Page 2 of Claimed By the Mothman (Greymarket Towers #1)
T he café was called Brimstone & Butter, and Nell was reasonably sure it used to be a tattoo parlor.
The smell gave it away—the faintest whiff of antiseptic under the cinnamon, burnt sugar, and cloves.
It somehow made the scent of coffee and croissants that much more delicious.
Her tea came in a floral teacup that was chipped at the edge, which made it that much more charming.
She'd always been drawn to places like this—spaces with character, with stories pressed into their walls. Even as a child, she'd gravitated toward the oldest sections of libraries, the dusty corners of antique shops where other people felt uncomfortable. Edward used to tease her about it.
You collect weird places like other people collect stamps, he'd said. She'd thought it was charming then. Now she wondered if it had been a warning.
She pushed that thought away and looked out the surprisingly clean, streak-free window.
Outside, the sun filtered through thick downtown haze, turning Bellwether’s sharp edges into watercolor.
She still wasn’t used to saying the city’s name out loud.
Bellwether. It felt too storybook, too pointed.
Big enough to be anonymous. Small enough to accidentally recognize someone at the farmer’s market.
Not that she knew anyone here. Not really.
She checked the time again. 3:57 p.m .
She was early, of course. Always early. A habit left over from years of needing to prove she wasn’t difficult. Wasn’t a burden. Wasn’t a problem.
She shifted in her seat, tugging at the hem of her thrift-store sundress.
Her brown, shoulder-length hair had frizzed at the temples from the walk over from the parking lot, and her cardigan—once a favorite—now sagged off one shoulder in a way that looked less charming and more defeated.
She sat straight anyway. Hands folded, chin lifted.
Trying to look like someone who belonged in public.
She twisted the ring on her finger absently.
Not her wedding band—that one was buried in a sock drawer with the rest of her illusions. This one was chunky, cheap, and opal. She’d found it in a pawn shop on the edge of town, the kind with dusty display cases and incense curling through the vents like a ghost’s breath.
The man behind the counter hadn’t looked up. “That one’s yours,” he’d said before she even opened her mouth.
The price tag had read exactly seventeen dollars. She had exactly seventeen dollars in her wallet.
The moment the opal had settled on her finger, something shifted.
Not dramatically—more like a radio finally finding its frequency.
The constant low-level anxiety that had been her companion for months eased and softened into the background.
The shop around her seemed to exhale, as if it, too, had been holding its breath.
The man behind the counter looked up for the first time, his eyebrowless face creasing into what might have been a smile.
“Suits you,” he said simply. “Been waiting for the right person.”
Nell wanted to ask what he meant, but something told her she already knew.
After eight years of a failed marriage and the following slow drip of unraveling sanity, the weight of the ring grounded her. She told herself it was a self-engagement ring, instead of a security blanket covering the emptiness of her left third finger.
When she turned it now—a fidget that was quickly becoming a habit—the opal caught the café light and shimmered faintly. Nell brushed her thumb over its smooth surface, and looked out the window.
The street was quiet. A delivery truck idled at the curb.
A man walked past with a leashed cat in a harness, which seemed to delight both of them.
Across the café, a couple sat close, knees touching, heads bowed over a shared screen.
Nell watched them without meaning to, her stomach tightening with something she couldn’t quite name.
Grief, maybe. Or grief’s quieter cousin—emptiness wearing hope’s clothes.
She blinked hard and looked away.
Her chest hurt. That was new.
No, not new— returned . A kind of tightness behind her ribs that came and went these days. It usually flared up when she was lying to someone. Or herself. And today she was doing both.
She wasn’t just here for tea and a reunion. She was pretending the library gig was already hers, when all she had was a once-friend’s promise.
Her last job had let her go quietly after the divorce became public knowledge. Restructuring, they said, though her manager couldn't meet her eyes when he said it. Since then, she’d scraped by on freelance editing jobs and half-hearted applications, pretending she wasn’t circling the drain.
And the divorce itself?
Gods. It had been final for three weeks, but grief still rang throughout her body.
A wrong number on her cell could knock the air out of her lungs.
The sound of someone else’s toothbrush tapping porcelain in the hotel room adjacent to hers could bring her to her knees.
The heartbreaking way that no one around her said her name out loud, like it had become cursed by association, made her soul shrivel a little more each day.
She’d left behind a full set of matching plates, a cactus they’d treated as their first child, and a version of herself she couldn’t recognize in photos. One that smiled wide, wore lipstick, and held Edward’s elbow like it was a hot air balloon lifting her to new heights.
Baby steps, she told herself sternly, spinning the ring once more and taking a deep breath. One day at a time. This is just—
The seat across from her squeaked. A flurry of scarf, copper curls, and radiant chaos crashed into the booth like a very glamorous thunderstorm.
“Nell Townsend, as I live and breathe!”
“Goldie,” Nell said, already smiling before she looked up.
Just like that, the years folded in on themselves and Nell was transported back twenty years: Parkview High, bad eyeliner, and late-night tarot spreads on Goldie’s bedroom floor.
But it wasn’t just nostalgia that tightened her throat—it was relief.
A sudden, aching rush of oh, thank gods, someone who remembers the “me” before everything fell splendidly apart.
–
They’d reconnected three weeks ago, during one of Nell’s lowest nights. The divorce papers had been filed that morning. She’d had too much boxed wine, too little food, and even less restraint. She told herself she was just checking her emails, but somehow ended up on Edward’s profile.
His new picture was him and her —the intern. Elinore.
Nell stared at Edward’s new profile photo for a full minute before closing the tab.
Then reopening it. Then zooming in on her.
Elinore. Twenty-three to her thirty-six.
Tall and slim to her short and needs-to-lose-ten-pounds.
Sleek blonde curls to her frizzy brown hair.
Sparkling blue eyes to her faded green ones.
Perfect skin. Perfect resume. Perfect everything— and now, the perfect life that Nell had once believed was hers. The same girl Nell had walked in on six months ago, naked in their bed and giggling like it was all just a sitcom misunderstanding.
She shut her laptop. Opened it again. Angrily refreshed her Facebook feed.
A familiar name caught her eye. Marigold “Goldie” Flynn.
Her face beaming in the “People You May Know” box.
Older now, but unmistakable. Goldie always had that look like she belonged somewhere more glamorous than reality.
Goldie—the one who seemed to be meant for bigger and better things, whether that was a national scandal or a Nobel Prize.
They’d been best friends throughout high school, but then time, distance, and life eroded connections until they were, well, names on a Facebook feed.
Feeling bold, Nell scrolled Goldie’s profile.
Tarot memes. Vintage typewriters. A blurry photo of Goldie in a velvet jumpsuit holding a cat and a cocktail.
Cheesy platitudes that somehow seemed authentic coming from her.
Goldie had emerged from high school as more than , and was embracing life with an enthusiasm that made Nell’s stomach churn, but in a good way.
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was grief. Or maybe it was the soft, desperate whisper in her chest that said, Please don’t let this be all there is.
So Nell clicked.
Nell Townsend →
Hey...is this Goldie Flynn from Parkview High? It’s Nell Townsend. From AP English. And two high school musicals—remember 1776 with the all-girl cast?
The reply came within seconds.
Goldie Flynn →
Haha, YES. That’s me. Wow, it’s been forever!
Nell Townsend →
Right?! You popped up when I was scrolling and I couldn’t resist creeping a little. You look amazing. Like ethereal librarian meets forest witch vibes.
Goldie Flynn →
OMG you popped up like a few months ago when I shared that dumb meme about cafeteria lunches and I was like NELL WTF THAT BADASS BITCH I LOVE HER WHAT HAPPENED TO HER. Babe I’m so glad you reached out!
Nell Townsend →
OMG yessss! I saw that and laughed way too hard. Those rectangle pizzas? Nothing since has ever tasted so good. I miss having non-discerning taste buds.
Goldie Flynn →
I miss being that excited about horrible food and chocolate milk in cardboard containers. Hahah. Ugh. Also hey…Don’t want to be weird, but I saw your update about the divorce. I’m really sorry. That’s a lot.
Nell stared at that last line. Her wine glass was empty, and so was her stomach, and she wasn’t sure which one was making her dizzy.
Nell Townsend →
Thanks. Yeah, it’s been a ride. Like a rollercoaster where you think the seat bar is locked but then it just lifts halfway through and you’re like, oh cool, I’m gonna die sweaty in Crocs and stretchy pants, awesome.
Goldie Flynn →
Oh BABE I feel that in my bones. Um I don’t want to overstep, esp since we literally just reconnected, but hey—this feels like kismet. Do you need a reset?