“You don’t have to come with us,” I told him.
“Don’t start,” he said.
“I’m in Grand Orchard during winter break. Even the college kids who might have asked for an autograph are gone,” I said with a smile. The permanent residents of the town all knew who I was and weren’t impressed. None of them were going to come screaming down the street at the sight of me or break into my house to steal my underwear. Coming home had been an easy way to keep my ego in check over the years. Winning music awards or having an album go platinum wasn’t going to get you a gold star in the locals’ books. Now, if you happened to win the apple pie contest at the county fair, that was something to write home about.
Marco didn’t reply. Instead, he just followed me out of the apartment and down the steps to where Cassidy was waiting. She had on a white coat so puffy she could have been the Pillsbury Doughboy. But her eyes were shining, and her cheeks were already turning pink in the chill. She looked pretty, the white beanie on her head only making the wild waves that were her long hair stand out more.
She looked up at Marco and smiled. “Knew we could get you to come out and play somehow.”
He grunted, but his lips twitched.
She looped her arm with mine, and we headed down the tree-lined block to Main Street. The entire street was lit up with holiday lights. The scent of hot apple cider was wafting from all the shops. People were laughing and talking as they passed from one store to the next. It felt like the entire town had come out to celebrate, which was probably the case.
This was Grand Orchard. The core of it. The people whose families had been here for generations mixed with those who’d moved here for the small-town lifestyle. It was quaint and appealing in a postcard kind of way.
My phone buzzed.
GHOST TEAM LEADER: Tell me you haven’t killed anyone yet.
ME: The night is young, and I am now in the center of Quaintsville, so no promises.
GHOST TEAM LEADER: Do I have to tell Marco to put you on a leash?
ME: Marco looks completely uncomfortable.
Which he did. He was dressed in black military gear as if he was ready to scale down the side of a cliff or up a wall with an incendiary device. His growly face and hooded eyes made him stand out like a sore thumb. He looked like some superhero or Egyptian god, but he had none of the ego to go with it.Just a humble man from nowhere, who was ready to step in front of a bullet for me.
GHOST TEAM LEADER: Don’t taunt him.
ME: Why am I always the one who everyone assumes is doing the taunting?
GHOST TEAM LEADER: *** Eye roll emoji ***
I snorted because, before Dani had become part of the team, Lee had never used an emoji or a GIF in his life. Now, they were a regular part of his written language.
As I put my phone back into my pocket, Cass stumbled on the curb. I caught her with my arms, steadying her, a moment of panic flowing through me.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yes, Mom,” she threw back at me.
I knew better than to take it personally.
I’d been six years old when Cassidy was born. Old enough to have a sense of displacement, but young enough to love the idea of being a big brother. I hadn’t been able to fulfill that role for much of my life. Cassidy’s developmental delays had become apparent early on in her language and mobility, and it had sent my parents into a tailspin.
Since being diagnosed with Triple X, they’d hovered over her. Sure, it had all been done out of love and a desire to see her become the best possible version of herself she could be, but it meant a whole range of tutors, individual education plans, and physical therapy to counter the mental and physical manifestations of her syndrome. By the time she hit high school, there was really no reason for anyone to ever suspect Cass had experienced early delays, as long as you didn’t ask her to participate in sports.
Cass pretty much led as normal of a life as any of us these days. Her hypotonia was the only aspect of her Triple X diagnosis that reared its ugly head now and then. With the weight of the baby changing her center of gravity, she had to have some balance issues that her decreased muscle tone couldn’t counteract, but she wasn’t giving in to it. That was Cass. Always the fighter.
The first store we entered was Sugar Lips Bakery. The owner, Helen, had been behind the counter my entire life. She was my parents’ age but had softened into a ball of sweetness over the years versus the taut energy that was my mother.
She saw Cass and came charging over, wrapping her in a hug. “Cassidy! I was thinking of you today when I was making my gluten-free cinnamon balls dipped in dark chocolate from that new cacao supplier you sent my way.”
“Wait, since when do you have a gluten allergy?” I asked Cass.
Helen and Cass both stared at me. “Since I was in high school.” Cass smirked.
I flushed a red that I rarely did.
