Page 68 of What You Wish For

Babette smiled. It was her house.

But this wasn’t a smiling matter.

I had told her about the butterflies, and she had shrugged, and said, “Nothing lasts forever.” But she hadn’t gone back to the cafeteria after that. She’d eaten every lunch alone in the art room.

“Fair enough,” Babette said. And then she gently, and without irony,listened to me complain for a good long while about how the last thing I wanted to think about, or focus on, or talk about—ever again—was Duncan Carpenter.

See what I did there?

And then, just when I thought I was truly done with him, just when I thought I’d finally shut it all down… the very next day, I ran into him on the beach.

It was a bright, sunny, fifty degrees out, and I’d decided to take a long, calming Duncan Carpenter–free walk by the ocean. The winter beach was mostly empty, and my plan was to get lost in the sound of the waves and the wash of the wind. A jogger went by, and then a lady walking her bulldog, and then a couple appeared on my horizon: a man and a woman strolling just at the edge of the waves, and as they got close enough for me to see who they were, it turned out to be Duncan, with… a woman.

And just like that: I wasn’t done with him anymore.

A very pretty woman, I should mention. Not that I was being weird about it. But it was a thing that was hard to not notice. Anyone would have noticed.

Okay, fine. It bothered me.

A noxious gas of jealousy seeped into my lungs as they came closer.

The woman was wearing a smart black winter coat with a ruby-colored scarf. And Duncan… well, Duncan’s hair was windblown into a messy, bed-head, Old Duncan–style, and he was in jeans and a red, cheerful Norwegian sweater… and get this: He was smiling.

He dropped the smile as soon as he saw me, though.

I dropped mine, too, on principle.

That’s when Chuck Norris came leaping out of the dunes and went streaking past us—fast as a greyhound, skittering over the wet sand at the water’s edge.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” the woman said back—and then Duncan, lingering behind, said, “Hello.”

A pause.

Finally, the woman said, “The two of you must… know each other?”

“From work,” Duncan confirmed.

“I’m Sam,” I said, holding out my hand to shake. “The librarian from Kempner.”

Her eyes got big, and delighted at that—and maybe a little bit… teasing? “Sam!” she singsonged. “The librarian! From Kempner!” Then she turned in an exaggerated way to Duncan—who looked, in turn, defeated.

“Sam,” Duncan said to me, “This is Helen. My sister. Who hates me.”

His sister.

I released a breath.

Whatisit about a man in a Norwegian sweater?

Helen turned to me and looked me up and down—at my pom-pom scarf and my knitted hat with earflaps and braided ties hanging down. Then she gave me a very quick hug, said, “You’re adorable!” and spun herself around to start dragging the both of us back the way they had just come. “Let’s take her to meet the crew!” she said, as we fell into step and Chuck Norris led the way.

I couldn’t think of a polite way to tell her that her brother was a mural murderer—and that I had just decided he was my mortal enemy forever. She was just so… cheerful. I couldn’t find a way to work it in.

“And what are you doing for Christmas?” she asked me.

“I’m going to Austin. With a friend. Whose husband died last summer.” I glanced at Duncan like that was somehow his fault.

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