Page 5 of The Hunting Moon
“What can I get you?” Jo, one of the the two owners, asks.
“Um…” Winnie wets her lips. She is overwhelmed by the menu, embarrassed by her failure to de-jacket, and still reeling from the weirdness of the funeral. “Just… a coffee? Black? I, uh, have a tab.”
“Oh?” This seems to surprise Jo, who’s eyes widen behind her cherry-red glasses. They are very cool glasses, which depresses Winnie because her thick black frames seem extremelyuncool by comparison. “What’s the name?” Jo asks.
“Um, it’s probably under Wednesday.” Winnie swallows. “Winnie Wednesday. And if it’s not under that, then it’ll be Mario Monday—”
“Holy crow.” Jo slides her very cool glasses down her nose. “You’re Winnie Wednesday? I thought you looked familiar, but it’s been so many years since I really saw you. What with the, uh,you know.” She twirls a hand in the air, as if Winnie’s exile from the Luminaries was just athingthathappensnow and again. Like heat waves or bad hair days.
“Oh.” Winnie hadn’t realized Jo had ever noticed her pre-exile.
“You’re all over the news,” Jo continues. “The Girl Who Jumped, they’re calling you. And a werewolf bite too. Incredible.” Jo’s focus drops to Winnie’s arms, and Winnie is glad she opted for long sleeves today. Otherwise the faint scars hatch-marking her right forearm would be visible, and she already feels enough like a lab specimen when she walks around Hemlock Falls.
Fortunately, Jo doesn’t seem to expect an answer. “You know what?” She rubs her hands together. “I’ll name a drink after you. What do you like? Whipped cream? Cinnamon? Soy milk? Whatever your palate prefers, we’ll sell it. The Girl Who Jumped! I can even add green food coloring on top, to match that dress you wore. Itwasgreen, right?”
Winnie doesn’t know how to answer this. This is like the funeral all over again, but worse.You almost died! Let’s commemorate that traumatic eventwith food coloring!Jo herself had to have her leg amputated after a droll encounter. So shouldn’t she, of all people, be less… well,impressedby all of this? And maybe a bit more horrified?
Apparently not, since as Jo twists away, grabbing for a box of almond milk, she says: “Maybe the Girl Who Got Bitten instead? Johnny used that one last night. Did you hear it?” She flings a backward glance at Winnie.
And Winnie is forced to shake her head. She hadnotheard it, and she hates that title even more than the first one. Because at least sheremembersjumping. Getting bitten, though? That memory never recorded inside her brain, so every time someone brings it up, Winnie is forced to play a cruel version of that matching game where you flip over cards and try to recall where two identical ones are hiding…
Except Winnie can’t ever find a match, so she just keeps flipping over cards and losing, losing, losing.
“What about no drink instead?” Winnie suggests.
Jo snorts. “You can’t call a drink No Drink, Winnie. People will think they’re ordering air.”
Winnie screws her eyes shut. This is getting worse by the second. She should have gone straight to the Sunday estate after the funeral. She should have told Darian she’d meet him another day, preferably at his place, where no one in Hemlock Falls can recognize her or complain about the werewolf or squee about the Nightmare Masquerade.
For several minutes, the only sound is the grinding of fresh beans, then the steaming of almond milk, and finally the high-pitchedshhhhhof whipped cream. Until Jo is suddenly back before Winnie and shoving a mug her way.
The cream on top is very,verygreen.
“Give it a try.” Jo winks. “And let me know what you think of the Girl Who Jumped. Or… maybe I’ll call it the Jumping Girl? Because, you know, coffee hypes you up.”
Winnie nods. As much as she would like to say,I actually prefer black coffee please,she takes the mug with both hands. It’s warm against her numb fingers. “I’ll sip this… over there.” She dips her head toward a table.
“You do that.” Jo nods knowingly. Then taps her forehead. “And I’ll keep noodling drink names.”
Darian is late. This isn’t particularly surprising, given that his entire life is dictated by Dryden Saturday right now—and Dryden’s life is dictated by the furious town, the “dangerous werewolf” on the loose, and the Nightmare Masquerade he refuses to call off.
Old Darian, however, was never tardy, so when he finally does arrive, it’s clear he is distraught by the thirteen minutes that Winnie had to wait on him. “Oh my god,” he breathes, dropping into the chair across from Winnie. “I amsosorry I’m late. Everything is such a mess these days, Win.”
Darian himself is something of a mess too. His collar isn’t draped evenly over his sweater vest, and there’s a black smudge on the bottom of his glasses that might be ink or also might be the exhausted ether of his soul.
“Did you see last night’s interview?” he asks, combing a hand through his hair—and not helping the already lopsided application of his hair gel.
Winnie nods. “It was…”
“An epic shit show? A hurricane of hell? A massacre of misery?”
Winnie winces. Darian has clearly tipped onto theseverely stressedside of the continuum if he’s using alliteration, and when he reaches for her coffee, she doesn’t interfere.
He gulps back green whipped cream. Then freezes, cheeks bulging as his face curdles to the same shade (whichwasactually quite close to the true emerald of Winnie’s dress). He swallows very slowly, very carefully. “What,” he says when his mouth is finally empty, “did you order?”
Winnie doesn’t answer. She simply rises in silence, fetches a glass of water from the cooler by the entrance, and offers it to him upon her return. Darian downs it in one swallow.
“That is disgusting,” he says, and Winnie nods her agreement. She only needed one sip to know she would never drink it again.
