Page 25 of A Witch’s Guide to Surviving Halloween

Chapter Seventeen

The moment hot, buttery popcorn hits my tongue, I have to suppress a moan, savoring the salty crunch.

I side-eye the bowl of cheese-topped chili and the bag of miniature fried donuts, piled high with cinnamon sugar, balanced in Oliver’s hands.

“I can’t believe you aren’t getting popcorn. I think that’s a sin or something.”

“I like to switch it up sometimes.” He lifts the bag to his mouth, grabs the topmost donut with his teeth, and draws the whole thing into his mouth.

“But it’s a movie night. By definition, that requires the consumption of popcorn.

And none of that air-popped healthy stuff either.

” I pick a grease-drenched puff off the top of my massive bag, popping it between my lips for emphasis.

“It needs to be the most heart-stopping, butter-drenched, salt-laden perfection you’ve ever eaten. ”

Oliver scowls down at my bright yellow snack, glistening in the lights of the nearest food truck, hung with fairy lights and glowing pumpkin ornaments.

“That’s not even real butter.”

I raise an eyebrow at him before turning my attention to my popcorn, inspecting one of the top kernels closely. “How can you tell?”

He snorts. “I come from a long line of bakers who make everything from scratch. Real sugar, real fruit, real butter. I can smell the difference from a mile away.”

He grabs another donut from his bag with his teeth, tipping his head back to scarf it down in one gulp.

“Uh-huh . . . and how’s your sugar dough fried in dirty oil?”

“Perfection.” He grins.

I roll my eyes at him and shake my head to hide my grin. We meander through the food trucks lined up along Main Street, doing our best not to bump into the crowd gathered in the middle. There’s everything from classic fair foods to quirky, unusual trucks that have come from all over the East Coast.

Right next to a corndog truck is one selling custom ice cream sandwiches, the scent of freshly baked cookies mixing with the salty, greasy smell of cheap hot dogs.

Then, just like that, there’s a ramen truck advertising everything from spicy miso ramen to ramen tacos next to it.

The longest line, though, is for the gourmet grilled cheese truck, which I have to admit was very tempting.

Oliver leans closer until his breath brushes against the tip of my ear. “How were things after I left?”

In the small space between us, the magic flares. Up until now, it’s been idly buzzing around us like an annoying mosquito, watching and waiting for its chance to take its bite, but the sudden proximity shift grabs its attention, waiting for us to get too close.

I sigh, leaning away, because I don’t have to ask to know what he’s referring to.

Even after he left, the tension between Lucy and me hung in the air.

As lifelong friends who’d been working together for damn near a decade, we’ve had our fair share of fights.

Still, each one wore on me as if it were the first time.

“If I say fine, will you believe me?”

“No.”

Figures.

We come to the end of the food trucks, taking in a much-needed breath of fresh air, free of mouthwatering scents, and I scan the area: There’s a massive screen constructed before the town gazebo, rows and rows of folding chairs lined up before it.

We stand there for a long time, swaying back and forth as I inspect my popcorn with an intensity that suggests they might come alive and start swarming like spiders. Given the way things have gone this week, that isn’t all that unlikely.

Oliver breaks the silence first. “She’s right, you know.”

“Traitor.” I glower at him from beneath my lashes, doing my best impression of a scathing look, but the way he smiles tells me I come off more like a feisty kitten than a lion.

“Can I be honest?” he asks. I don’t answer, but I don’t walk away either, and he takes that as enough consent to keep going.

“From what I’ve noticed, you’re hiding behind a pretty transparent mask.

I don’t know you that well, but even I can tell you’re hating this whole ‘host’ thing.

You run a successful, well-respected business, and it’s clear this whole town loves you the way you are.

There are so many other ways you could be contributing to this festival to make it equally as memorable as any other year, so why are you trying to be something you’re not? ”

I roll back and forth on my feet, holding my popcorn bag close. “You don’t get it. No one does,” I reply softly.

Oliver doesn’t respond, just stands there watching me, patiently waiting for me to find the words.

“It’s not about me.”

“Then who is it about? The town? The festival? Because I promise, they’ll survive.”

“No, it’s . . .” My jaw clenches as I struggle to find the right words. To speak aloud all the things I’ve been keeping to myself. “It’s about Grandma.”

“But you’re not—”

“I know, I’m not Grandma,” I bite out, cutting him off before he can say what I know is coming.

“I’m not trying to be her. I could never be her, but she was my everything.

My best friend—and my role model. She was everything I wanted to be when I grew up, and then one day she was just .

. . gone. Yes, her health had been declining for a few years, but I still wasn’t ready.

Because the day she found out we would be hosting this year, her face lit up.

For the first time in months, that spark was back, and she’d been so excited.

We started planning that day. Talking about all the things we wanted to contribute, how we’d decorate the store, and all the little bits of magic we’d infuse into the celebration to make it all that much more special. ”

Tears dance on my lashes as I remember it all, the memories barreling through me like a wrecking ball determined to make me collapse beneath its weight.

“I’m not trying to be Grandma,” I repeat.

“I’m just trying to live my life in a way that would make her proud.

Hosting a successful Halloween . . .” I gesture to the square around us.

To the smiling, laughing, chatting festivalgoers, and all the decorations I’d helped fund.

“This would have meant the world to her.”

A single tear slides down my cheek, and I wipe at it with the heel of my hand. Oliver reaches for me and then freezes, his hand hanging in midair before clenching his fist and letting it fall to his side, remembering that the magic reacts most when we touch.

“Amelia!” The screech scares me half to death, making me jump and nearly spill my popcorn everywhere.

I spin to find Stacy storming toward me, clipboard in hand.

“There you are!”

“Here I am,” I breathe, trying my best not to sound so despondent about that fact. Before she gets too close, I swipe at my cheeks, forcing away any remaining tears and splitting my face with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.

Thankfully, Stacy is too focused on her timetable to notice.

“I need you pronto. All the cooking competition winners are waiting for you in the VIP section. Well”—she glances at Oliver, giving him the dirtiest stink eye I’ve ever seen from her, and I almost snort at his berated expression—“almost all of them.”

“I’m headed there now,” I assure her, plastering on a cordial smile. “Just show me where to sit.”

With a snap of her fingers, she gestures for me to follow, leading Oliver and me through the gate toward a roped-off table at the center of the makeshift theater seating.

Stacy wasn’t joking; all the seats are taken, all except for two.

One in the very center, which I sadly assume is my seat, and one at the very end.

She herds me toward the center seat while rambling about the importance of punctuality.

I plop into my seat, holding my bag of popcorn close, and give Ellie a small, friendly smile. She wiggles her fingers in greeting as she slurps her noodles, the ramen truck logo printed on the side of the bowl.

I glance down at the end as Oliver takes his seat next to Charissa, who unsurprisingly won the cocktail/mocktail category last night.

They shake hands, and Oliver smoothly slips into a charismatic conversation with her that sends her into a flurry of animated hand movements, probably talking about her latest microbrew.

The sight of him fitting in so effortlessly here warms my heart.

If you don’t count stepping on Stacy’s punctual toes, of course, but even the oldest residents of Ashwood Haven can’t avoid that.

From what he’s shared, it seems like he could really use a place to call home, somewhere he belongs and can be himself without the pressures of family or his past catching up to him.

The bright, easy smile stretching across his face, the dimple forming at the corner, tells me he feels it too—that sense that he’s meant to be here, meant to run the bakery.

Maybe . . . meant to find me.

Sadness takes hold of my heart because what if the magic runs him out of town the same way it did his grandfather . . . and if it does, it’ll all be my fault. Or, more specifically, Grandma’s fault.

I’m reminded that if we are destined to find each other, it isn’t for any good reason. If anything, we’ve been pushed together so I can ruin his life.

“Do you know what’s showing tonight?” Ellie inquires, drawing my attention.

I turn to her, pulling myself out of my spiral long enough to remember the incredibly detailed email Stacy sent me regarding every second of the week-long festival.

“Um, the family movie is Halloween Town, and the not-so-family movie is . . . Saw. I think.”

Ellie’s face screws up with distaste. “Yeah, I’ll be skipping that one.”

I chuckle. “Not a Saw fan?”

“I work for the fire department. I’ve seen more than my fair share of wreckage and ruined bodies. What do you think?” She shivers and jumps, as if the very thought of it makes her skin crawl.