Camp Damascus(61)

“Wait, wait, wait,” Saul interjects, raising his hand to cut me off. “I can see why you’re having a hard time. Can I give you some advice?”

I nod.

“You’re coming at this from the wrong angle, Darling.”

I take a beat. He’s right, but I’m not sure what to do about it. “Help me,” I implore.

Saul laughs. “When’s the last time you saw Willow?”

“A few months ago. The night of my wreck,” I reply. “It wasn’t great.”

He nods. “Let’s treat this more like a date and less like you’re teaching a history class.”

“So … nix the questions?” I translate, preparing to lose the notecard.

Saul immediately shakes his head. “The card is your thing, Darling. Never be ashamed of the card. Let’s just brainstorm some date topics.”

My friend takes a seat on the hood next to me and starts mulling over options.



* * *



I’d imagined what this moment would feel like, predicted all the ways it would change me, but now that I’m actually here I’m mostly shocked by the emotional dullness.

I yearn to be fully open, but deep down I’m too frightened to expose my heart like that—terrified I’ve come all this way to learn it was a fool’s errand.

Maybe memories are all I’ll ever have.

I’m standing outside a bookstore, checking in with myself before making the leap and heading through the door, but now that I’m here the nervous tension I’d expected is nowhere to be found.

I’m numb.

Standing out here by some shop I don’t remember patronizing, in a small town I don’t remember visiting, I might as well be one of the demons. Phasing through the world. Barely here.

But everything changes when I push through the door.

I’m immediately greeted by a wave of emotional warmth and the scent of old books, an innate sense of relief wrapping its arms around me. The emotions come on so swiftly that it’s arresting, stopping me in my tracks as I stand in the doorway and take in my surroundings.

The shop is large for Lebka Rock, this neighboring hamlet just outside the county line, and I’m impressed by the stacks and stacks of books that stretch deeper into the belly of the building. We’re on the bottom floor of some historical structure, likely the tallest establishment in this whole town with a whopping two stories.

An older man behind the counter looks up and smiles.

“Oh, hey” is all he says.

“Hi,” I reply. “Where’s your science and nature section?”

The man behind the counter gives me a confused look, then shrugs and cocks his head to the left.

I follow his gesture, creeping deeper into the stacks. Though it’s nothing short of a paperback labyrinth, it’s amazing how cozy this place feels. I could easily get lost in here, but I’m not entirely sure I’d mind. The only pang of unease I feel is when I creep past the religious studies section, a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf with various offerings from Pete Bend. Several fresh copies of Craftsman Soul are stacked high and ready for the taking, while new and used selections from his back catalog cover the rest. I note the title of a particularly thick tome, a two-word reminder of the Camp Damascus catchphrase: Love Right.

Eventually, my journey into this glorious maze comes to an end.

I stumble upon a small corner nook, the kind of place where you might pull down a novel to check out the first few pages, then look up to realize an hour’s gone by. There are two chairs tucked away back here, and in one of them a familiar vision is waiting.

Willow Crogall is sitting quietly, a beguiling young woman with chin-length raven hair and dark eyes. She’s wearing a black jean jacket, tightly fitted over a charcoal tee.

Our gazes meet and, unlike last time, neither one of us turns away. We don’t feel conflicted about our paths crossing, or sense nauseated fear at the pit of our stomachs over what might happen next. Willow, to her credit, is a big part of this greatly altered reaction. She could’ve easily ignored my email.

This meeting is not a decision to be taken lightly, more than just a rekindled romance. For Willow and me this situation was life or death, right up until the very moment my tethered creature collapsed to the dirt in a scorched heap. For all Willow knows, I’m just pretending our problems have been solved, meeting up with a long-lost love despite the demon that still clings to my back.

But that’s not the case, and I’m thankful Willow has given me a chance to prove it.

Still, she’s apprehensive. I want to erupt in a moment of catharsis, wrapping my arms around her in a warm hug, but despite this strangely familiar location and her willingness to meet up, the tension remains.

“You really killed him?” Willow immediately asks. “My demon?”

“He’s gone,” I reply.

“You’re sure?” Willow’s lip trembles slightly.

“He’s … pretty dead,” I say, recalling the billowing flames and the creature in the back of my car, thrashing about as he cooked alive.

“And yours?”

I nod. “Also dead.”

She hesitates, just as nervous as I was when I realized our shackles might finally be broken. Willow looks away for a moment.

“You haven’t seen him for a while, have you?” I continue, already knowing the answer.