The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

I drove with the windows rolled down, the humid summer air whipping at my wet cheeks. The tears kept on coming.

The scent of spring’s blossoms lingered in my nostrils, heady and sweet, mixing with the crispness of the night.

She is never going to smell spring blossoms again.

To smile lopsidedly, like she is holding the secrets of the universe between her lips.

To press a dress against my chest and shimmy her shoulders excitedly, exclaiming it’s, “Tres you!”

Why’d you have to do this, B?

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

In the distance, neon lights flashed from striped yellow and red tents. There was a giant sign in the middle of a glittering Ferris wheel.

Aquila Fair.

Drown.

I needed to drown.

In lights and smells and noises, with simple lives that weren’t mine.

I took a sharp turn right.

I parked among the SUVs, beat-up vehicles, and sports cars, stumbling out of the Volvo in my black hoodie, cut-off shorts, and sneakers. The Daisy Dukes were my doing. I took scissors to an old pair of jeans and cut them off so that the curve of my ass was visible even from space. My attire usually resembled that of Kate Middleton. Prim, proper, and princess-like. But tonight, I wanted to piss her off for dying on me. To give her the middle finger for not sticking around.

“American girls show skin like men don’t know what awaits under their garments. You, mon cheri, will make a man earn every inch of you, and dress appropriately and demurely, you hear?”

My feet carried me forward, the mouthwatering fragrance of cotton candy, buttered popcorn, and candy apple trickling into my system.

She didn’t like it when I ate junk food.

Said Americans were in the habit of eating themselves into type 2 diabetes. She had a lot of ideas about Americans, all of them bordering on xenophobic, and I used to spend half my time arguing the merits of America with her.

Tents that offered live shows, vendors, and a small arcade surrounded the rides, serving as a border. The ding-ding-ding of machines, peppered with the mechanical noises from the rides, reverberated in my empty stomach. The Ferris wheel sitting in the center was bathed in an ocean of lights.

I bought myself pink cotton candy and a Diet Coke and walked around.

There were couples making out, laughing, fighting. Clusters of teenagers yelling and hooting. Parents screaming. Children running. I was irrationally, maddeningly angry with all of them.

For being alive.

For not grieving with me.

For taking for granted the rarity of their precious condition: alive, healthy, and well.

I tossed the remainder of cotton candy into a trash can and looked around, deciding what ride to go on first. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a giant sign.

The Creep Show: A Haunted Mansion Experience.

Haunted mansions were my playground.

I lived in one, after all—my house held the secrets of seven generations of Fitzpatricks—and I’d always been drawn to ghosts and monsters.

I took my place in line, shifting from foot to foot as I checked my phone. My mother and brothers were all looking for me.

Cillian: Where are you, Aisling? Call me back immediately.

Hunter: Yo, sis. You okay? Sounds like you were involved in some heavy shit. Sending hugz from Cali.

Mother: I heard what happened. Quite terrible, dear. Please come home so we can discuss this. So dreadful that you saw this.

Mother: You know how bad my anxiety gets when I can’t get hold of you. You need to come back home, Ash.

Mother: Oh, Aisling, what am I to do? You didn’t even make my herbal tea before you left. I’m a wreck over here!

That was my mother. Self-centered even when it was my world imploding into miniscule pieces. Always worried for her own well-being before mine.

I tucked my phone back in my pocket and craned my neck to look at the carts as they slid back from the jaws of an evil, laughing clown. Muffled screams bled from the inside of the ride. The people who came out stepped out of the carts with wobbly knees, buzzing with excitement.

When I was finally put in one of the wagons—it looked like a rickety pod with red paint smeared all over it to symbolize blood—I was alone, even though there was enough space for two people.

I knew nothing would happen to me on a fair ride.

Still, I felt lost, fragile, and unbearably lonely tonight. Like someone had peeled away my skin in one go and left me to carry my bones and veins and muscles in a messy heap.

I’d just lost my best friend. The only one that counted.

I grabbed onto the shirtsleeve of the guy manning the ride, tugging.

“I want to get off.”

He gave me a slow once-over, his gaze lingering a second too long on my bare thighs.

“Hell, sugar, I’d like to get you off, too. But you’ll have to wait till the end of my shift. I need the money,” he slurred, sounding stoned.