, I never... not with him, or anyone else.”
“Never?”
“Let’s play a game,” she says, a determined edge to her voice. “A question for a question.”
“Isabelle.”
“I ask you a question, and if you answer, you get to ask me one back.”
She’s looking up at me with so much fire in her eyes that I have no choice but to back down. “What kinds of questions?”
“What’s your favorite animal?”
“That’s not...” I trail off. “That’s not a real question.”
“Sure it is.” She takes my hand, leading me down the sidewalk. The park entrance is to the left; this close, I hear the live
music. Something country, rising over the noise of the festival-goers. “Everyone has a favorite animal, and it’s weird that
I don’t know yours yet.”
“What’s yours?”
“I’ll tell you when you tell me yours.”
I pay the entrance fee for both of us, waving away the offer of change. “Um... dogs? I’ve always wanted a dog.”
“Didn’t have one when you were a kid?”
I think of Dad and suppress the urge to make a face. “I thought it was my turn to ask a question.”
“True. Have to respect the game. Ooh, they have apple cider.”
We get paper cups of hot cider and meander through the crowd, stopping at a couple of booths. Kids with face paint and cotton
candy run around us, and up ahead, a group of people dance to the band. Most of the people here must be from Moorbridge, not
the university, because I see lots of young parents and old couples. She takes my hand again, a comfortable anchor, as we
peer at a jewelry stand.
“What about you?” I finally ask. “Favorite animal?”
“I love koalas. I won’t consider my life complete until I hold one.”
“That’s not what I was expecting.”
“They’re so cute, Nik! Their noses!”
“Don’t most of them have chlamydia?”
“What? No way.”
“I’ve definitely read that somewhere.”
She takes a sip of her cider, frowning. “That’s so sad. They’re too cute to get STDs.” A woman holding a squirming toddler
throws us a look as she passes. Her eyes widen. “Whoops.”
“That one’s on me,” I say with a snort.
She sighs dramatically. “Okay, what about your favorite ice cream flavor?”
“Don’t have one,” I say, guiding her around a puddle so she won’t ruin her sneakers.
She stops in her tracks so suddenly, we almost stumble into the next booth. “What? That’s impossible.”
I shrug. “Obviously it’s not.”
“Because every flavor is so delicious and you can’t pick?” She shakes her head. “No, even I have a favorite flavor.”
“Which is...?”
“Usually it’s—nope, not until you answer.”
I play with her hair. “Guess I’ll never find out, then.”
“This is tragic.” She finishes off her cider and tosses the cup into the nearest trash bin. “Are you allergic to dairy? Wait,
is that why you never put milk in your coffee? You’ve always been mysterious about that.”
“Some people just like their coffee black, you know.”
“Some people? You mean psychopaths.” She wrinkles her nose, considering me. “How have you lived on Earth for twenty-one whole years without deciding—”
“My dad never let me have sweets,” I admit. I hardly ever say anything about him aloud, so the words feel weird in my mouth.
“I just never ate ice cream or anything like that growing up.”
She looks genuinely upset for me. “Who doesn’t give a kid ice cream?”
I think of Mom sneaking me sour candy after swimming and chocolate after tough losses. When she didn’t agree with something
Dad decided, she’d rebel in her own quiet way. She didn’t always get away with it. “Sometimes my mom would buy me candy.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?”
She brushes her lips against mine, the taste of pumpkin mixing with apple. “Okay, new plan.” She gives me a mischievous smile,
practically dancing in place. “And I’m very committed, so don’t say no.”