JOSH
I hadn’t plannedto fly to Ohio.
I made it all the way to the airport for my New Zealand flight, but when boarding started, all I could think about was Jules. What she was doing, how she was doing, whether she’d landed safely. The hikes and activities I’d spent months planning held as much interest to me as watching paint dry.
So, instead of flying to my number two bucket list destination (after Antarctica), I’d headed straight to the ticket counter and bought the next flight to Columbus.
Trading New Zealand for Whittlesburg. I was truly fucked in the head, and I couldn’t even bring myself to be mad about it.
“Gird your loins,” Jules said as we made a left onto a quiet, tree-lined street. “You’re about to get your mind blown.”
After I dropped off my bag, I’d convinced her to join me on my museum outing. Perhaps I should’ve chosen a more interesting excuse than a crochet museum, but I read about it on my bus ride from Columbus and it was listed as the town’s top attraction. That had to count for something, right?
My eyebrows rose. “Did you just use the phrase gird your loins? What are you, eighty?”
“For your information, Stanley Tucci’s character uses it in The Devil Wears Prada, and both Stanley and the movie are amazing.”
“Yeah, and how old is the amazing Stanley?”
Jules cast a sidelong glance in my direction. “I don’t appreciate the snark, especially considering the free, in-depth tour I just gave you.”
I fought a smile. “It was a fifteen-minute walk, Red.”
“During which I pointed out the town’s best restaurant, the bowling alley, the shop that had a ten-second cameo in a Bruce Willis movie, and the hair salon where I got bangs for a brief, horrifying time in high school,” she said. “That’s priceless information, Chen. You can’t find that anywhere in guidebooks.”
“I’m pretty sure I can find the first three in guidebooks.” I tugged on a lock of her hair. “Not a fan of bangs?”
“Absolutely not. Bangs and pink eyeshadow. My hard nos.”
“Hmm, I think you’d look good with bangs.” Jules would look good with anything.
Even now, with purple shadows smudged beneath her eyes and lines of tension bracketing her mouth, she was so fucking beautiful I couldn’t stop looking at her.
Her looks hadn’t changed drastically over the years, but something had changed.
I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Before, Jules was beautiful in the way grass was green and oceans were deep. It was a fact of life, but not something that particularly touched me.
Now, she was beautiful in a way that made me want to drown in her, to let her fill every inch of my soul until she fucking consumed me. It didn’t matter if it killed me, because in a world where I was surrounded by death, she was the only thing that made me feel alive.
“Trust me, I don’t. Anyway, enough about my hair.” Jules swept her arm at the building before us. “Behold, the world-famous Betty Jones Crochet Museum.”
My gaze lingered on her as we walked toward the entrance. “Looks impressive.”
I couldn’t have told you the color of the building if you put a gun to my head.
Half an hour and several mind-numbingly boring displays later, I finally yanked myself out of my Jules-induced trance, only to wish I hadn’t.
“What the fuck is that?” I pointed at a blue crochet…dog? Wolf? Whatever it was, its face was lopsided, and its beady crystal eyes glinted menacingly at us from its perch on the shelf, like it was pissed we’d invaded its personal space.
This was what I got for being distracted. If I died at the hands of a haunted toy, I was going to be pissed.
Jules squinted at the little gold plaque beneath the wolf/dog. “It was one of Betty’s daughter’s favorite toys,” she said. “Hand crocheted by a famous local artisan and gifted to her for her fifth birthday.”
“It looks demonic.”
“It does not.” She stared at the toy, which glared back at us. I could’ve sworn its lip curled into a snarl. “But, uh, let’s move on.”
“You know what, I think I’ve had enough crochet for the day.” I’d paid my dues. It was time to get the fuck out of here before the toys came to life a la Night at the Museum. “Unless you want to stare at more quilts and possessed toys.”
Jules’s mouth twitched. “You sure? You did abandon New Zealand for this world-famous museum. You should get your money’s worth.”
“Oh, I did.” My money’s and my nightmare’s worth. I rested my hand on Jules’s lower back and guided her toward the exit. “I’m good, trust me. I’d rather see the rest of town.”
“We already saw most of it on our walk here. Everything else is residential.”
Jesus. “There has to be something we missed. What’s your favorite place in town?”
We stepped out into the dying afternoon light. Golden hour was melting into twilight, and long shadows stretched across the sidewalks as we walked toward downtown.
“It closed an hour ago,” Jules said.
“I want to see it anyway.”
She cast me a strange look but shrugged. “If you insist.”
Ten minutes later, we arrived at an ancient-looking bookstore. It was stuffed in between a thrift shop and a Chinese takeout joint, and the words Crabtree Books were scrawled across the dark windows in chipped red paint.
“It’s the only bookstore in town,” Jules said. “I didn’t tell any of my friends, because reading wasn’t considered cool, but it was my favorite place to hang out, especially on rainy days. I came here so often I memorized all the books on the shelves, but I liked browsing it every weekend anyway. It was comforting.” A wry smile touched her lips. “Plus, I knew for a fact I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew here.”
“It was your haven.”
Her face softened with nostalgia. “Yeah.”