Page 76 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
Because whatever she chooses—whether it’s Lumera or New York, me or the version of her that lives in magazine spreads and city skyline shadows—I have to be able to live with it.
But my hands are clenched so tight my knuckles ache.
A sharp whistle cuts through the air, followed by a cheer. Jamie’s voice rises above the crowd, yelling something about “monster wishes” and “no cheating.”
And just like that, the first lantern rises.
It’s a wide-bottomed thing shaped like a jellyfish, all tendrils and wild curves, painted bright orange with tiny black eyes. Jamie and Rowan release it together, and it lifts slow, catching in the still air before floating up, up, up, swallowed by the bruised lavender of the sky.
Others follow.
Paper fish, sky serpents, sunbursts and stars. One shaped like a squid, two more like lighthouses. Each one holding a flame. Each one a soft defiance against the dark.
The whole boardwalk glows now, the reflection of a hundred tiny fires dancing in the sea below. It’s magic—but the kind built by hands, sweat, and stubborn love, not spells. I know every screw in the railing holding up these watchers. I know the hours it took to prep the rigs, the aching backs and blistered palms behind every wooden arch.
People are starting to move now, crowd pressing against the tide wall, voices lowering. The hush that falls is reverent—not religious, but something close to it.
It’s hope. Loosed.
I stay near the edge, where the lights are dimmer and the salt hangs heavy.
And that’s when I see her.
Evie.
She’s not looking for me.
She’s just moving—through the crowd like a pulled tide, hair loose down her back, jacket open, camera strap slung across her chest. Her eyes flick upward, watching the lanterns rise, and there’s this look on her face—steady, strong, lit from inside—that hits me harder than any spoken word.
She’s not smiling.
Not quite.
But she’s glowing.
She lifts her camera and captures a single frame—the jellyfish lantern, halfway to the clouds—and lowers it slowly, like even that single shot took something sacred with it.
And I can’t move.
Because I don’t know what comes next, but for this second, I don’t care.
The lanterns keep rising.
Some slow and lopsided, drifting toward each other like they’re falling in love mid-air. Others rocket fast, eager to escape, pulsing brighter for just a moment before fading into the deep violet of the sky. Around us, the hush settles deeper, the crowd subdued now by wonder, as if they know they’re witnessing something they’ll remember in the quiet hours of future winters—when the sea's frozen over and the festival’s just a memory clinging to the scent of old wool and cedar.
I can’t take my eyes off her.
Evie stands maybe twenty feet away, half-shadowed by the golden spill of light from the bonfire pits and the low glimmer of lanterns overhead. A family walks between us—parents holding the hands of their giggling kids, the littlest one in a shark costume three sizes too big—then two teenagers wrapped around each other like they’re the last people on earth. Still, I don’t move. I just watch.
And she catches me watching.
Her gaze lifts, locks, and it’s like everything in me just… stops.
There’s no grin. No wave. No clever line.
Just her, looking at me with a kind of clarity that burns clean through the smoke and the noise and every tangled thingbetween us. It’s not a question. It’s not a challenge. It’s not regret.
It’s a statement.
