"You shouldn't drive," she protested.
"I don't even fucking care at this point," I replied honestly, albeit foolishly, and her worried gaze made me groan. "Fine, fuck … I'll get a cab or some—"
"Take a walk with me?"
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
She shook her head. "No."
"I just told you I want to fuck you, I said all of that shit in there, and you want to take a fucking walk with me?"
Audrey nodded as she pulled on her dirty coat. "Please?"
I raked a hand through my hair and looked over my shoulder at my bike. Reason told me I shouldn't climb on it and ride home. I was intoxicated, and as much as I didn't really care much about my own well-being at the moment, Jake still needed me, and that was enough.
So, I turned back to Audrey, and against my better judgment, agreed to her walk. Because I needed time to sober up. Because truthfully, I didn't want to go home just yet. But mostly because I so desperately wanted to believe that I could be worthy of someone like her.
Chapter Thirteen
OCTOBER IN SALEM meant tourism and a lot of it. The streets were crawling with tour groups and shoppers, witches and ghouls. It was equal parts good and bad. This was my favorite time of the year, and it brought a hoard of like-minded people to my town. I felt alive on those weekends, seeing the faces of those I knew genuinely appreciated the atmosphere. The awe in their eyes as they took in the architectural beauty, the sadness etched in the lines on their faces when they learned of its haunted history.
But then, there were those who I knew flocked to the cobblestone streets strictly for the thrill from mingling with the fabled ghosts. They weren't here to learn, to mourn, or to appreciate. They merely wanted to take some pictures, drag the kids through a couple of museums, and leave. That was the downside, and I scowled at a cluster of boozed-up sorority girls as they clicked their heels down the street and mocked their caped tour guide.
"How long have you lived here?" Audrey asked, making small talk and distracting me from my irritation.
"Where? In Salem?"
"Yeah," she clarified as we turned at Old Town Hall and took the steps through Derby Square.
"Since I was twenty-two."
"How old are you now?"
I narrowed my eyes and silently questioned why that even mattered. "I'll be thirty-four on the 31st."
"Get the heck out. You were actually born on Halloween?"
I nodded, feeling a bit smug. "The creepiness was bred into me."
"That's crazy!"
"Not really," I laughed. "My parents grew to hate Halloween pretty quickly. Not only did they have to take us trick-or-treating, but then they had to wrap presents, do the whole cake thing, have a birthday party ..." I shrugged. "It got easier when we got older. We only celebrate Jake now, so ..." Why the fuck wouldn't my mouth stop moving?
"You don't celebrate your birthday?"
I turned to look up at the window of Dr. Travetti's office. I'd know it anywhere, I looked through it so much, but now, it looked so different from the outside. Less like a prison and more like an intriguing piece of my town's history. Was that how Audrey saw me? Less like a bundled heap of pessimism and anger, and more like a source of curiosity?
"No," I answered flightily as we walked past the building. "That's my shrink's office."
"Why do you see a therapist?"
I turned my eyes on her and felt my mouth lift in a faint smile. "Why do you ask so many questions?"
She shrugged gently as we made our way through clusters of shoppers at the night market. "I want to know about you."
Scoffing, I barked a laugh. "I can't even begin to imagine why."
Again, she shrugged. "I told you that I like you. And I find you interesting."
I sighed and shook my head. "Okay, whatever. Uh ... Anyway, I stopped celebrating my birthday a while ago. No point."
Audrey narrowed her eyes, lit with laughter, and poked a finger at my side. "Hey! You didn't answer my question!"
"I'm not telling you why I see a therapist," I told her point blank.
"Okay, fair enough," she answered, backing down. "I saw a therapist for a while after my sister died. I questioned a lot of things and it really helped me to talk to someone."
I grunted with a nod. "Yeah."
"It was hard to hold onto my faith when I was deep in mourning." She spoke quietly, holding her hands to her chest. I watched as her fingers tucked between the lapels of her coat to tug the cross out. "It's hard not to question why such horrible things can happen to good people. Or how God could allow one of His own to suffer so much, when she had done nothing wrong."
I didn't mean to snicker but I did. It was a gentle sound, barely audible, but she heard it. She trained her eyes on me as we turned onto the sidewalk and asked what I was laughing at.
"I'm not laughing."
"You just did."
"No," I insisted weakly, but she knew better. So, I said, "I don't believe in any of that shit."
"Any of what shit? God?"
"Yep."
She nodded gently. "I figured. That's okay. You're within your right to believe what you want. Faith, to me, is a very personal thing. That’s why I don’t go to Church."
"Oh, thanks so much for your permission," I deadpanned.
"I didn't believe for a little while."
I don't know what made me ask, "What changed?"
Audrey smiled at the question, as though she could see phantom shreds of light seeping from between my cracks. She was all too eager to share her story as she welcomed herself to wrap an arm around mine. "For about a year after my sister died, I considered myself agnostic. I hoped there was more, you know—a god, an afterlife ... But it was hard to continue following my beliefs when I was in so much pain. It was like having a piece of my body removed and not being given anything to dull the ache."
I imagined living without Jake. I imagined him being gone, and not in the sense my parents were talking but really gone. I had almost lost him once, but he’d been stubborn. He wouldn’t die. Instead, he stuck around, and even with as rough as it was, I’d prefer this life over not having him at all.
The thought immediately choked me up, and I shook my head, sending it away.
"But, then ..." She hesitated and eyed me skeptically. "Do you promise not to laugh?"
"Sure," I shrugged.
"I'm not sure I believe you."
I snorted. "That's fine. Don't tell me then." Pulling my arm from her grasp, I continued walking down the street with a boorishness I wasn’t proud of, and Audrey hurried to keep up.
"Okay, I'll tell you," she relented easily. "I woke up one morning and, on my windowsill, was a butterfly."
I had heard about this, people seeing butterflies and thinking they were visitors from the beyond. A message. A sign. It was just another thing people told themselves to bring a tiny shred of comfort to their lives. And I understood it, sure, but it didn't stop it all from sounding completely absurd.