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But…I mean…talk about fun.
A whole, real party with all the people I like and all the people they like.
In my backyard.
With fire.
I’ve never much fit in at or enjoyed parties before. The ones I’ve had to accompany Finn to were pretentious and crystalline. The idea of a party that doesn’t make me feel adrift in an endless sea of confusion sounds too good to be true.
This one will happen in my backyard, which I’m very familiar with given how often I’ve sat outside with my butterfly friends since moving. I will get to choose my own music, and change it at will. The guests will include my friends. The refreshments will be solely stuff I like.
It will be beautiful.
With the single recipe for disaster being this man in a space with my mom and dad…
But, all things considered, if by some miracle I go through with the insanity next month, my parents should probably meet…my boyfriend…before seeing him at my wedding.
“Does it sound like a plan?” Finn asks.
Swallowing abject terror, I nod. “Absolutely. I can’t wait to leave a circle of ashes in your pretty lawn…”
“Two,” he says.
I raise a brow at his perfect, calm smile.
He lifts his fingers to count. “One bonfire, one marshmallow fire. Two circles of ashes. Twice the burning enjoyment. Double happy girlfriend.” His smile turns a bit stupid, and a bit dear. “Best boyfriend ever.”
My eyes roll off him, and I huff, but I can’t stop myself from smiling at my tablet as I scroll through the cart he put together. Just for me.
Ha ha ha. You’re hilarious.
– Finnegan
~~~
Don’t patronize me.
– Marcella
Chapter 18
I have you on benefits. Your insurance covers therapy.
– Finnegan
“Pumpkin,” I call as I wander toward her bedroom. Penny and some men I hired are busy outside, setting up the final things for the bonfire, which—last I checked—was an exceedingly tall blaze just far enough from the house to not singe the shingles. People will begin arriving any minute now.
Marcella’s door is open by the time I reach it, and my heart thumps upon witnessing the sight beyond the archway.
She’s standing in front of the floor-length mirror on the wall beside the closet. A cream and brown dress we bought in August hugs her curves. The loose long sleeves billow to her wrists while the skirt flares with each of her slight turns. Unlike her usual modest makeup, tonight she’s wearing an obvious orange and gold dusting of eye shadow that matches her pumpkin necklace.
When she looks at me, I am convinced.
She was made for autumn.
Her skin, hair, and eyes all reflect the brilliance of the season, and I don’t know what I’ll do once I see her bathed in the gleam of firelight.
Tonight might kill me.
