Quads Cemetery is about a forty-five-minute drive from the estate, and every Sunday after Mass I go there without fail. No one ever bothers to come along, and while part of me is content because I don’t need to share my time, the other part is disgusted that nobody seems to care.
The second Nessa was gone, everyone moved on as if she wasn’t there in the first place. A used-up toy that gets thrown in the garbage and forgotten.
Normally, I sit through service then dip out before Sunday dinner at the house, but today, with Brayden sitting two aisles away, I needed an escape.
Needed a reminder of my goals and why I have them in the first place.
Fallen leaves crunch beneath my shoes as I walk through the graveyard, a mix of headstones lining the way. I stop in front of Nessa’s, the gray marble dulled from thin layers of grime, and I place the small bouquet of red roses I picked up from a street vendor at its base.
“Hey, Ness,” I murmur.
I reach forward, running my fingers along the engraved letters of her name, Vanessa Esther Westerly, wishing I could wipe away the dirt along with it. There’s no actual body here; it was never recovered after the “accident” that killed her, but I come here anyway, the memorial to her life somehow making me feel closer to her than anywhere else.
My stomach churns.
“I miss you,” I whisper, glancing to either side of me before sitting down. The grass is cold, but I make myself as comfortable as possible, wrapping my arms around my bent knees as I stare at her tombstone.
A ball of sadness forms in my throat, making it difficult to swallow around the pain.
“What are you supposed to be?” Nessa laughs, flicking the top of my pointed hat.
I grin at her, the green paint on my skin still tacky as I throw my hands out to my sides. “A witch, duh.”
She smiles, her eyes taking in my costume. I know it’s not much, but I made it all by myself and I’m pretty proud of it. It took days.
She places her hands on her hips. “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”
I tilt my head to the side, not understanding the question. “What do you mean?”
“Well… you either cast wicked spells against your enemies or you use your powers for good. You know, to help people.” She looks me up and down again. “Good witches normally wear white though. At least, that’s what they say.”
I chew on the inside of my lip, my brows furrowing as I take in her words. I hadn’t thought about what kind of witch I wanted to be. Honestly, I didn’t know there were choices. Embarrassment swirls through me, wondering if people will judge me if I pick wrong.
Dorothy cackles, walking in from the foyer, followed closely by our mother. “No way she’s a good one. Look at her.”
Nessa’s eyes narrow, and my chest twists when I see Mom fawning over Dorothy—as usual—and completely ignoring me.
I twist my fingers together, shifting on my feet, suddenly feeling like my homemade costume is stupid. Especially next to Dorothy, who’s dressed in a sparkly pink ball gown, complete with an elaborate silver crown on her head and a magic wand with a star on top.
“Wow. Who are you supposed to be?” I ask, marveling at her costume.
Dorothy’s grin widens and she twirls around in a circle, the dress shimmering as she does. “I’m a fairy princess, right Mama?”
Our mother glances down at her, running her hand through the ends of Dorothy’s perfectly curled hair. “That’s right, baby girl.” She looks over at us. “Doesn’t she look great? We had the outfit specially made.”
My fingers twist so hard they ache.
Nessa scoffs. “Jesus, Mom.”
“Glinda!” Dad’s voice pours in from down the hall. “Get your ass in here. Now.”
Mom’s smile drops and she whips her head behind her before looking back to Dorothy. “I’ll be back later. You have fun trick-or-treating, okay? Remember what I told you.”
Dorothy nods, smiling, and our mom bends to kiss her on the forehead before spinning around and rushing away.
Nessa blows out a breath, pasting on a smile and clapping her hands together. “Okay, let’s go now before everyone steals all the good candy.”
“Nice costume, Dorothy,” I whisper as I step up beside her, grabbing the black cauldron-shaped bucket sitting on the kitchen counter.
She scrunches her nose, looking past me to Nessa. “I’ll be out front. It stinks back here.”
My chest aches and I stare at the floor.
A hand clamps down on my shoulder, Nessa’s face coming into view. “You know? I definitely think you’re a good witch.”
I nod, trying to hold back the sob that wants to break free. I swallow it down, glancing at the empty hallway where Dorothy disappeared. She’s so stupid, she thinks just because she’s eight and Mom’s favorite that she’s better than everyone.
Something dark and heavy twists in my middle, heating up my body as it spreads. Good witches help people, but I don’t really feel like helping her. Or anyone, for that matter.
“No,” I say, stiffening my spine and glaring at the empty space. “I’m the bad one.”
That was the last Halloween I saw my mother. Before Dad went away and she decided she was too good to raise kids on her own.
Footsteps crunch behind me, and my spine stiffens, jolting me out of the memory.
I’ve been coming here every single Sunday for the past seven years, and no one has ever followed me. No one even cared I went missing in the first place. They never do.
Zeke appears at my side and sits down next to me, crossing his legs.
I blow out a sigh, grabbing a fallen leaf and twirling it through my fingers.
“What, no hello?” he asks after a minute of silence.
I shrug, keeping my eyes trained on the brown and golds spinning in my hand.
“That’s why you’re my favorite,” he sighs, leaning back on his elbows and stretching his legs out in front of him. “No bullshit.”
He slips a cigarette from behind his ear and takes a lighter from his pocket, sparking the end and blowing a ring of smoke into the sky. “This where you come when you disappear?”
“Sometimes.”
“Hmm,” he hums.
He stays quiet after that, only the sound of the wind caressing the trees and the burning paper of his cigarette keeping it from being complete silence.
“You know,” he finally says. “I met Nessa a few times, when she’d go out on that ridiculous yacht with Oscar.”
Nausea surges through my stomach and into my throat at the thought of that stupid boat. I went on it one time and ended up having a panic attack from being on the water, so I never went again. Maybe if I had, then she’d still be here.
“She had a way about her, didn’t she?” He grins. “Every guy was half in love with her back then. Hell, most the girls were too.”
He chuckles, but I can’t find the humor as he reminds me of how much darker the world is without her in it.
“Your father—”
“I don’t want to talk about him here.” I bite the inside of my lip so hard I taste the hint of copper.
He nods, sucking in another drag of his cigarette and lying back until he’s completely flat on the ground. “Well, this is important, and I don’t know if I’ll get a chance to say it again, so just…”
Everything in me wants to tell him to shut the fuck up and leave. I want to snap my teeth and yell, how dare he bring him up. Him—the man who can’t be bothered to even show up. He doesn’t deserve to be acknowledged. Not here.
But it’s Zeke, and he… well, he’s one of the only people in my life who doesn’t treat me like I’m different. Less than. So instead, I lie back with him, my head pressing against the hard ground, the smell of flowers left by other mourning souls assaulting my senses.
“Your father’s been good to me, and he’s good as hell at what he does,” he tries again. “But a man can be successful and still fail where it matters.”
My chest squeezes tight.
“I watch you, Evie, you know? You and that bleedin’ heart.” He turns his face to stare at me. “Your dad loves you… and he loves her too.” He points toward Nessa’s headstone. “He just doesn’t know how to show it.”
My nose burns and I shove my tongue to the roof of my mouth, trying to stem the ache that’s sprouting with every word he says.
Sounds nice, but it’s all bullshit at the end of the day. Zeke can pretend he knows our family dynamic as much as he likes, but it doesn’t change how it feels. I watch him from my peripheral, instead of meeting his gaze. “As much as I love the sentimental bonding, can we be done?”
He chuckles, ash from his cigarette falling on top of his scarred-up knuckles. “I’m sorry you lost your sister, Evie. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that.”
I swallow. “It was a long time ago.”
Now I do turn to face him, taking in the way his eyes are half-lidded, his mane of hair tamed in a bun. “Do you think about your dad at all, Zeke?”
His features morph into something heavier. “All the time.”
“Did you love him?”
“Thought we were done with the sentimental shit,” he grunts.
I lift a shoulder. “Changed my mind.”
He brings the cigarette up to his lips, inhaling before blowing out another ring of smoke. “He was a prick.”
“So, no?”
“Yeah, I loved him.” He sighs. “I’d do anything not to end up like him, though.”
“Well…” I pause, placing my hands on top of my stomach. “I’d do anything to be even a little bit like Nessa.”
“That’s a shame.” He sits up then, looking down on me. “If you were like her, then there wouldn’t be a you.”
I suck in a breath from his words, tendrils of despair breaking through the ground and wrapping around my chest, squeezing until my heart feels like it might explode from the constraint.
Zeke stands, dusting off his pants. “See ya around, Evie.”
He walks away then, and I stay lying on the ground, basking in the silence.
But for the first time in years, the solitude feels a little less like comfort and a little more empty.
