Page 87 of Fool Moon First Aid

“Maybe,” he replies, a glint of mischief returning to his gaze as he looks up at me, those thick lashes framing his eyes. “Maybe not.”

“I don’t believe we did,” I reply, newfound confidence bolstering my words. “Typically, Mama would bring me here right after Sunday service, but that day…” My voice trails off, the memory of that fateful afternoon surfacing with a clarity that feels both comforting and unnerving. It’s as though the more we delve into our shared past, the more my long buried emotions and memories find their way to the surface, begging to be acknowledged and understood.

“You arrived late that afternoon,” Ethan interjects, his trademark crooked smirk sending a familiar flutter through my stomach. “My appointment ran over by an hour. If it had been on time, I would have missed you.”

In that moment, amidst the remnants of our ice cream and the whispers of our younger selves, I realize that perhaps fate isn’t about predestined paths or inescapable destinies. Maybe it’s about the choices we make, the chances we take, and the people who walk into our lives, whether by accident or design, shaping our story in ways we could never imagine.

Fate.

“Daddy,” I begin, my voice breaking through the silence as the memory unfurls in vibrant flashes behind my mind’s eye, “was adamant about me joining Sunday school that day. And boy, did I loathe it. Mama too. She always said they were more about spinning yarn than imparting wisdom, barely touching on morals or ethics. Instead, that day turned into a deep dive on spiritkin, and Jess…” A smirk dances on my lips, the memory of the conversation with Mama on our way to the ice-cream shop bubbling up. “Her brother was bitten by a werewolf.”

“If both of us had been punctual, we’d have completely missed each other,” he points out, brandishing his spoon like a tiny, melty flag of truce.

“It seems fate had its own script for us that day,” I muse, a shadow of annoyance flickering at the thought of our strings being pulled by unseen hands.

“Maybe, but it wasn’t fate’s hand that coaxed you into daring me to bite you.”

“You didn’t technically bite me,” I counter, unable to suppress a grin.

“I nicked you with my canine,” he counters, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous gleam I see seldomly. “I could have gone all in.”

I pause, curiosity piqued. “And what then?”

It strikes me that after all these years, I never really got the full story from him or Mama, especially knowing she was spiritkin all along.

“I don’t know,” Ethan confesses, his usual confidence dimming into uncertainty. “A mere nick shouldn’t have had any effect, but it did, didn’t it?”

“Ethan?” I venture, a spoonful of ice cream doing little to calm the fluttering in my stomach. “Would you walk me to where it happened?”

His gaze momentarily flares with that ethereal magic. “Come on,” he says, sliding out of the booth. “We can take these to go. You don’t mind a bit of melted ice cream, do you?”

“Makes the perfect milkshake,” I quip, feeling his hand envelope mine in a comforting warmth around my chilled fingers.

My heart hammers against my rib cage as we step outside, the chill of the night wrapping around us. He places our treats in the backseat, each movement tender, then returns to my side, our fingers intertwining once more.

“Do you remember where she—” He hesitates, the words catching in his throat.

“Yeah.” The sting of tears blurs my vision as I peer beyond Second Street to that fateful bend.

“Ava, you don’t have to do this,” he murmurs, pulling me under the shelter of his arm. The simple act of leaning into him feels like coming home.

“But I need to,” I insist, the urge to confront the past overwhelming. “I hired a private investigator a few years back. Did I ever tell you?” I snuggle closer, his presence a soothing balm against the chill and the churn of memories.

“Did they uncover anything new?” he inquires as we navigate past a patchwork of homes, a stark juxtaposition of renewal and neglect painting our path. From one step to the next, the scenery shifts dramatically—from meticulously renovated homes to those marred by neglect and shattered windows.

“Nothing beyond what I already knew,” I admit as we pause, now only a block away from where they found my mama. “The cops showed up at our door that night, needing someone to make an ID. Dad pulled up right after them. He tried to shield me from it, but I wouldn’t have it. I had to go.”

“Did you ever get closure?” Ethan asks, his voice a soft echo in the cool night.

“No.” The word tastes bitter on my tongue. “We got to the morgue, and he wouldn’t let me in. Then, he confirmed her identity, and she was cremated before I could blink—no closure, just this gaping, endless wound.” My sneakers, a quick choice by Tyler, squeak against the pavement. “Looking back, I can see all the holes in his stories, every detail that felt off or just plain wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Why?” I tilt my head up to Ethan, my brows knitting together in confusion. “None of this mess is your fault.”

“It doesn’t mean I can’t feel empathy for your situation,” he counters gently, his gaze softening. “So the PI didn’t find anything new?”

“Nothing beyond what I already knew.” My stomach knots as we cross another street, arriving at a fork in the road that feels like a metaphor for my life. Merger Ave stretches one way, lined with row homes, while the next street reveals the backside of those homes—an alleyway cluttered with the secrets of garages and silent cars.

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