The Enchantment of Emma Fletcher

by L. D. Crichton

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  For those searching for the power to slay your dragons. Believe.

  ONE

  Emma

  My Volkswagen whirs, hisses, and screeches before sputtering to a stop ten feet past the Stonefall town limits sign. I swear the car knows that this place is where dreams come to die and it can no longer stand to bear witness to the tragedy that is my life, so it gives up. I’m momentarily envious, wishing I could cease to function like the stupid car. If only things were that easy.

  The key clicks in the ignition and prompts more of the high-pitched squealing, followed by a plume of smoke from the rear of the car. Great. I instinctively slam my fist into the steering wheel, and the sting that follows shoots up my arm into my elbow. “Damn it!”

  Resigned to the fact that my car is a bitch, I retrieve my backpack and camera bag from the backseat and hitch them over my shoulders to begin a brisk walk against the wind. It bites at my cheeks and burns my skin, and it carries the scent of the salt from the ocean with it.

  The smell makes my stomach churn and I fight the desire to be sick. I don’t want to be here.

  The ground beneath my feet begins to shake, rumbling under the rubber soles of my shoes until the stench of exhaust replaces the salt that floats to my nose. I’m grateful, and when I turn to find its source, a large motorcycle is keeping pace beside my long strides. Two people are on it, and the driver doesn’t waste any time in cutting the engine and removing his helmet.

  I’d know him anywhere. His dark and brooding look is unmistakable and surely responsible for many a broken heart in Stonefall. Mateo Cruz is one half of the town’s best-looking guys. His best friend and polar opposite, Tristan Banks, is the other.

  I swallow the knot in my throat and issue a silent prayer to God, Ganesh, Zeus, and any other deity listening that Mateo won’t recognize me. I hope that I’ve changed enough to be forgotten. Invisible.

  He offers a smile, dimples punctuating each side of his face. The last few years have done him well, maturing his formerly boyish charm into something much more provocative. “Need a hand?”

  “No. Thank you, but I’m good.”

  “You don’t look so good, sweetheart.” He pauses. “Your car. That is.”

  His female passenger flips the visor to her helmet and glares at me.

  “I’m not the car, therefore, I am good. The car, not so much.” I keep walking and wish like hell he would move on and forget about me and my useless car.

  He chuckles, and his dark brows draw together. “Do I know you?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” The lie feels like fire on my lips.

  “Are you sure? You look familiar.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I pick up my pace, but he’s got one leg on either side of his bike and is walking beside me like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Gray clouds loom in the sky, cloaking us in a dreary darkness. He points at them. “Seriously, you’re a ways out from any kind of amenities. Let me call you a tow truck. A friend of mine has a garage—he’ll be here before you know it. I’d offer you a ride myself,” he continues, “but Darla here might be upset.” He removes a hand from the handlebars and runs it up the side of his passenger’s tanned leg.

  I force a tight smile. “I’m fine. Really. I can walk.”

  He shakes his head. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea. It looks like we’re in for a storm.”

  “I guess I’ll have to walk faster,” I say sharply.

  His eyes narrow even further and bore into the side of my face like lasers. “You remind me of someone,” he insists. “I swear I know you.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “You know what else I bet you get a lot?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Let me call you a tow truck. Do you get that a lot?”

  “Mateo, I don’t need a tow truck!” Fuck. His name is out of my mouth before I even realize what I’m saying. I bring my hands to hide my face and wish he’d just leave.

  “Ah-ha! I knew I knew you.”

  He leans closer, bursting the little bubble of personal space I’d worked hard to keep intact. He studies my face and his eyes travel down my body. “You look a little like this girl—” He stops short, choosing not to finish his thought. Instead his eyes fix on my left leg just above the knee, on the crescent-shaped scar he knows is there.

  It’s a war wound from the past. A terrible sandbox incident when we were six. We weren’t exactly the best of pals because I only spent my summers in Stonefall, but Mateo, his friend Tristan, and I had been well acquainted enough to share my little yellow pail and have sand-castle-making contests. I had just finished constructing the world’s best sand castle, fit for a princess, when I shuffled over so they could admire the detail in my drawbridge and a shard of glass embedded itself into my leg. I remember trying not to cry, wondering why there was glass in the sandbox in the first place. Tristan grabbed my hand and gave a reassuring squeeze while Mateo ran to get his mother because the whole town, including a six-year-old kid, knew better than to get mine.

  Mrs. Cruz took me to the hospital and offered words of comfort while they stitched me up. She gave me a peppermint candy from her purse after the ordeal, along with the one and only memory I have about what a mom is supposed to be like.

  I cross one leg over the other in an attempt to hide the scar. “Do you mind?”

  His eyes widen and the flash of recognition I’d been trying to avoid is suddenly there. For half a second, he looks devastated. “Emma?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Hey, Mateo.”

  “Why’d you lie, querida?”

  “I’m having a bad day.” Realistically, I’d been having a bad week, a bad month, a bad couple of years. I shrug my shoulders like the action can somehow make the fact that I’d denied knowing him any less significant.

  He smiles, satisfied with my answer. “Wow. You look so different. I barely recognized you. You haven’t been around in a few summers.”

  “That’s because I stopped coming.” I don’t volunteer any other information.

  “But you’re here now. How long are you back for?”

  “I’m leaving as soon as I can,” I tell him honestly.

  “Let me call Tristan. He works at his dad’s shop now. He’ll come get you with a tow.”

  “I can walk,” I insist. “I can’t really afford a tow truck.” I have nothing but my backpack, my camera, and the car itself. Maybe forty dollars in my wallet.

  “Don’t worry about it. He isn’t going to care.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone.

  “Please, Mateo.” I gear up to make one more attempt to quash his efforts to help me out, but I’m too tired to really argue.

  My plea fizzles as he punches a number into his phone and brings it to his ear. He doesn’t get an answer and redials immediately, this time successful in connecting with Tristan. He speaks quickly. Half in Spanish, half in English, and when he hangs up, he grins. “Well, you’re in luck. Tristan is on his way. Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes. Want us to wait with you?”

 
“No thanks. You’ve done enough.” I’m going to have to explain to Tristan that I can’t really afford the tow. As if being forced back to Stonefall isn’t humiliating enough.

  He pockets his cell phone and winks. “See you around, Emma Fletcher.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “See you later.”

  He puts his helmet on, jumps on the starter to his bike, and is gone. I kick at the asphalt with the open toe of my shoe while I wait. A sudden chill creeps up my spine and raises goose bumps along the surface of my skin. I’m about to chalk it up to the fact that I’ve been in town for all of ten minutes and have already been discovered until I realize the cause: the clouds have rolled in. A few seconds later, they open up the sky and the rain begins to pour.

  It can only go up from here.

  Tristan

  There is nothing hotter than a carburetor. The principle behind it is uncomplicated and makes sense. I like things that are uncomplicated and make sense. Things that come from a simpler time. I especially love this carburetor because it belongs in the ’57 Chevy owned by Jorge Papalangous, town historian and classic car junkie. The car is in mint condition and although it’s not as hot as the carburetor that belongs underneath its hood, it comes a close second.

  I’m screwing with the throttle valve when my cell phone vibrates and dances across the table where I’d set it down. The theme music from Jaws blasts through the speaker and I chuckle. Mateo hates it, a fact that cracks me up far more than it should. I ignore the call but when it rings a second time, I stop inspecting the carburetor to answer because Mateo will never call twice unless it’s important.

  I wipe the grease from my hands onto my jeans. “Yep?”

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey.”

  “You need to get in the tow truck and go to Oakview and Ninth, just after you come in from the interstate. There’s a car broken down, and I told the driver I’d call you. You’re welcome,” he adds, “for the business referral.”

  “I’ll send my dad,” I say. “I’m busy, and thanks for the business referral.”

  “No,” Mateo replies. He proceeds to tell me in Spanish that I’ll never believe who the driver is. A hot girl from our past. I roll my eyes, because it’s not like hot girls from our past are coming out of the woodwork; I mean, there aren’t that many of them in the first place.

  “Who is it?”

  He tells me in his native tongue to stop being so foolish and finishes in English. “Get your ass in the truck and get down here. It’s going to rain soon. You can’t leave a beautiful girl standing in the rain.”

  I loop my finger around the curtain and peer out the window. It’s overcast but still dry. “It’s not raining. And she’s beautiful? Really?”

  “Sí,” he says. “Trust me.”

  I do trust Mateo more than anyone, even my own mother. The guy has had my back since we were three. My mom found him lost and tearful at the mall, and I let him hold on to my GI Joe for the five minutes it took us to find his grateful mother. By then the bro bond was formed and it has been pretty much unbreakable ever since.

  My dad is in his office, slumped over a stack of bills. Dark circles ring his eyes, aging him and making him appear gaunt. He looks up when I enter, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah. Everything is fine. I’m taking the tow truck. There’s a vehicle stalled. I just wanted to let you know before I take off.”

  Dad nods. “Oh, okay. Good. That’s good.”

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “When are you going to hire someone? You should be out there with me.” I nod toward the garage. “Not in here balancing the books and pencil pushing.”

  “I put an ad in the paper. No response yet.” His head is down again, studying the papers in front of him, before he even finishes the sentence. I take the keys from the hook on the wall and make my way to the door.

  “Tristan.” He says my name as if it’s an afterthought.

  I turn. “Yeah?”

  “Be careful, son.”

  He tells me the same thing every single time I leave. Be careful. He says it so often that it’s like second nature to him and to me, I suppose. “Don’t worry, Pop, I will.”

  The rain patters on my windshield. It’s barely spitting at first, but the drops get progressively harder and louder until it’s pouring. Soon my wipers are going at a frantic pace to keep my line of vision clear.

  Any logical person would be waiting for the tow truck in their car, taking shelter from the rain, but not this girl. She’s standing beside a Volkswagen Beetle, which is hilarious because her legs go on forever. So maybe Mateo was right, maybe she’s as hot as molten lava, but I’m guessing she’s a little fucking crazy, too. I’d only ever known one girl with legs like that. But she was blond, and this girl has hair the color of melted chocolate.

  I park the truck and squint to get a better look. She’s wearing strappy sandals that add to her already commendable height, and cutoff denim shorts showcase the roasted-marshmallow color of her tan. A light pink top hugs her body and sticks to her skin, awarding me with a view of a flimsy purple bra underneath. Whoever she is, she’s sexy as hell.

  I’ll have to buy Mateo a beer.

  I tug the hood of my sweatshirt over my head and exit the truck before heading toward her at a hurried pace. When I see her face, I freeze for a beat. It’s her. Emma Fletcher—only a brunette version, with longer hair and tighter clothes. She’s lost a bit of weight, too. Hair color, new wardrobe, and weight aside, I’d recognize her anywhere because of her sad expression. That remains the same. It’s the most notable thing about her. Unforgettable. While her best friend, Marley, was the one always doing the talking, Emma hung back, like she was stuck in her own head, just waiting for someone to save her.

  It’s not like anyone could blame her. Her mother has a reputation in town for her drinking problem. I’m guessing this is why Emma didn’t grow up with us full time and was instead a part-time resident of Stonefall during the summers. Mama Fletcher could only handle her daughter in limited increments. Even then, she didn’t do such a bang-up job.

  I remember seeing Emma outside her house when she was little, playing in the humid summer heat long after most kids went to bed. I should have been in bed too, but I’d sneak out on our roof to look up at the stars and Emma would blaze into my vision like a comet. I remember when she was an awkward preteen wearing oversized T-shirts and drawstring pants to the beach. The last time I saw her, she was eighteen and trying to keep up with Marley, like every other teenage girl in Stonefall. That had been three summers ago. I had assumed that once she was legal and done with the obligatory joint-custody crap, she’d headed for college and a far better life. Emma had always fascinated me. She’d be here for the summer, bringing Marley to life more than any other time of year, and then, before the leaves even changed color and began to fall, she’d be gone. The way I’m staring rather than moving suggests that she still fascinates me.

  I force myself from my thoughts. “Emma Fletcher. Good to see you.”

  Emma nods but doesn’t say anything.

  Right then, I guess it’s going to be a super-warm reunion. I jam my thumb behind me in the direction of my truck. “Why don’t you get in the cab and stay warm while I hook this up?”

  It is too late for dry. Definitely no longer a valid part of our equation, and when I look at her T-shirt, that’s just fine by me. It’s work to tear my eyes away from her chest as she approaches me, cupping her hand over her mouth and leaning into my ear. She gets closer and I inhale. She smells like butterscotch and honey, and I want to bottle it for later.

  “I can’t afford this,” she says. “I asked Mateo not to call you.”

  Lucky for her, I’m not in the habit of leaving anyone stranded on the side of the road in the rain. “Don’t worry about it. Get i
n the truck.”

  She hangs her head down and I think she is going to walk around the vehicle, but she doesn’t. She squeezes past me and gets in on the driver’s side, shimmying across the bench seat. I finish hooking her car up to the truck and when I get in my seat, her arms are wrapped protectively around herself, her hair is soaked and plastered to her face, and her teeth are chattering.

  I crank up the heat. “You should have waited in your car.”

  She stares out the window. “I had other things on my mind.”

  “Fair enough.” She doesn’t say anything else, so I say, “When did you get back?”

  “Half hour ago.”

  “I thought you’d be in college or something by now.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Well, welcome home.”

  “This isn’t my home.” Her words are short and clipped. “Never will be.”

  She’s not making this easy. In fact, she’s borderline arctic, so instead of trying to move the nearly one-sided conversation forward, I drive.

  As I pull into the parking lot of Banks Auto, she’s rooting in her oversized backpack for something. She pulls out a handful of fabric, no doubt something dry to wear. “I’ll see if I can get some money, for the tow and to get the car fixed.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say.

  “Why wouldn’t I worry about it?” she snaps. “I need the car and have no money.”

  What the hell is her problem? “I’ll fix it, all right? Just don’t worry about it.” I want to get back to work because talking to her feels like having teeth pulled, but I was raised right so instead I say, “I can give you a ride home.”

  “No thanks,” she says. “Is there a bathroom I can use?”

  I nod and point to the door that separates the garage from the office. “Through there and to the left.” I’m about to move, but she doesn’t wait and for the second time today, she pushes past me, rubbing her chest against mine. Her nipples are rock hard, and I will be too if she doesn’t move it along. She disappears behind the door to the office and I have to adjust myself.