Page 59 of Gone Hunting

Her lips part the way they do when she’s surprised. “I don’t know if I’ll still be here,” she says.

Yeah. About that . . .

My thumb passes between the grooves in her knuckles, the motion littered with all the grief I feel when I think about her leaving me. “I get it,” I say. “But if you are, will you go with me? We can figure out shoes and a dress for you later and—”

“I would love to,” she says, cutting me off with just a whisper.

The day my grandfather passed away was a moment I’ll never forget. He died clutching my grandmother, who had died mere seconds before him. He didn’t want to be without his mate, a gentlewerewho often told me she never knew happiness until she met Grandad. That memory is seared in my mind forever. It showed me what it is to love and how some just need each other to breathe, to smile, to live.

This moment with Celia is like that memory and one I pray I’ll never forget.

I release her hand and draw her to me, my arms around her as the moon bathes us in its glow and the last of the birds fly home.

Chapter Sixteen

Last night was the best night of my life. Yeah, yeah, I get we almost died that afternoon. Still. It was amazing. My parents had come home while we were at Mimi’s. Dad started up our generator enough so the power on the first floor would work and Mom could restock the fridge. Dad left another note, saying they’d be back by the end of week. He also asked about Celia.

No. He didn’t know who she was or probably what she was.I passed by your room, he wrote.New friend?

Yeah. She is and, maybe, more.

When Celia and I walked in from the terrace, we snacked on food from the pantry. I started to get dinner going, but it was clear I didn’t know what I was doing. Sure, I can roast prepared steaks over the fire well enough. But although there was plenty of food, I wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“Can I cook for you?” she asked.

“Why?” I questioned, though me standing there awkwardly poking at the potatoes was answer enough.

She seemed embarrassed. I stood smiling like a fool. “I just want to do something nice for you,” she said.

For all I knew, she was the world’s worst cook. Still, I wasn’t about to tell her no.

We showered while the roast with basil, potatoes, and carrots she prepared cooked in the oven. I finished my shower first and rushed downstairs. I set the table in front of the fireplace and placed some old Christmas lights I found in the basement along the hearth. I must have fiddled with the lights, and the candles I lit half a dozen times and racked my head with what kind of music to play. I settled on a classic rock station. The music was soft, but not too soft. I don’t remember ever being this picky about anything. But I wanted to do something nice for her, too.

Celia came down in one of my mother’s cotton dresses. This one was white and suited her well. It might have been too big in some spots for her small frame and, yeah, the hem skimmed her ankles instead of lying on her calves like it should. But it didn’t make a difference. At least not to me.

She paused at the top of the stairs, biting her lip again when she caught sight of my widening eyes.

“What’s this?” she asked, motioning around.

“Eh,” was my response.

She averted her gaze and tried again. I tried, too, only I didn’t get very far. “You were making dinner.”

“So, you made me prom?” she offered when nothing else seemed to want to come out of my mouth.

I turned around and looked at my work. I’d covered the table with a white tablecloth and placed those long skinny candles Mom used for special dinners on top. I’d also laid out cloth napkins and arranged the silverware the way I thought it went and poured water into fancy glasses. The music played from the speakers near the hearth and the space between the hearth and the table was big enough to dance in.

“I guess I did,” I answered.

Maybe there was a part of me that worried Celia would leave me before we’d make it to the dance. But I didn’t want to think about it then. I just wanted to be with her.

Her bare feet padded across the wood floor. I smiled, wishing I could tell her how beautiful she is. I didn’t manage, but I did ask her to dance after we finished an incredible meal.

The song wasInto the Mystic. Van Morrison, I think. It was late, we were both acting shy, and aside from my mom, I’d never danced with another person.

“I only ever danced with my father,” she admitted. “And that was a long time ago.”

Somehow, we made it work.

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