Chapter 12 I Receive a Weapon, Romantically #2
Chilled, I rub the goose bumps down on my arms. I relate to what he’s saying more than I’d like, to the point that I can feel it beneath my skin. “I don’t think that’s a weakness.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope. It’s survival. Keeping yourself from getting nailed down is a good default move, so you don’t get trapped living a life you hate.”
“Wow. I guess that’s it.” Hanry moves his hand near mine on the ladder. “Is that spoken from experience?”
“Kind of,” I admit. It’s why I clawed my way into NYU and that internship at EFG.
It’s why I’m so desperate to get out of Salem, present moment aside.
If I go down the paths Grandma and Mom went down before me, I might take on the worst parts of them too, and become neglectful and lonely and unpredictable in all the worst ways.
“You’re not allowed to slither out on me,” I say. “If we have a second date and you ghost me, I’ll send Mandy after you. She’s a manic pixie, you know. Very sharp teeth.”
“Is that your new assistant? Congratulations.”
“Yes, and she has arms.”
“A pair of congratulations, then.”
“Can I ask you something?” I lean back on the ladder, in spite of it digging into my back, trying not to look like what I’m about to say matters. “You’re human, right? Like wholly, definitely, every moon of the month and with every drop of blood, human?”
Hanry smiles. It’s a knowing look that also seems like it has secrets behind it. “Yeah.”
“You promise?”
“Absolutely promise,” he says.
“Don’t change your answer on me,” I say, which makes him laugh but not elaborate. Tempted as I am to poke at it, we’ve only known each other a little while. And we won’t stay in each other’s lives for much longer, anyway. So I let it go.
Once we’ve collected enough apples that even Hanry begins looking worn-out, or at least bored, we climb to the top of the hill behind the property.
Up there, illuminated by a waxing and offensively poetic moon, Hanry has laid out a picnic blanket and cheese boards with crackers, grapes, and—of course—freshly baked cider doughnuts. But that’s not what’s so special.
My name is carved into one of the cheese boards. Not Samantha, either. Sabby.
“You made this?” I marvel, picking up the wooden plank and investigating its smooth surface. It feels… sanded. This is awesome. I now have a cool kitchen tool. Or a makeshift weapon. You never know when these things might come in handy.
“Woodworking’s a pretty serious hobby of mine,” says Hanry. He has a way of tucking in his chin, hiding behind his stubble like he’s embarrassed, that I find really appealing. “Sometimes I use found objects too. You like it?”
Yeah. I do. In fact, it’s making me teary-eyed.
“Thank you,” I say to Hanry’s slightly blurred shoulders. “I’ll have to host some fancy cheese parties now.”
“I wouldn’t be opposed to an invitation.”
I put the cheese board into my lap, pat the soft fabric covering my thighs, and wish I’d worn overalls.
Sure, they’re undignified, but they have pockets for storing fruit, and more importantly, my midriff would be less exposed than it is in this cropped sweater.
It’s not my fault everything is cropped these days, even when you’re looking for something frumpy.
On second thought, maybe it isn’t so bad. Hanry seems to appreciate my section of bared skin, if the direction of his gaze means anything. I don’t mind that. In fact, I really want him to like the way I look. To be into me.
Afraid my eyes might give me away, I concentrate on slathering apple jam onto a piece of cheddar.
Our relationship thus far is built on mostly lies.
Hanry doesn’t know that my business started as a sham, or that I’m only here for a few more days.
He doesn’t know that yesterday, I shimmied out of a window in the back of Grandma’s house in order to avoid her witch cabal chanting in the front yard.
And, at least for tonight, I want to pretend that Hanry and I could have something worth nurturing.
But if I told him he’s not allowed to be a slither-outer-er to me, how can I do that to him? He’s such a nice guy. He deserves more honesty from me. I can’t let this go any longer—even if it means this is the moment where it ends.
“I’m not really a wedding planner,” I say. “Or an event planner of any kind.”
Hanry’s silent for a moment. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I suck in my breath. “That’s it?”
“Yeah, I’m… just processing it. Why’ve you been pretending to be one?”
His tone isn’t judgmental, just curious.
Hanry is, all in all, taking the revelation better than I expected.
It makes me feel both safe and bold enough to tell him more.
“I fell into it because of you. And, before you say anything, I wasn’t planning to take any more jobs after Dave and Amanda, but I’ve been trapped here in Salem by my grandmother’s magical will. ”
Skeptically, Hanry asks, “How does that work?”
“I have no idea. She was eccentric.”
“Aren’t most people?”
I give him the stink-eye.
“Or not. So, what do you have to do to get out of it? I’m guessing you’re still trying to.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, unable to keep defensiveness out of my voice.
“You did say ‘trapped.’ ”
Oh. Right.
Since Hanry has a point—and I’ve committed to telling him the truth—I take a deep breath and let it all out.
“A few weeks ago, I didn’t live in Salem. I only came here after my grandmother died, to execute her will. I didn’t realize there’d be a catch.”
“Most magical things have a catch,” says Hanry.
“I’m learning that,” I sigh. “Anyway, Grandma needs my help for her spirit to ascend to god-knows-where, and it can only happen after seven tides are passed twice, high and low. In other words, a week, right? Unless it’s thrice?
But more than a week has passed, and I’m still stuck here. And I don’t know why.”
“Are you sure the seven tides thing refers to time?” asks Hanry.
“What else could it be?”
“Tide Pods.”
I snort. If only.
“The truth is, I’m supposed to be in the middle of my second week at a new accounting job in Manhattan right now. Since I’ve been trapped here, I’ve had to call in bogus excuses, one after another. Worse excuses than the one I gave you for being in the cemetery at Grandma’s grave.”
After chewing on this, Hanry asks, “Gotcha. And what were you really doing there?”
“Trying to bury Bulan.”
Although he’s been admirably serious up to this point, Hanry laughs out loud. “Why? He’s hilarious!”
“I know that now!” I retort, but that only makes him laugh more.
Of course a guy like him wouldn’t have to worry about finding a head without a body and being accused of murder.
If the charm didn’t work, all he’d have to do is turn it off, and his towering mass would terrify anyone into silence. I don’t have that advantage.
“So you really made up that whole thing?” Hanry asks, wiping his eye while smiling. “About being a florist and an event planner? And you didn’t correct me or try to back out after I mentioned my friends’ wedding. Holy shit, Sabby. Is this why you were so weird about your duffel bag?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “I didn’t really expect you to follow up!”
Hanry whistles. “This is amazing,” he says. “Sabby. I stand by what I said on Saturday—you did a great job. I’m even more impressed now that I know the circumstances.”
I thought he’d be mad at me for lying. He’s taken me by surprise, and I’m stunned at my own relief. How good it feels to be open, to trust someone with a secret like this. Flustered, I ask, “Really?”
Hanry has barely caught his breath. “Yeah! That was your first wedding? Unreal. Now I want to know what else you’ve been keeping from me.”
“Well, I can promise you I was honest about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I wasn’t lying about my dancing skills. Those moves were completely authentic.”
“Yeah, we’ll need to work on those. How can you be so bad at dancing and so good at faking that other stuff?” he asks.
“The only kind of dancing I like to do is in a place where people can’t see me.”
Hanry glances around. A smile sneaks onto his stubbly face, catching shadow. Marking mischief. “We could dance here,” he says. “Right now.”
“Hell no,” I say before biting into an apple slice.
“Really? All right, suit yourself. I guess I’ll just have to dance… by myself…”
“Have fun,” I say as Hanry clambers to his feet. He can’t be serious.
“I’m going to do the boy’s part first…” And he does. He puts out his arms as if holding an invisible woman, presumably me, and starts to glide on the grass, humming. “Now for the girl’s part…”
Once again, his footwork is nothing short of masterful. Head to toe, he’s graceful, strong, coordinated. And all while being silly as hell.
“How do you know the girl’s part?” I demand.
“My dance instructor made me learn both,” says Hanry, somewhat breathlessly. “It’s really hard doing some of these movements without someone holding on to you.”
“It was awkward,” I say, sympathetic, “even with you holding on to me.”
“What’s a loop-de-loop?” he says in a falsetto. “Oof! Ahh!”
I’m blushing, but thankfully it’s so dark, I doubt he sees. “Shut up. I don’t sound like that.”
He just laughs. “Nah. But I like your voice.”
Finally, Hanry gives up his single-man dancing and comes back to the picnic blanket.
He does that annoyingly hot thing where he tumbles off his feet, landing in a perfect, model-esque slouch across from me.
I’ve seen guys do this in movies. I didn’t know real people were capable of it, much less on a first take.
It’s enough to make me feel like this isn’t real.
And then I remember.
“So explain something to me,” I say. “You’re wrapped up in the whole paranormal world and its weirdness. In spite of being… not so weird. Why is that?” By which I mean, Why would you do that to yourself?
He shrugs.
“I don’t know. The Community isn’t all bad. At least not bad-weird. It has its pros and cons, same as the regular world.”
“Yeah, I don’t buy that. I need specifics,” I say around a mouthful of cheese.
“Okay, Miss Bossy,” Hanry laughs, settling closer to me. Wow—he smells good. I already knew this, but it bears repeating.
“Humans can get a little boring,” Hanry says. “I like staying on my toes. Or at least, I’m used to it.”
“Is that why you’re so tall? All those toe stretches?”
He nods, feigning seriousness.
“Well, good for you, Sir Toe Fetish.” On that note, it’s time for my next question. “Were you really collecting pine cones that night?”
Hanry nods, reaching for one of my cheesy crackers. “I use them to make wreaths. And sell them.”
“Ew,” I say. “Those things grandmothers buy?”
“And great-aunts.”
“At least you know your niche. Are you on Etsy?”
“Definitely not,” Hanry says after swallowing a bite. “I’m bad with computers.”
“I’m a spreadsheet champion,” I brag. “Which is what makes me so great at my true calling.”
“Auditing.” Hanry nods.
For the rest of the date, Hanry and I talk about work—which sounds boring, but it’s not.
He tells me about traveling up and down the inland highways of the Northeast, playing nice with small-town strangers, selling foraged and wood-hewn wares at farmers’ and handcraft markets.
It’s clear he’s not the college type. This should mean he’s not my type.
How could pine cones pay for a blasé McMansion in the burbs?
I shouldn’t be so enraptured by him. But I am.
Hanry’s playful nature makes it hard to be rational. The simplest things seem to give him joy—including being with me, for some reason.
Besides, there’s something about his physicality that gets me. I really like Hanry’s hands. They swallow mine up when he holds them. They’re also slow enough to let me grab the last doughnut.
And they support my weight with gentleness when I lean forward to plant a kiss upon his lips.
At once, the chill in the air falls away.
The warmth of Hanry’s mouth, the sweep of his arms encircling me, it’s like being wrapped in a wool blanket.
I’m riddled with sensation—with heat. When Hanry’s hand slips under my sweater hem and slides across the sliver of skin exposed below my ribs, my breath hitches.
I push myself toward him gratefully. But Hanry moves back.
“Sabby—” he starts, but I interrupt.
“It’s cold out, damn it. You’ve got a job to do,” I say.
When I hook my hand on his neck and pull his face down again, I feel Hanry’s laughter; how it shakes his chest, how his lips turn up at the edges against mine. His thick stubble grazes my cheeks and chin.
And as we kiss again, I answer his smile with one of my own.