Twelve
“You know, Marlowe, I have to say, things have certainly gotten more interesting around here lately. Maybe Josh did us all a favor.”
“Hush,” I say, ignoring Odette as we navigate through rows and rows of headstones. The sky turns a bruised purple as the day fades into dusk.
“I don’t think we’re supposed to be here,” Poppy says. She pulls her bag closer, as if afraid of contamination.
“It’s a public space, and the band thought it was a good idea.” I stop abruptly, the path splitting in front of me.
“Left,” Odette says with conviction.
Poppy bumps into my back and stays there, her hand curling around the strap of my messenger bag. “How do you know it’s left?”
“Because right takes us back to the entrance, and we’re trying to get deep into the graveyard. Nothing but the band and all their ghostly friends, right?”
Poppy groans. “And you’re sure you have to do this?” She breathes the words into the collar of my jacket, and I turn to her.
“Ash and I have an agreement. He’s already helped me write a letter, and we did the Harvest Festival. It’s time for me to hold up my end of the bargain.”
“That contract would never hold up in a court of law.”
I smile, her earnest defense warming me against the cold snap of fall. “It doesn’t have to. I want to do this. He’s helping me get Josh back.”
I resolutely ignore Odette’s snort, and warm Poppy’s hands between mine as she eases into the knowledge that we’re going deeper into the graveyard.
“Speaking of Josh, he won’t stop replying in the comments to his post about the letter. Are you sure you want to keep them anonymous? Don’t you want him to be bragging about a letter from you? Or thinking of you when he reads it?” Odette asks, before adding, “He did send you that text message, maybe he’s ready to patch things up.”
It’s a fair question. The answer sits heavy in my gut: I’m not sure he’s ready to know it’s from me. If he’d continued to message me, maybe, but he’s been radio silent since the festival. My brain still has a hard time reconciling these two Joshes and my place in his heart. He loved me. From the three romance books I’ve made it through, it seems like all the signs were there. But his cold expression at the bonfire? The annoyance on his face at the festival when he saw me and Ash? I don’t really know that person, and it’s turning my brain into a pretzel.
I settle on “I want to give him the opportunity to fall in love with the new me too. The romantically aware me. He was always bringing me a flower before class, or slipping doodles in my locker and sending these grandiose text declarations.” I throw my hands out helplessly. “I didn’t even think to do the same at the time, but I’m learning.”
Odette’s expression is so stony it could break glass. “And these romance novels are supposed to change your personality?” She tugs us both toward the left branch of the path.
“Not change, expand,” I say, desperate to break the tension. “I just finished a new one last night and it was pretty great.” I don’t say that I stayed up until four in the morning to finish it because I couldn’t untangle myself from the story. “This woman’s fiancé cheats on her, so she leaves him and goes back to her hometown to clean out and sell this cottage her great-aunt left her. She decides to stay and work on her dream of becoming a children’s author and falls in love with the man who broke her heart back when they were teenagers.”
“That sounds okay, I guess,” Odette says.
“You don’t understand. Her life was in ruins, and this coastal town, the community, and Eric Sinclair helped her figure out how she wanted to put herself back together. It was—” I blank on the words. “It was so good.”
Odette smirks. “Were there spicy parts?”
I blush. “Maybe.”
“Do you have it on you?” Poppy asks hesitantly.
I blink in surprise before digging into my bag and handing it over.
“Let me know when you get to a good part, so I can jump in,” Odette tells her.
We come around the bend, and there they are, parked on the path in front of a lichen-covered mausoleum. Never Mind the Monsters.
They’re just missing the mountains of cords and speakers and pedals that make it look like they’re going to launch a spaceship instead of sing about angry heartbreak.
Hazel bends down to unpack her guitar. She’s wearing dark green plaid pants with a black bralette and mesh shirt that I would never be able to pull off. I could barely pull off standing next to her. A spiky gold metal collar curls around her neck, and Odette slams to a stop, her mouth wide open.
“Marlowe!” Mateo grins, looking like he does every other day of the year. A brown flannel is tied messily around his waist, and his Iron Maiden T-shirt is cracked and faded from overuse.
Spencer is already sitting down behind a single snare, his long-sleeved black turtleneck still with crispy lines folded into it. He frowns and waves a drumstick over his setup. “Does this look dumb?”
Mateo rolls his eyes. “Spence, unless you wanted to wheelbarrow your entire kit out here, this is literally the best we can do.”
“You look great,” I tell him, smiling, but he doesn’t return it.
“Hey,” Ash says, looking up from helping Julian set up the stand for the keyboard.
“Hey,” I say, feeling self-conscious. His peacoat swallows up his lean frame, and I can’t see what he’s got on underneath. His hair hangs loose, and black liner is smudged around his eyes.
I put down my bag and pull out my phone as my hands start to sweat. They’ve gone to so much trouble; I wish I had lighting or a real camera, or a single clue how I’m supposed to pull this off. I take pictures for myself, but I have no training or sense of photo composition.
I pull up a browser and search How to take good pictures.
“Don’t worry,” Odette says beside me. I look up, panic rising in my throat. She smiles, the weight of her hand on my elbow grounding me. “You saw the pictures on their crazy old website. This is already ten times better.”
Poppy sits on a stone bench and opens my book, like she’s in a park and this is any old day. A lamppost along the path shines above her, and she angles the pages as the sky continues to darken.
I clear my throat. “Are y’all almost ready? We’re losing the light.”
“See, you already sound like a photographer,” Odette says, laughing.
“Just about,” Ash says, pulling his guitar out of his case. He slings off his peacoat and stands in front of his band in dark black dress pants, combat boots, and a white button-down under a black leather harness.
He looks at me expectantly, and I raise my phone just as Odette says, “No.”
I pause.
“No, it’s wrong.” She walks up to Hazel. “Give me the collar.” Hazel hesitates for only a moment before unhooking the spiked collar from her neck. Odette walks over to Julian. “Do you mind?”
He fastens it around his neck, blushing when Odette undoes the top button of his black polo, which is obviously brand new. “And untuck your shirt,” she says, before walking over to Mateo. She pauses briefly over the Iron Maiden shirt and shrugs. “This works, I guess.”
Mateo grins. “That means she thinks I’m perfect.”
Ash meets my eyes over her busy little frame, but she’s not wrong. The band already looks more cohesive.
She stops in front of Spencer and frowns.
“What?” he asks, more than a little defensive.
“You look like you’re working backstage at a high school musical.”
“It’s just black clothing,” he complains.
“Exactly, and everyone can tell you never wear it. Mateo, give him the flannel.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Mateo throws the shirt at his head and Spencer faux-gags as he shoves his arms into it. “Ugh, it smells like him.”
“Does this mean we’re dating now?”
“You wish.”
Odette comes full circle, back to Ash.
“It’s okay,” she admits. “Something is off, though.”
He allows the scrutiny, and she finally snaps her fingers. “Okay, I’ve got it. Shirt off, Harness back on, and then let the shirt billow around you.”
“You want me to take off my shirt?”
“Ash, if you’re going to be the lead singer, you’re going to have to try a little harder to be eye candy.”
He turns to me, and I valiantly try not to laugh, with mixed results.
He swears, but puts down his guitar, and the harness and shirt come off. Hazel helps him strap the leather back onto his bare chest, and I look everywhere else but at him. He slings the open shirt over his shoulder and drapes the guitar back across his body.
“Okay,” Odette says. “Now we’re ready.”
You’re going to have to look. You can’t take pictures by just pointing randomly in their direction and hoping for the best.I center them and tap the screen to focus. Shadows creep in at the edges as night starts to fall. They all look in my direction like they’re taking school photos.
I put down my camera. “Can y’all not look like we’re posing for the yearbook? Start playing a song or something.”
Ash clears his throat. “Good idea. Let’s do ‘The Crash of Summer’ on three, two, one.”
Then they move. The electric guitars leak little bursts of sounds, Julian’s keyboard isn’t turned on, and Spencer is softly tapping his single snare. You can tell they can hear the music, though, even if we can’t. Hazel sways, her fingers flying, and the muscles in Ash’s arms bunch as he plays and softly sings words that I don’t know but want to.
“Are we absolutely, positively certain we want Josh back?” Odette murmurs.
Heat floods my face as I take picture after picture: Julian leaning forward over the keys, Spencer’s arms swinging higher and higher, Mateo rocking back and forth. I capture the satisfied joy on Hazel’s face as she and Ash grin at each other over a melody we can barely hear.
And Ash. Ash backlit under a lamppost, his hair and his shirt flowing around him, silver rings dotting his fingers and ears. I step closer and click. I crouch a little, his torso stretching taller, the light washing over him like a halo. There. That’s the one.
Click.
I straighten, pulling up the photo, and it looks as if the marketing gods took it themselves. It’s perfect—moody and sexy. Sexier than it has any right to be.
“Oh, damn,” Odette breathes, pulling my phone out of my hand. “I’m officially Team Ash.”
“Shh,” I say, as my face, skin, and brain continue a steady burn. I get in a few more photos as night fully falls. I try to take snapshots of each member that they can use for themselves, but something tells me that Julian will never be using his outside of the website.
As they all pack up, Odette is complimenting Hazel on all her jewelry, her face, and every aspect of her personality. Soon they’re exchanging numbers, and I’m only surprised it took this long. I stand off to the side, trying to stay out of the way, and resist the urge to scroll through the photos on a never-ending loop.
I don’t have to wait long before Ash appears at my side, nudging my arm with his. “What do you think? Anything usable?”
His chest is covered again, and I find myself able to string together a sentence. “I think so,” I manage to force out.
“Can I see?”
I swipe through them and pull up my favorite. Ash in the spotlight.
His lips curl into his almost smile. “Looks like we’ve graduated from my parents’ basement.”
“Do you like it?” I ask, trying not to sound needy or like his answer will matter at all.
He shifts, swaying into my side, and the contact bolsters me. I suppress the urge to fix the eyeliner smudge under his left eye.
“Yeah, Marlowe. I like it.”