Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Thom
Thom looked across the road to Blackweather Green. After writing on their lanterns, participants could veer left or right onto the walking path that circled the wide green, choosing either the long or the short route to Lantern Beach, where they would release the lanterns.
Their group crossed the road, then split up, but Poppy remained at his side.
He took in the long tables stacked with paper lanterns—cream, amber, pale gold.
The color palette was quite muted for H-Town, but this ceremony wasn’t about the flash, or to be seen.
It was supposed to be introspective, calm, deep, meaningful.
Thom hauled in a deep breath, acutely conscious of Poppy next to him. These past few days had been a special type of hell. Look, he knew she needed time and space and for him to keep his distance. He’d done everything he could to make her feel comfortable…
And it had nearly fucking killed him. Because, honestly, all he wanted to do was to kiss her again…
And take her to bed. To disappear with her for hours, maybe even days, leaving the world to get on without them. His body wanted more; it wanted everything she could give him, but his mind was a disaster zone. It was as if her lips meeting his had detonated a landmine of piled-high crap…
Guilt, confusion, anger … a shitload of danger.
For what felt like the hundredth time since, he tried to untangle it all, despite knowing he was a hamster on a wheel going nowhere.
Guilt … yeah. He felt guilty because he made a move on his brother’s ex.
And that was despite Benji manufacturing evidence that got Thom booted from Sheffield Strategy.
He was also pissed at Benji, at the situation, at Poppy for strolling back into his life.
At himself for wanting what he shouldn’t.
Because, as much as he tried to downplay it, their kiss hadn’t been casual. It felt intimate, important, consequential. It wasn’t simply about wanting a woman in the most biblical way possible; it wasn’t just about lust and want. The stupidest part of him saw potential…
In Poppy, in them.
Thom rubbed the back of his neck. That was impossible, reckless, utterly asinine.
He’d only just started to find his emotional footing, some stability, and he was considering allowing Poppy to destabilize him again?
He couldn’t trust his instincts where relationships were concerned.
And if he allowed himself to go there, and it went wrong, would he be able to survive it?
Because this wasn’t just any woman, this was Poppy.
The worst part, something he couldn’t get his head around, was that he didn’t regret the kiss.
Not even a fraction.
He and Poppy approached the last, mostly empty table distributing lanterns, and Thom noticed the Sharpie pens scattered over its surface.
Looking up, he was shocked to see that the volunteer manning the table was Jasper, owner of The Bar and an outspoken critic of anything spooky or paranormal.
“Psychobabble bullshit” was how he routinely described the town’s obsession with ghosts, Halloween and anything that wasn’t explainable.
It was said that the only spirit Jasper believed in was Jack.
Despite the cool night, Jasper was dressed in a pair of cargo shorts, boots, and a tight, black T-shirt.
He sported a full, gray beard, a barrel chest, and the permanent scowl of his face projected his impatience for anyone displaying dickish behavior.
A tattoo stretched across his massive bicep, just visible beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt—military ink.
Jasper had the reputation for being one of the few business owners here who absolutely refused to bend to Luna’s Halloween fever dream.
His bar remained stubbornly, defiantly Halloween-free all year round.
No cobwebs. No plastic skulls. No ironic jack-o’-lanterns tucked behind the taps.
It was the only place in town where you could sit down without a ghost story being shoved at you along with your drink.
Thom, along with every other skeptic in town, escaped there whenever he hit his saturation point with goblins, festivals, fairies, and ghosts. Jasper tolerated the town’s nonsense by ignoring it completely. He looked solid. Grounded. Un-hauntable. But he was here, at the Lantern Walk.
Interesting. Thom reached across the table to shake his hand.
Poppy greeted him with surprise.
“Have you gone over to the dark side, Jasper?” she asked, gesturing to the table.
His scowl deepened. “What’cha talking about?”
“Um … you don’t normally get involved in Halloween-inspired events,” Poppy said, and Thom knew she was choosing her words carefully. “You don’t believe in ghosts and the paranormal.”
Jasper folded his arms and looked menacing. Thom instinctively moved closer to Poppy and sent him a warning frown. Jasper clocked it and gave him a tiny eyeroll, silently telling him not to be a dick.
“What’s the supernatural got to do with this event?” he asked, his tone not changing. He looked around, and they followed his gaze. “I’m not seeing people dressed up as ghosts or holding a stupid séance or witches casting spells.”
Well, yeah, that was true. “It’s still promoted as a Halloween-related event,” Poppy replied, stubborn to the core.
“A zebra is part of the horse family but isn’t a horse.”
What was that supposed to mean?
Jasper’s sigh sounded like a rumble. “People have issues, Poppy. Some of them have many issues with many people. Writing them down, releasing them, finding a solution…” He picked up a pen and gestured to the row of lanterns.
“If there’s a chance of someone walking away feeling a little more hopeful, then I’ll help. Now, you gonna write or what?”
Thom’s lips quirked. Well, that told her. But it was good to know that Jasper hadn’t started believing in ghosts and was still—thankfully—flying the flag for H-Town’s skeptics. He would mourn The Bar if Jasper went over to the dark side.
Thom chose a warm gold lantern and flattened it on the table, letting the bottom half—with the candle already fixed in place—hang over the edge. He stared at it longer than necessary, trying to decide what, exactly, he was willing to admit and, worse, commit to paper.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Poppy hesitate.
She picked up a plain cream lantern and turned it over in her hands.
The look on her face said she didn’t want to be here, doing this, any more than he did.
Because writing something down gave it weight and shape.
Putting names to emotions, to wishes, to feelings, thoughts, and regrets made them too real and brought them into focus.
Thom kept his eyes on his lantern as she bent over hers, shoulders tight, the crowd pressing in behind her.
Whatever decision she made, she made it fast. He caught the brief, sharp, impatient movement of her hand—like she was annoyed with the whole process.
Then she signed her name and dropped the lantern to her side, angled deliberately so he couldn’t see what she’d written.
That stung. Far more than it should have.
He folded his own lantern, unable to write the words lodged in his chest—Poppy: I’ll stop pretending that losing you again won’t hurt. If she was guarding her truth, he could do the same by not writing anything down. Fair was fair.
Still, his gaze flicked to her lantern, curiosity rising before he could stop it. The question hovered on his tongue—
And then she looked at him.
Something in her face shut the question down before he could ask it.
He didn’t know if she shook her head or if it was just the way her eyes held his, steady but guarded, too, but the moment stretched.
For far too long. Years ago, there had been a time when she’d been able to tell him everything, good, bad, and terrible, but she’d been a kid then, and had youth and immaturity as an excuse.
Honesty had come easily. Consequences hadn’t.
But they were adults now, and being grown didn’t guarantee clarity or neat answers. It came with messes you learned to carry. And he couldn’t forget that thirteen years of silence stretched between them. Thom knew he no longer had the right to ask.
Pulling himself out of his reverie, he placed his hand on Poppy’s back to guide her through the suddenly thick crowd.
He glanced down at her pink face and watched as she hunched her shoulders against the cold wind coming off the lake.
Shrugging out of his thigh-length coat, he draped it over her shoulders.
Poppy’s eyes skittered over his chest, covered by a long-sleeved Henley. “Aren’t you cold?” she asked, gripping the edges of his coat and holding it close to her body.
Yeah, but so what? “I’m fine,” he told her. Someone bumped into her and, telling himself that he was only touching her to guide her, to protect her too small body from bigger people, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Let’s get this done.”
They stopped at the entrance to the beach, where another set of volunteers waited to light the lanterns’ small candles.
Thom guided Poppy to an emptier part of the beach, surprised when the crowd quietened and then fell into respectful silence. If he were a romantic man, given to flights of fancy, he would think that ghosts stood on the edges of the crowd, lingering, watching, somehow enjoying the spectacle.
Lanterns, one by one, lifted and tossed gentle light onto upturned faces. Soon, tens, then a hundred, then more lanterns filled the sky, boldly flying toward the stars. It was pretty, he decided. Lovelier than he expected, and more moving.
“Shit.”
Poppy’s curse broke the moment, and he looked down to see her lantern flicker, the flame inside it jumping erratically. That was weird. And one side of the lantern looked like it was about to collapse in on itself.
Thom glanced at the person beside him and read the words written across her lantern.
I wish I had finished that conversation with the pigeons in the park.