that’s just Theo. He’s a hardass who likes to act first and think second.” He shrugs. “The rest of us work for a living.”
I try to hide my surprise at this, but his lips follow suit with his eyes, grinning.
“Don’t look so surprised. I’ve got a job, just like you. Or I did before I broke my fucking knee.”
“What do you do?”
“I work at a bike shop and sometimes get some shifts at a place that does car detailing.”
“A bike shop sounds so Pacific Northwest.”
He laughs, his eyes meeting mine. There’s a warmth in his stare, a comfort that makes being here with him seem like less of a bad idea as the miles pass. “Doesn’t it?”
“So, where did you run into this lady?” I ask, turning my attention back out the window as we head downtown.
“Not too far from here. We’d been doing a bar crawl, and a buddy picked us up near where it happened.”
“A bar crawl? Is there anything about you that isn’t a stereotype?”
Arlo belts out a laugh, running a hand through his hair, making it fall into a messy disarray of perfection. “Come on now. You moved here from Texas, and you’re wearing cowboy boots and calling me a stereotype?”
“But we do wear cowboy boots … sometimes.”
His laughter grows, flashing his pearly whites that reveal his bottom teeth are slightly crowded, but he doesn’t try to hide the fact or cover his smile. He pulls into a paved parking lot, taking the corner too fast and sharp. I close my eyes and grab the door for support expecting the SUV to lurch.
“You okay over there?” he asks.
“I’m pretty sure you have your luck back. No way we shouldn’t have hit something.”
“I’ve been driving since I was eight. Trust me, that was nothing.”
“Eight?”
His smile turns crooked, and a small but deep scar near a faint dimple catches my eye. “My dad’s always worked at a body shop. I grew up around cars.” He pulls into a parking space and turns off the engine.
“I still don’t know how to parallel park,” I tell him, hopping out of my seat.
“You don’t know how to parallel park, and they gave you your license?” he sounds outraged.
“Passed with flying colors,” I tell him.
“How?”
I flip him off. “Because I’m an awesome driver.”
“That possibility was out of the question the moment you said you couldn’t parallel park.”
“Perfect record,” I tell him. “Now, let’s go find this lady who cursed you. Maybe she can bestow a curse on me that teaches me how to parallel park.”
“Oh, now you’re full of jokes?”
I glance over my shoulder as he pulls his crutches from the back seat, his features neatly aligned with a fresh smirk. I turn toward the sidewalk, checking out the buildings. We’re in an older section of town, the buildings all brick, adorned with signs that stick out because many are too narrow to be posted across the front.
Arlo points at a building near the end with a deep purple curtain shadowing the window. “That’s it.”
“Well, let’s see what she has to say.”
I slow my typically fast pace to walk beside Arlo, the sound of the busy street preventing the need for small talk, which is good because I’m focusing all my energy on what to say to a person who may have the ability to curse someone.
She can’t curse anyone.
This isn’t possible.
Cursing people is a thing of fiction—something seen in movies and fantasy novels and make-believe. Arlo is simply displacing blame because he’s focused on the bad things that are occurring in his life right now, likely because they’re easier to focus on while injured.
It’s not possible to curse people, right?
Goosebumps course up my arm and down my neck, causing me to shiver, and though I try to lie and tell myself it’s the chilly temperatures that have held on with icy fingers as we inch near spring, this feels comparable to playing Bloody Mary, Candyman, or messing with a Ouija board. I didn’t like them then, and I certainly don’t prefer this adult version.
We come to a stop outside of the shop. The door is old, the black paint chipping around the six panes of brittle glass concealed by purple curtains that hang inside. A gold handle is stamped below more heavily worn paint. The sign hanging on the door says ‘Open, Please Knock for Service’ and damn, more goosebumps.
“Do we knock?” I ask, my voice quiet, likely revealing my discomfort.
Arlo swallows, the column of his throat rising as he raises