❝Someday, somebody's gonna see inside. You have to face up, you can't run and hide.❞

-'Lonesome Loser' by Little River Band

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As the sun quickly makes its descent across the sky, Ashdown is swathed in amber light, making every brick colonial and sugar maple glow with the feeling of October. I know that soon enough, jack-o-lanterns and fake cobwebs will be dotting every house from here to Portland, and I can only imagine the deathly imagery that will come along, but for now, I just pull my jacket tight around me and savor the last moments of September.

Today the sky is blue and bright for once, despite the wind. Every now and then, the breeze will settle for just a moment, and I can almost feel the sun, but then it's gone without remorse.

Macy spends about 20 minutes in her house begging her mom to let her go to the lantern festival, before coming out and saying, "Thank god for Bass."

"What does your cat have to do with anything?"

"The only reason my mom let me go," Macy explains, her cheeks rosy with ebullience, "Is because I promised her I'd start cleaning Bass's litter box from now on. Instead of leaving it for... whoever does it now."

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Up next is Trevor. When we ring his doorbell, it takes a few moments for him to lumber over and greet us with stress in his eyes. "Macy?" he asks tiredly, "And Lila?"

Macy shifts like she's about to hug him, but then thinks better of it and says, "Hi. Are you busy tonight?"

"Wait," I interrupt without thinking, "Don't you guys have a game to attend?"

Trevor takes a deep breath, and I can hear the tension in his voice. He speaks stiffly, like we caught him in the middle of something important and he wants to get this over with. "They had funds left over from the cheer uniforms, so they started re-doing the Ridge tonight. They're fixing the lights first, so we can't play here. But we're playing Mill River, and they don't have lights at all, so we're playing tomorrow afternoon before sunset."

This is news to me, but as always, I'm not surprised I wasn't aware of this. Although probably old to her, these facts make Macy smile slightly. "So you're free tonight, then?"

"What do you have in mind if I were?"

I hold up the tickets, and sheepishly say, "I got tickets to a Lantern Festival in-" I pause to quickly scan over the gold slips- "Lake Placid!"

Hoping to the heavens above that he'll say yes, I cross my fingers behind my back and together with Macy give him a pleading look. Trevor gazes at me, sighs, gazes at his girlfriend, and sighs deeper. "Who else is coming to this thing?"

"I was gonna invite Veronica," Macy answers, surprisingly aware of the fact that it would make no sense for me to invite her.

"Veronica." Trevor echoes warily. "I didn't realize Lila and Ver-"

Before he can finish, I quickly add, "I let Macy choose who to invite. And, um, anyways, I have a guest of my own. He's waiting in the car."

Trevor raises his eyebrows, runs a hand down his face, then sighs once more. He must feel bad for the two of us, because he finally gives in after giving us a stare doused in pity. "Ok, sure. I'll come. Let me tell my mom."

A few minutes later, I'm sitting in the driver's seat, Mor beside me, Macy behind me. Trevor's starting to get in, and as he does, I gesture to my passenger and lie, "This is... Mor. Gan. Morgan. My cousin's best friend. He lives in Montreal, but he's visiting for the weekend. Ignore his appearance, he's severely goth."

Mor gives me a strange look. That's an elaborate lie.

What else should I say? I shoot back. Trevor will accept that more than he'd ever accept an angel - or a grim reaper, for that matter.

"Wait, what?" Macy murmurs under her breath. "I thought Mor was Amer-"

I shoot her a knowing look before she can finish her sentence. Her eyes get all big and misty, like a crystal ball, and she quickly nods in realization. Luckily, Trevor is too distracted by Mor to notice.

"You're from Montreal?" he asks Mor, then to me: "I didn't know you had family up there. I thought they were all from Cuba."

"This branch of the family is kind of distant."

As the invisible cogs turn in Trevor's head, he glances down at his navy blue Vineyard Vines pullover before giving us both a somewhat pained, somewhat genuine smile. "Well, um, nice to meet you, Morgan. You play any football up there?"

What do I say? Mor asks me mentally. For once, talking to this normal young man, he seems bewildered.

Have you never talked to a teenage boy before?

Not in... these circumstances. His eyes go dark for a moment. All of my charges have been out of this bracket.

Oh my God, Mor. Just make some charming shit up, just like you do with me. Say you like the Patriots or something - that'll get Trevor's respect in an instant.

You think I'm charming?

I don't answer him, focusing on pulling out of Trevor's driveway and leaving the Reaper to his own devices. The truth is, I do find him slightly charming, but it's not because of what he says or does. There's just something about him I can't figure out, a charisma I've only seen a few times before - in Mr. Summers, in my paternal uncle Kosmo, who lives in Miami and runs a nightclub, and more than anyone, in Will.

It's the way they all carry themselves - like nothing can worry them, like everything will turn out alright for them in the end. I don't know about Mr. Summers or Tio Kosmo, but I know things didn't turn out alright for Will.

I can't guess where Mor's existence will lead him. But if this moment - and whenever I compare him to a human - says anything, maybe he does have worries.

Mor does exactly what I instructed him to do and tells Trevor he follows the Patriots, complete with a vague French accent. This propels our resident runningback to start rambling about the Patriots' current roster, and how great their win against the Texans last week was.

For a moment, I can almost imagine it's Will sitting in that seat instead, talking to his best guy friend about their shared favorite thing, arguing over what players are good and what injuries are serious and what coaches need to be fired ASAP. But as I watch the boys out of the corner of my eye, I'm forced to remember the truth.

It hurts to know that this time last year, the 29th was nothing special. The only dates that mattered were holidays, playoffs, and August 16th - Will and I's anniversary. If he were here, this would just be a normal Friday, and we'd be on our way to a night of fun with our friends, as mercurial as they were.

Mor must sense my sadness, because he peers at me for a moment with a curious look in his eyes. Yet, I ignore him again, trying desperately to focus on the road ahead of me, on the autumn leaves falling to the ground like feathers of the wings of a seraph, and on the blue skies beyond them. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes, but I close them off, because I know that the minute I start crying again, I won't be able to stop.

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The most dreaded moment arrives within minutes; I pull up to Veronica's yellow cape cod and let Macy get out to find her. Narrowing my eyes, I think about how ironic it's always been that the Lourdes' house is all yellow and sunny, complete with pink hydrangea bushes lining the siding and a butterfly bush sitting by the mailbox.

Watching Macy skip up the drive is like watching a melodrama through a Wes Anderson filter. When she reaches the front stoop, I think all three of us - Mor, Trevor, and I - are on the edge of our seats, if at least metaphorically.

Soon, Veronica is peeking her golden head out through the door. From where I'm sitting, I can see she's wearing a Red Sox cap, an Ashdown Football hoodie - much like one of my own -, lint-covered leggings, tall socks, and sandals. Her hair is down and messy, to the point that it's almost greasy. It's a jarring change from the thought-out outfit she wore to school today, but Macy doesn't look surprised.

They talk back and forth for a moment before both leer in our direction. I look away, but after all this time, Veronica has to recognize my car. I don't know how long it takes before my friend and frenemy make their way back to us. Now, after ducking inside to change, Veronica is wearing the clothes she wore to school today - an army jacket, camisole, and ripped black jeans - and her hair is up in a high ponytail.

Macy opens the door and crawls across the seat so that her lissome cheerleader body is fit between Trevor and Veronica. The latter frowns as she enters the car, and breathes in a strange tone, "Lila?"

"That's my name."

Even from here, I can smell her Victoria's Secret perfume. It's sickly sweet and falsely floral, just like her house. More calmly, she asks, "Who's your friend?"

"His name is Morgan." I don't look her in the eye as I say this. "He's from Montréal, and he's my cousin's best friend. My cousins are in town, and he decided to come along."

I almost expect her to go flat-out bitch and call him a freak, but all she does is raise her finely-shaped eyebrows. "Does he have some sort of disorder where his pupils overtake his iris and sclera?"

"No," Mor interrupts, before I can reply. Unlike me, he stares her straight in the eye, via the rearview mirror. "I'm severely goth. My eyes match my soul."

His French accent is surprisingly convincing. Veronica cocks her head slightly, then reaches out a slender hand. "Well then, Morgan," she says, "I'm Veronica Lourdes."

"Pleasure to meet you." Reluctantly, Mor shakes her hand, and she goes pale at his freezing touch. Some part of me smirks in self-satisfaction, though I know the reaper's coldness will only polarize our passengers more.

Said reaper side-eyes me as he turns back around and discreetly wipes his hand on the seat. For the first time today, I almost feel a laugh rise in my throat.

"It's unexpected for you to invite me anywhere," Veronica says to me, though she's peering at Mor. Swallowing hard, she continues, "I'm surprised, Lila. Is this some sort of peace treaty?"

Trevor coughs awkwardly.

All I say is, "I didn't invite you, Veronica. I invited Macy and she invited you. If I can bring Mor, than Macy can bring whoever she wants."

"Yep, and thank you for that!" Macy exclaims, indeed as bad at lying as she promised. "You're very nice, Lila."

"Thank you, Macy," I reply, and I mean it, though only in gratitude for keeping Mor's identity secret. "Now, let's get this over with."

I begin to pull out of the driveway of 77 Fiddler's Elbow Road, and as I do, I catch Trevor's eyes in the rearview mirror. He gives me a look of understanding, some sort of unspoken I'm sorry for the situation you've gotten stuck in.

In response, I smile sadly. He doesn't know the half of it.

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It takes exactly 1 hour and 43 minutes for us to reach Lake Placid, New York, home of the 1980s winter Olympics and Miracle on Ice™. Despite our location, none of my friends had ever really been interested in hockey, aside from the spare argument over whether the Habs or the Bruins were better.

That whole scene was wisely left to the Snow Jackals, Ashdown's hockey team, which is comprised mostly of stoners with oily half-mullets and slack jaws that keep to themselves and their puck bunnies.

Still, even without the hockey history appeal, Lake Placid is a charming town. Mor, somehow, intrinsically knows the directions; he tells me where to turn and what streets to follow as Macy and Veronica debate the merits of New York state (Macy: It's pretty! / Veronica: It's BORING.) and Trevor interjects his own logical opinion every so often.

Before long, I find myself breaching the entrance to the fairgrounds. The festival is set up near the lake's beach, and from here you can see the surrounding orange and red foliage of the Adirondack mountains, towering over the valley like pyramids of fire.

The sun is bound to set fully within the next hour, but for now, it's slung low in the sky, it's gold blaze nearly blinding me as I park the car and we all step out.

"This is so beautiful," Macy says, her mouth widening just a little. "Like something out of a painting."

Smells of crisp leaves and cinnamon-roasted nuts and maple sugar bring the painting to life. It makes me think of what Ashdown used to be - beautiful. Just like Macy said.

Of course, like anything in this world, it mostly makes me think of Will. This is worsened when Trevor says, "It's been years since I've been through here. Not since 7th grade football camp, when we passed through here on the way to Buffalo. Glad to see it hasn't changed."

"I remember that," I murmur. "Will had the flu, so he couldn't go."

He was really disappointed by that. As obsessed with travel as he was, Will barely left Vermont. Whereas I've been as far south as Cuba - admittedly illegally, by way of Canada - Will only ever escaped the borders of New England to go to Québec or Niagara Falls.

Instead, he was forced to hang on to my every word as I described each aspect of my travels, mostly about my parents' homeland, from the sticky heat to the eternally sapphire skies.

Still, even though Lake Placid is practically just Ashdown's prettier older sister, I knew he would've enjoyed even a trip here. He savored his few vacations, as repetitive as they were, like sticks of maple taffy on snow: cold but sweet, and gone way too fast.

He would've loved this, I think to myself. You would've loved this. You still can.

I glance at Mor, standing on the other side of the car. He cocks the smallest smirk at me. At least I know I have him. And Macy - she's smiling at me, like always, and Trevor is giving me kind eyes, any of his hesitance dulled by my mention of Will.

The only one who's not looking at me is Veronica. She's busy staring in the direction of the hills, shielding her eyes with her manicured nails, her hair shining like bronze in the sun. Here, I can almost see a hint of normality in her eyes. Normality... and vulnerability.

You can do this, Lila. I take a deep  breath. This is your bucket list. You're meant to be living. If you can make up with both Macy and Kat, and get a starring role in the play, then you can make up with Veronica too.

So I close the car door behind me, and take a step forward into the sun.

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A/N: This is mostly just filler to keep the next chapter from being too long lol

I'm on vacation in Québec right now so it's hard to write much anyway. But I wholeheartedly recommend visiting Québec if you've never been here... even though it is -10 degrees Fahrenheit out...

xoxo, Athena

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