Girl of Nightmares

“Might be a problem there,” I say, and tell her what happened. For a minute, it seems like she might have a suggestion—something I should do, or how to get them back together—but then she shakes her head.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” she says, and pats my arm like I’m the one who got broken up with.

* * *

A day and a half passes without so much as a text from Thomas. I find myself checking my phone every five minutes like a lovesick schoolgirl, wondering if I should call him, or if he’s better left alone. Maybe he and Carmel have managed to talk it over. If that’s the case, I don’t want to interrupt it. Still, my head’s going to explode if I don’t tell him about the photograph soon. And about the trip to London. He might not even want to go.

Mom and I are in the kitchen, keeping ourselves busy. She’s taken the day off from being witchy and has decided to experiment with a new casserole. Some six-bean chicken thing that I’m not too excited about, but she looks happily distracted and daring in her rooster-print apron, so I’ll do my part and be daring enough to eat it when it comes out of the oven. So far, we’ve avoided talking about anything related to Anna, or the athame, or Hell, or Gideon. It’s actually sort of comforting, that we do have other things to talk about.

When someone knocks at the door, I come half out of my chair. But it isn’t Thomas. Standing in our entryway is Carmel. She looks guilty and a little lost, but her clothes still match and her hair is still perfect. Conversely, somewhere else in Thunder Bay, Thomas is a complete wreck.

“Hey,” she says. My mom and I glance at each other. We don’t play casual very well; we just stand sort of frozen, me half in and half out of my chair, and my mom half bent over the stove, with her oven mitts on.

“Can I talk to you?” Carmel asks.

“Have you talked to Thomas?”

She looks away.

“Maybe you’d better talk to him first,” I say.

The way she’s standing, I can’t help but give in. I’ve never seen Carmel Jones look out of place before. She’s fidgeting, trying to decide whether to stay or go, one hand on the doorknob and the other clutching the strap of her shoulder bag so hard it might snap. My mom nods her head toward the door, up toward my room, and gives me the eyes. I sigh.

“You’re welcome to stay for lunch, Carmel,” Mom says.

Carmel smiles shakily. “Thanks, Mrs. Lowood. What are you having?”

“I don’t know. I made it up.”

“We’ll be down in a few minutes, Mom,” I say, and brush past Carmel on my way to the stairs. Questions flash through my mind while we head for my room. What is she doing here? What does she want? Why isn’t she fixing things with Thomas?

“So how was your big date with Derek?” I ask as I close the door.

She shrugs. “It was okay.”

“Not worth breaking Thomas’s heart, then?” I spit. I don’t know why I feel so betrayed. Part of me thought the date with Derek was just a cover and she’d never actually go. It pisses me off, and I want her to say what she came here to say, to ask me if we’ll still be friends, so I can tell her no, and to get the hell out of my house.

“Derek’s not that bad,” she says, unbelievably. “But he’s not the reason. For any of it.”

Halfway to slinging my next insult, my mouth closes. She’s looking at me evenly, and the apology on her face isn’t just for Thomas. Carmel didn’t come here to explain. She didn’t come to ask if we were still going to be friends. She came here to tell me that we weren’t.

“My mom was right,” I mutter. I am getting broken up with.

“What?”

“Nothing. What’s going on, Carmel?”

Her hip shifts. She had something planned, some big speech, but now that she’s here it’s failing her. The phrases “I never” and “It’s just” fall out of her mouth, and I lean on my dresser. There are going to be a few false starts before she gets it right. To her credit, she doesn’t pout, or try to lead me with questions so I’ll make it easier. Carmel is always tougher than I think she’s going to be, which is why what’s happening doesn’t make sense. Finally, she looks me straight in the eyes.

“There’s no way to say this that isn’t going to sound selfish,” she says. “It is selfish. And I’m okay with it.”

“Okay,” I say.

“I’m still glad to know you, and Thomas. And aside from all the murders”—she scrunches her face—“I don’t regret anything that’s happened.”