Page 12 of A Game Cursed and Deadly

She glares at me like she can smell my bullshit a mile away. “Girl, that boy would be even a dead person’s type.”

I can’t help cringing at that. Sara means it as a joke, and to most people it would be. Dead people are just corpses. But I know better, and the idea of ghosts hanging around Teizel is… disturbing. Not because I fear for his well being, but because I can picture him being at home among them.

“If you didn’t feel the chemistry, you need to get your stuff checked out. He was eating you with his eyes.”

A thrill runs through me at the thought. It’s not like I didn’t feel that, it’s just that I don’t know how I should feel about that. With Teizel, eating me feels a bit more literal than it should.

I’m getting so paranoid. “I’m not in the right headspace to date.”

Sara grabs the forearm that I hold against my ribcage. “Honey, a word of advice from an old lady. You don’t need to marry the man. In fact, you don’t need to offer any kind of commitment. You can just enjoy yourself and see how things go.”

I chew on my inner cheek, contemplating her words. There is an undeniable pull driving me toward Teizel, something that compels me to peel back all his layers and find out what he’s hiding, who he really is. “People would talk.”

Sara’s eyebrow quirks. “So?”

“So I don’t want people to talk. I’ve had enough of that already.”

She lets go of my forearm to wave her hand in the air. “Girl, please. You can’t not live your life just to keep the gossips at bay. Plus, what do you care about what these people think?”

I don’t — not intrinsically. At least I don’t think so. It’s about how their thoughts turn into actions, how they color their behaviors around me, and when people go poking around… I’m good at keeping this darkness inside me hidden, but it’s a lot easier to do when people aren’t prodding. If I slip like I did when I was a child, remind people that I’m closer to death than they’re comfortable with… people hung witches — and witches don’t even exist. Ghosts do.

“I want a quiet life while I’m here. This isn’t a place I want to put roots in. When I’m gone, I want to disappear. I don’t want people to remember me.”

“Trust me, this town will find something else to entertain themselves with.”

I keep shooting glances at the door. While I want to believe her, the memories of the bullying I’ve endured as a kid are enough to keep me glued in place.

“If you don’t go for it, are you going to regret it?”

I nod with a sigh. “He’s… interesting.”

She points to the door behind her. “Then what are you waiting for?”

I watch the door as if it could magically reveal the answer. Before I can make the decision to chase him, it swings open, and my heart lurches.

Except it’s not Teizel walking in, and the excitement dies in my throat.

Mrs. Collins hasn’t changed much in the years I’ve been away; her hair is still bleached blonde, with just a hint of her natural brown peeking through at the roots. Even her face looks pretty much the same, albeit tighter, like she stretched the skin over it. She wears her signature dark red lipstick, a relic from the ‘80s, a short-sleeved button up over a pair of wide linen pants, a bag worth at least three months’ of my salary slung over her shoulder.

She scans the bookstore with a bored expression, like this whole place is beneath her, at least until her eyes find me. Then a malicious glint lights them as her lips stretch in the fakest of smiles.

“The prodigal child is back,” she coos.

By my side, Sara stiffens. “What can we do to help, Mrs. Collins?”

The woman waves a hand in the air as she walks over to the counter. “I was looking for a birthday gift,” she says before her eyes train on me again. “But I’d rather catch up with you, my dear.”

And I’d rather pluck my own eyes out. Of course, I don’t say that out loud — it would add fuel to the fire.

Esmeralda, the angry, ill-adjusted, delusional child. The one who needed better parental figures in her life. Poor creature, growing up orphaned did a number on her.

I can’t give any of the townies, and especially Mrs. Collins, any reason to fuel that narrative.

“Not much to catch up on,” I say.

Mrs. Collins guffaws. “Nonsense! You’ve been gone for what? Seven years? Eight?”

Eight years is right. I packed one bag and left the day I graduated high school, eight years and two months ago. “Something like that.”