Nights like this one.
“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to the Salem Night Tour. My name is Everlynne, and I will be your tour guide. I know I look like a witch. And, well . . . that’s because I am.” I bow deeply in my black cape, spewing out my usual rehearsed text.
Phone cameras flash. Teenagers giggle. It’s depressing. How routine sucks the magic out of everything. Even a cool job like mine.
I straighten my spine, and that’s when I see him. I freeze. The words shrivel and roll back into my mouth.
Joe is standing right in front of me, the throng of tourists his backdrop.
Dirty Levi’s. Tattered peacoat that screams mysterious British rocker. Celestial eyes that peer past my clothes and skin and bullshit. And that face. The face that feels like home.
His gaze is like a poisonous arrow straight to my heart. All eyes are on me. Waiting. Gauging. Studying.
What is he doing? More specifically, what is he doing here? Haven’t we decided not to seek each other out? I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain. Why can’t he? And why is there a part of me—and not a small one—that is happy and relieved to see him?
I step toward him. My knees are weak. I don’t trust my ability to complete a simple three-word sentence. Yet I somehow do. “It’s tickets only.”
I don’t want him here. In my sphere, in my world, in my bones.
Joe raises a wrinkled ticket, which I recognize as a legitimate one. He must’ve purchased it online. His face is unreadable, impassive. I thought he wanted to stay away.
“Y-you bought a ticket?”
“Crashing without one would’ve been rude,” he confirms.
“Why?”
“Because you shouldn’t be working for free?”
“You know what I mean,” I snap.
His nostrils flare, and his eyes dart down, to his sneakers. “Because I think we were too shell shocked to deal with things over Christmas, and there are more words to be said.”
That’s a valid reason, but I don’t buy it. I just know he is here for the same reason that I can’t bear the idea of spending time with him. The connection between us is unreal.
“You could’ve tried reaching out without showing up unannounced,” I say testily. I don’t trust myself to have a one-on-one conversation with him.
“You’d have dodged,” he says matter-of-factly. “I frighten you, and we both know that.”
“Screw you, Joe.” He has no right calling me out.
His lips pull in a bitter smile. “Been there, done that. That’s what got us into this whole mess.”
I twist my wrist and check the time. Only five minutes have passed since the beginning of the tour. Eighty-five more to go.
“Are you all right?” One woman steps forward, resting a hand on my shoulder. “You look pale.”
I shoot her a smile. “Yes. Of course. So!” I clap my hands, returning to the center of the group, determined to survive tonight. “Well, my dear morbid friends. We’re going to cover some of Salem’s history, including the witch hunt hysteria of 1692. We’ll talk murders, ghosts, curses, civil war. All the fun stuff!”
Everyone giggles.
Everyone but him.
The next hour and a half is pure torture. I pretend that Joe doesn’t exist, even though the world seems like it’s resized itself around him. I’m acutely aware of everything coming out of my mouth. I don’t veer off script or crack a joke. I’m in a minefield, tiptoeing my way to safety.
Eventually, the hour and a half passes, albeit six days later. I sum the tour up as I always do. “Two misbehaving young girls who got misdiagnosed by a doctor as under the devil’s hand started a craze. Divided a community. Planted seeds of hatred in every heart in the colonies. But make no mistake—this wasn’t the girls’ fault. We still have a long way to go in terms of unity, and the best way to start? With ourselves and our own prejudice.”
People clap. I stay behind to answer some questions. Joe hangs back, leaning under a lamppost, the light from his phone screen illuminating the chiseled planes of his face. He is waiting for me, and a mixture of excited nausea and dread fills me.
He is so gorgeous, so alive, so real, that his mere presence here throws me off kilter.
Once the last of the tourists have trickled away, I walk toward him. We stand in front of each other like two drunk fools getting ready for a duel.
I cross my arms over my chest. “What happened to staying away from each other?”
Joe flicks the back of his Lucky Strike soft pack. One cigarette pops from its opening. He raises the pack and clasps the cigarette between his teeth, then lights it nonchalantly. “This is not a social call.”