Chapter 40
The next four days drone as slowly as the cargo train crawling past the Bean at five miles per hour. And I’m carrying all the weight.
Dara is holed up in a hotel on Main Street. Xander is hiding in the woods. Whitley won’t speak to me. And I’ve been dodging my counselor so she doesn’t press me about my impending deadlines.
That leaves me with one person to talk to, or at least try to talk to, to see if the curse is broken.
Murray.
I text, email, and call. They get no response, bounce back, and go straight to voicemail. I even write a letter and drop it in my mailbox, but I know it burst into nothing the moment it left my hands, just like Xander and I dissolve into dust when the wrong person walks through us.
My hopes that the curse will break anytime soon are dissolving too.
I come home from work drenched in sweat, with my jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Dad sits out front in a beach chair, drinking a beer, face tilted toward the sun.
My earbuds are back in most hours of the day.
They play a podcast I’ve never listened to before.
I thought something fresh could help fill the silence, but nothing compares to Xander’s voice.
“Someone is here to see you,” Dad grumbles as I walk across the lawn.
I remove one of my earbuds. “What?”
“You have a guest.”
My brow furrows. “Who?”
He shrugs with a smirk, like it’s a joke I don’t get.
My heart rate spikes, equal to the pace of a stampede of deer running through Penango’s fields. I picture Murray in my dad’s armchair, holding a response to my letter, waiting for me.
I barrel through the front door and trip over a laundry basket in the foyer, my eyes locked on the living room. When I pass the threshold, I freeze. Every muscle contracts. My breath catches in my throat.
Murray stands under the archway between the kitchen and dining room.
Has he finally received my texts?
He holds a brown box with two milkshakes and a basket of curly fries from the Bean.
His nails are covered in dirt, and his fingers are taped fresh from football practice.
I focus on the food before meeting his eyes.
His buzz cut is so overgrown that his hair is nearly slicked back against the sides of his head.
Sunburned, pink skin peels across the bridge of his nose.
For the first time in a long time, I’m happy to see him. I know he misses seeing me. I wonder if he can right now.
He stares up at the chandelier with a blank face. I steady my feet and release the breath I was holding. I almost don’t want to speak. Because once I do, I’ll know for sure.
“Murray,” I say, digging my fingernails into my palm.
He tilts his head and looks at me like a dog hearing a new sound. His lips part as if he’s about to say something.
He coughs. I jump.
“Murray,” I repeat, stepping closer. His body odor covers me in nostalgia, thick as a morning fog.
Then, “Hi, Stetson,” he says. “I haven’t heard from you and wanted to check if you’re all right.”
I clap my hand over my mouth. Warmth spreads down my legs and up into my head. My whole body shakes with a sob. His image blurs.
The curse is broken.
He smiles. “I applied for that off-campus apartment by Penango College,” he says.
“I told Whitley. I don’t know if the message reached you.
We can live there if you don’t go to Tennessee.
It’s basically free since I’m on the football team.
It’s not that far, but it could still be something different.
” The box of food trembles in his hands.
“I can show you I’m not the person you think I am. ”
“Murray.” I sigh. “We don’t have to talk about that.”
“And I think you have a point about getting away from here and seeing new places. My family’s been in Penango for a hundred years and I don’t think it’s done us any favors.” He licks his lips. “We could transfer together after two years at the community college.”
“Please.” I step toward him. “You’re never going to believe what’s happened to me.”
He frowns. His shoulders slump and for the first time maybe ever, his lean muscles appear weak and deflated.
“Two years?” He scratches his head. “Or just one year?”
“Huh?” I question, dropping my chin.
“We could transfer after one year.” He nods to himself. “Yeah, that sounds better.” He beats his chest. “I got this.”
“Murray,” I say firmly.
I stop breathing. Not this again. I know this conversation, how it goes and how it ends. My tears dry up faster than they came.
“God, where is he?” Murray huffs. He looks past me out the bay window.
“Stop!” I yell. “I’m here.” My voice breaks. “I’m here. I’m here.” I try to drown out his words. “Please stop talking.”
There’s no recognition on his face. I skip across the room with my arms extended. A final rush of hope. Words aren’t enough. The ultimate test is touch. If I can just touch him . . .
I launch myself forward for a jump hug, as I did when he asked me to senior prom and when he won his first playoff game after our training.
But this time, rather than being caught, I slip through his arms—and his body.
I land like scattered marbles on the dining room floor. My breathing hastens until I’m seconds away from hyperventilating. Light blots color my vision. My ribs squeeze my lungs like a constricting snake.
Murray is still talking. But not to me. He’s practicing for a conversation that will never happen.
The curse never broke.
There are no second chances.
Not for Xander.
Not for Dara.
Not for me.
Not for anyone from within these county lines.