Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Apparently they’d gotten louder than they’d realized, because the next thing Greta knew, her parents were hissing at them in embarrassment to sit down and be quiet. Greta and Adelaide had passed notes in silence after that.
Carys emerged from a doorway, and Greta’s breath caught. She wore a spangled black skirt, worn black Frye boots, and an openwork lavender shawl. Her hair was in a messy topknot, and she wore octagonal wire-rim glasses. Her lipstick was maroon, her luscious mouth curled in a mysterious smile.
“Good evening, y’all. Are you ready to explore the supernatural mysteries of the Crescent City?”
Murmurs of Yes and uncertain clapping commenced.
Greta wanted to show enthusiasm to help Carys, but the idea of making a sound in front of other people mortified her.
Carys, however, clearly had no need of her help. She went through a list of rules and then said, “Follow me, if you dare,” and turned to stride off into the French Quarter.
At the very last moment, she caught Greta’s eye and gave her a wink.
When Carys had texted her, inviting her to come on her tour and hang out afterward, Greta’s first response was relief. She’d woken the morning after they’d met wondering if it had all been a dream. Surely, that magical afternoon couldn’t have happened? She agonized over how soon was too soon to text Carys and try to see her again.
So when a text came from Carys the next night, she jumped on the invitation.
However, in preparation to come claim the ticket Carys had left for her, Greta had been a tumbleweed of nerves.
Her last date had been six months before—a dating app meetup at a bar on the mainland. It had been excruciating. The woman had been a few years older and asked pointed, derogatory questions about living on Owl Island and the lack of an active queer dating scene.
Greta had left feeling like the awkwardness was all her fault, since she’d admitted to not having had many girlfriends, and her date had said she didn’t feel a vibe but that she liked to “pay it forward,” so Greta could message her if she had any questions.
“Questions?” Greta had said. “Like…about you?”
“About the lifestyle,” the woman had said, and anger curled in Greta’s gut, pantherlike and sleek.
What Greta’d wanted to say was, “Lifestyle? Bitch, you live in rural Maine, are, like, two years older than me, and seem to think there’s one lifestyle that all lesbians share? Miss me with any ‘answers,’ thanks.”
What she’d actually said was, “Oh yeah, sure. Thanks.” She’d spent the ferry ride back to Owl Island imagining the mortifying texts her date was sending to friends about the clueless, pathetic woman she’d just had drinks with. Then she’d spent the evening at home wondering why she cared. Why she always cared so damn much what people thought of her.
She’d deleted the app after that.
Now here she was, half a world away, and she still cared, damn it.
Carys came to a halt and waited for the group to catch up. She pointed at a second-story balcony and began to spin her first tale.
Carys was a natural storyteller, and the tour group was rapt. Greta was listening, but she was also luxuriating in the atmosphere. Even though she knew much of the French Quarter was a tourist trap, she was a tourist, and while drinking until she puked wasn’t a particular hobby of hers, there was something about the place that was captivating. People moved freely from one bar to another, drinking and dancing in the streets, music from street performers bleeding into one another as they walked. There was a freedom here—a different sense of time. And Greta wanted to let it wash her away.
As they approached the next stop, another tour group stood on the corner. “Ghost tour traffic jam,” Carys said jauntily. “Let’s go up a block, and we’ll come back when they’re done.”
Greta made her way toward the front of the group in an attempt to walk close to Carys, but the father of the Dallas Cowboys–clad father/son duo reached her first and began asking dad questions. What was the population of New Orleans? What was the population density in different neighborhoods?
“I don’t know,” Carys said easily.
“But, but,” the man spluttered, “you’re a tour guide.”
“Well, if you’d like to know the population density of vampires, that I can tell you,” Carys said archly and winked.
“Okay,” the man said.
Carys blinked like a silent film star, but the man still stood expectantly.
“That was a joke,” she said lightly. “Because vampires aren’t real.”
The man frowned. “I don’t think you’re supposed to tell us that on a ghost and vampire tour,” he said.
“It sounds like you might enjoy a historical walking tour,” Carys said, sounding totally unbothered. “I’ll give you a brochure when we get back to Conti.”
Then she took a step away from him and held up her hand, stopping the tour.