Page 52 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
“Miss Evie,” Jamie says solemnly, holding out a paper-mâché tentacle that’s somehow both too floppy and too sharp, “do you think sea monsters like sparkles or bones?”
“Honestly?” I squint at the monstrosity that is our float centerpiece. “Probably both. Glittery bones. Very fashion-forward.”
Jamie’s whole face lights up. “I knew it!”
He scurries off to the glue station—aka Rowan’s folding table covered in butcher paper and hot glue guns of death—and I take a breath before disaster inevitably strikes.
We’re tucked in the back lot behind The Gilded Page, surrounded by milk crates, boxes of costume scraps, and a suspiciously sagging papier-mâché kraken head that might be sentient at this point. Liara’s supervising the paint station with a cigarette tucked behind one ear and her playlist bumping something jazzy and chaotic.
I brush dried glue off my jeans and grab a towel that’s already seen too much.
It’s a good kind of mess. Loud and sticky and distracting.
Exactly what I need.
“You’re better at this than you let on,” Rowan says, walking over with two iced teas and that look—soft but knowing. The one that’s gotten me into more trouble than tequila ever did.
I take the tea with a grunt. “Don’t get used to it.”
She grins. “Too late. Jamie’s already plotting your full-time float captainship.”
“Nope.” I point at her. “You birthed him. You deal with the tentacles.”
Before she can come back with something smart, Jamie reappears, cheeks flushed and glitter-coated fingers holding a roll of duct tape like it’s a sacred relic.
“Miss Evie,” he asks, “is Aeron your boyfriend?”
My brain flatlines.
Rowan chokes on her tea.
I stare at Jamie. “What?”
He blinks. “You look at him like he’s your favorite jellybean. Mama says that means something.”
“Oh my God,” I mutter.
Rowan turns away, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
I kneel down, grasping for words that aren’t lies or confusing truths. “Aeron and I... we’re complicated.”
Jamie tilts his head. “Like spaghetti?”
“Exactly.” I exhale. “Messy and hard to untangle and sometimes burns your mouth.”
He nods, clearly satisfied with that answer, and darts back to his float.
Rowan leans in, still snorting. “Spaghetti, huh?”
I glare. “Shut up.”
But the warmth in my chest lingers, strange and terrifying.
And maybe just a little... hopeful.
By the time we finish, the sky’s a watercolor of deepening blue, streaked with pink and lavender. The parade float is somehow both horrifying and magnificent—giant googly eyes, scale-patterned fabric, and what might be a flamingo glued to a sea serpent tail.
Jamie’s declared it “The Sea Snuggle Monster,” and I can’t argue with that.
