flew down the steps and through the castle on tiptoe, her insides flipping and her smile so wide it hurt. When she got to the garden, he was nowhere to be found. She walked all around the castle grounds, whisper-calling his name, until finally, she sat on the concrete bench next to the fountain and waited. She woke up in the morning curled on the concrete, her nightgown damp with dew. Later, she pedaled furiously to town, confronted him behind the pool snack stand, her hands in fists against his chest. He’d laughed at her. “Hannah, are you out of your mind? It had to be a dream. I didn’t come to Brackenhill last night.” It never felt like a dream.
Hannah shook loose the memory. The wine, the rain, and the music were making her sleepy and happy. She didn’t want to unearth an old, silly fight. She felt like turning off reality. Shutting real life down like her laptop: control, alt, delete. She glanced over at her phone, lying facedown on the counter, but she did not touch it.
Wyatt served dinner: Perfectly seasoned and broiled sirloin, sliced thin on a bias, red and warm in the center. Fresh pasta with red wine sauce, tomatoes from Wyatt’s garden. Caramelized onions and fennel. While they ate, she talked about her work. He talked about his daughter, Nina. He saw her three times a week and overnight every other weekend. They didn’t keep to a formal schedule, and his ex-wife gave him carte blanche to see her whenever he wanted, as long as he called first. When he spoke about her, his cheeks took on a rosy glow. He laughed easily.
As they cleaned up, they got back to talking about Brackenhill. The mysterious history. Her childhood—but only the happy memories. She talked about Aunt Fae building faerie houses and planting bright, bursting annuals along the garden’s borders. How she and Julia had found the storm shelter, a secret room in the middle of the forest; was there anything more enchanting than that? How they had never gotten the chance to explore it. The basement, a labyrinth of rooms that had held so much promise when she was a child—how she had known, with certainty, that they were mystical. The rooms had moved on her, reconfigured as they ran through them, getting lost, panicking and laughing and gleeful and terrified and all things at once.
Hannah felt her insides grow warm, slippery. Her heart seemed to expand in her chest, her fingertips buzzing. The basement had been terrifying, but it had been theirs. Hers and Julia’s. Hannah had never permitted herself to remember the magic of Brackenhill, just the tragedy, and certainly never out loud. Wyatt sat at the breakfast bar, transfixed, as she cleaned up and talked—she had insisted, as it was the least she could do for the delicious dinner.
“I’ve never heard you talk so much at once,” he murmured, his voice thick in the small kitchen. “It’s like you’ve . . . come alive.”
And it was how she felt. Aggressively alive. Vibrating with life, in fact. Every skin cell and every nerve ending seemed to pulse.
She stood in front of Wyatt, and from his barstool, he gazed up at her. He was so beautiful, thought Hannah, and the guilt pierced her heart.
“I should go,” she said regretfully. The sun had long set, the stars outside the windows brighter than in any night sky she’d ever seen.
He nodded and stood, his face inches from hers.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t concentrate on anything but his mouth, his eyes, so dark they seemed black. His breathing, fast and uneven, like he was trying to steady himself.
“What if . . . I didn’t,” Hannah said, holding his gaze, not asking a question exactly. Posing it as a statement. What would happen if she didn’t leave?
She lifted up on her toes and kissed him. She reached out, her hands on his hips, the slightly soft pad where his jeans met his skin, her fingertips grazing under his T-shirt. He groaned softly at her touch and seemed to battle himself, his fists clenched by his sides, fingertips flexing, as Hannah trailed kisses down the side of his face, his neck, his skin warm and smooth and smelling like shaving cream—he had shaved for her. Before finally bringing his arms around her, crushing her against him. She remembered everything. Every muscle, every line and curve of his body, held the glint of memory, the same but different.