By a Charm and a Curse(65)
The roller coaster is impressive for something that is an impermanent fixture. The first drop isn’t terribly high, but it’s steep, propelling the cars through several twists and turns. I lead the boy to the lowest dip, where the track is barely two feet off the ground.
I could push him. Wait till the cars come swerving down the track and knock him right into them. The ride operator is chatting with someone, but when he sees the boy and me he stops, elbowing his companion, who turns to look. It’s Lorenzo Moretti. The carnival is mostly empty and no one is in line for the roller coaster, but the ride operator pulls a lever and the empty cars climb up the track to the highest peak and pause there. Lorenzo gives me a nod.
The boy can barely stand straight. He clearly thinks I’m about to kiss him, and I could do it, press my lips to his when he leans in, then push him onto the track. It’ll be easy. Quick.
He looks so young.
My resolve cracks.
“Go,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Puzzlement runs down his face, starting with furrowed brows and ending with a petulant frown. “What did I do?” Now his voice does crack.
Like throwing stones at a dog to get it to run, I throw my insults at this boy to save him. “Go home, Junior League. I just got a good look at your face, and what are you, twelve?” I raise my hand a few inches above his head. “You must be this tall to ride this ride.”
He stares at me for a second, to make sure I’m not screwing with him. With a dejected “Bitch,” he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and huffs off.
Even from where I stand more than a dozen feet away I can still hear Lorenzo say, “What the hell?” He grips the guardrail of the ride platform and swings over, landing gracefully in the dirt. I don’t want to deal with him, hear him berate me for screwing up when I had my prey exactly where I wanted him.
So I run.
The carnival is a blur as I race back to my wagon. The door is ajar, a line of pale light outlining its curve in the dark shadow that is the wagon.
When I climb inside, Benjamin is there, propped up against the pile of pillows and reading a book. He takes one long look at me, from the shaking that rocks me from head to toe to the empty bottle of wine that’s still clutched in my hand. His eyes linger there for a good long while, and a tentative smile creeps across his mouth.
“You changed your mind?” He’s good at hiding it, but there’s a glimmer of hope peeking out of that question.
I hadn’t thought of what it would be like to tell him that I wanted to pass off the curse instead of break it. And I definitely hadn’t thought of what I’d say if I failed. Will he think I’m weak? A coward? A horrible person? All those things?
“There was this boy.” I pause, unsure how to phrase the horrible part, the part that comes next. Turns out, I don’t have to. He looks at me and my shaking and the bottle and understanding clicks on his face.
We have no words for each other. Ben slides off the pillow he’d been sitting on and quietly moves past me to slip out the door, the budding smile trampled into a frown. I want to—no, need to—say something, but there’s nothing in me that isn’t a lie.
But there is anger.
“Don’t run away from this argument like you do with your mother!” I yell as I follow him into the night air. Ben stops, still within the circle of the light spilling from my wagon. The muscles of his back and arms ripple as he clenches and unclenches his hands into fists. I expect him to keep going, though I hope he won’t. Finally, he turns.
“Why shouldn’t I when you seem to trust me about as much as she does?”
He turns away again as I sink to sit on the steps. He heads not for camp but for the smudge of trees in the distance. I watch him until he’s a dark shadow indistinguishable from the others crowding the night.
Fuck.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Benjamin
I sit near the white slatted fence bordering the edge of Katarina’s property, cypress trees dripping in Spanish moss just beyond. The cool, damp ground is trying its hardest to make me the same temperature. The carnival is far behind me, the lights gone out a long time ago.
So when I hear clumsy steps behind me, I’m a little surprised.
“I know what’s bumming me out,” Sidney says, “but what about you?” His voice has the slippery slur of one drink before complete drunkenness and one after good sense. When he drops down onto the grass beside me, I can smell the warm yeasty scent of his beer before I see the bottle glinting in the sparse light.
I don’t answer. I’ve learned that if you leave space in a conversation, people like Sidney, people who love the sound of their own voice and their self-important stories, will fill it for you.
“Not feeling particularly chatty this evening?” he asks. “That’s fine. Let me take a stab at it.” He tips his head back to take a swig from his bottle. “We’re here on Katarina Marx’s property, and that, my not-quite-friend, isn’t a coincidence. I know Emma wants to break the curse, and I know Katarina knows how.”
My head whips toward him. He has to see my bewilderment because I’ve had no time to hide it. Sidney is not supposed to be this knowing or this astute.
“That’s right, Audrey Jr.” He points at me with one hand still wrapped around the bottle. It’s like he has that thing surgically attached. “Now. I know what you’re thinking. How does good old Sidney—”