Few things terrified her more than saying, "I love you," but the thought of never seeing him again was worse than her fear that he might not feel the same.
She'd gladly spend the rest of her days cramped together with him in that stupid yellow bug, sharing food they'd lifted from convenience stores using the fake pregnancy bit. It worked every time, and was great for sympathy cash, too. Especially with couples past what she assumed to be her parents' ages. They'd smile sympathetic smiles at Emma's swollen belly and pull five dollars from their pockets and purses, sometimes ten—she'd gotten a fifty once, from a woman who'd been a teen mom and knew the struggles. Emma had felt guilty accepting it when she remembered she wasn't actually pregnant. It was easy to believe the lie sometimes, if she repeated it enough. Easy to wish it might someday come true…
Then her stomach rumbled with an ache that never really went away, simply lessened when she and Neal got a good enough haul that they didn't have to spread their rations too thin.
She would've endured those pains for as long as he asked her to. Hunger she could handle. But this?
He was talking about watches and Canada and leaving her alone.
So she told him—
Emma rolled over, wincing for the soreness in her limbs. For some reason every bail jumper she'd caught over the past two weeks had engaged her in a long-distance sprint before surrendering. What did she need with a gym membership when she could spend her days chasing criminals across Greater Boston?
Her legs were freezing, she could already sense the knot her hair had tied itself into, and there was a strong chance her eyes would remain forever bloodshot. She rubbed them free of sleep and sat up to discover that her blanket had abandoned her in the middle of the night.
"Traitor," she said to the jumbled heap on the floor.
Remembering to give the end table a wide berth, she shuffled toward the bathroom to wash up. The mirror paid her no compliments. Not that she expected to resemble a Disney princess first thing in the morning—after all, she was a long way from eighteen. But this was getting ridiculous. Her eyes were more than bloodshot. It seemed they couldn't make up their minds how best to advertise her lack of sleep to the world and had reached some sort of puffy/dark circle compromise.
She switched on the tap to wet her toothbrush, but the water only spat and sputtered before the faucet went dry. She turned the knob a few times, on and off and on again. Nothing.
"Fucking figures."
Her phone's vibration echoed through the quiet apartment and Emma glared at her reflection, knowing it could've only been one person.
—
She didn't bother making herself presentable—he'd seen her look worse. And even if he hadn't, what did it matter what her fairy godfather thought of her?
"For the last bloody time," Emma suppressed a smile at how hard he was working to rein in his irritation, "I am not now, nor have I ever been a fairy godfather."
"I don't know. You could be hiding a set of sparkly wings under those waistcoats."
"Swan. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Killian held the door open, stepping back to let her by.
"You texted me. Some kind of emergency?"
"Right." She followed him to his fridge, where he plucked a flyer from a helm-shaped magnet and handed it to her. "I may have exaggerated a bit, depending on your definition of emergency."
She wasn't even surprised at this point. She read over the page detailing a holiday Fall Festival later in the day, complete with hayrides and corn mazes for the kids. "You…want to go to the fair?"
Killian snatched the page from her grasp. "If you'll note here at the bottom," he pointed to a bold heading along the edge, bordered by pink and red hearts, "it says, 'and in the evening, an ideal setting to bring a special someone.'"
"You have got to be kidding me."
"I feel responsible for your latest romantic endeavors going amiss—"
"You should."
"—as it's my job—" He gave Emma a sidelong glance when her words registered. "It's my job to ensure these things don't happen, ergo, I've arranged for one of your many online candidates to meet you at this," he flicked the back of the flyer, "festive event. If…" he cut off her forming argument, "you're up for it. I'll not subject you to anything against your will. But I think it should be taken under advisement that chances like this don't come along every day."
"Yeah, it's more an annual thing." Emma smiled at Killian's mock-glare. If she was being honest, she was moved by his guilt over the tragedy that was her dating life. She almost felt guilty for calling him batshit crazy, even if that was just in her mind. "A date on Thanksgiving? You don't think that's a little desperate?"
"On the contrary, Swan. We're taking advantage of what could be a once in a lifetime opportunity."
"I didn't think they had carnivals this late in the year. Aren't they worried about the weather?" Emma skimmed the bullet points on the page as she considered the fallout of her next great mistake. "I don't know. The last couple guys you picked—"
"Were disasters, yes. There are bound to be a few rotten apples in the barrel—are you going to use that as an excuse to write off the whole lot?"
"You're really getting into this whole seasonal thing, aren't you?"
"Is that a no?"
Emma studied the flyer and then Killian. His earnest eyes dared her not to smile. "Fine. I'll go—on one condition."
—
Emma paced back and forth along the footpath, kicking pebbles into a small fissure in the earth and adding Killian's name to the list of people who would soon suffer her wrath. He must've caught her in a vulnerable attitude to have talked her into this.
She'd tracked down enough predators to know that most internet sites claiming the ability to find a person's one true soul mate were usually cesspools where the worst of the city's scum collected. And with the last two of Killian's prospects being no-shows, she really didn't see the night ending in her favor. But he'd gotten this puppy dog expression (that in no way melted her heart—if anything, there'd been a twinge of pity), and he just looked so eager to please that Emma's resolve crumbled and she gave him another chance. His last chance. If she got stood up again, Killian was going to give her the next week off.
She checked her phone again. Fifteen minutes past the hour. Forty-five past the designated time to meet.
Three dates in as many weeks. Three men who'd given up without even trying to get to know her. It was getting really hard not to take this personally.
With a deep breath—
Call it what it is, Emma.
With a heavy sigh, she took the first step back toward the main tent.
"Excuse me?" Something brushed her shoulder and she turned around. The man removed his hand and rubbed small circles in his palm with the opposite thumb. He was handsome, early thirties if she had to guess. Dark hair, green eyes. Shy smile. "Are you Emma?"
—
Ethan, it turned out, was nothing like what she'd expected from a computer made match. He was witty, attentive, interesting, with no obvious signs of internet troll. He bought her hot cider after seeing an involuntary shiver, had offered his coat despite Emma having her own. And he made her smile, which was easier said than done most days.
He hadn't made excuses for being late—or, rather, he hadn't made exaggerated excuses, and the one he did offer was easily forgiven. Until that morning, Emma hadn't known that park existed either.
Ethan came from a large family, to say the least. He was the youngest of five kids—all girls except him—and this number was considered mild compared to his aunt and uncle's "virtual litter." He was Boston born and raised. Parents divorced but amicable. The entire family still got together for birthdays and barbeques, and it was as though nothing had changed from when he was growing up.
"What about you?"
This was the part she always dreaded about meeting new people, even if she'd learned to check her emotions when she said, "No family that I know of."
"Friends?"
Her automatic response died on her tongue. The one that'd become so ingrained that it was just another fact of life. In the same category as date of birth and social security number. First name, last name, job description—friends? Not since she was seventeen. She glanced over her shoulder, loath to admit that this had changed, even just for the benefit of present company.
He hesitated, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth as the minutes ticked by, but he agreed to her terms. Eventually.
"Now that's settled," he said, "what time shall I expect you for dinner?"
"Dinner?"
"That is the official name for it, as I've come to understand, although it's sometimes consumed as early as midday."
"Are you inviting me to have Thanksgiving with you?"
"I guess I just assumed…" he scratched behind his ear, seeming nervous. "A great number of past clients hailed from the Land Without Magic, so whenever I'm here during this time of year, it's a privilege to partake in the tradition."
"Why do you keep calling it that?"
"What?"
"The Land Without Magic. Is it the only one?"
"Funny story." Killian crossed the kitchen, pulled two mugs from the cupboard above the coffeemaker, and poured each of them a steaming serving from the waiting carafe. "It's actually a misnomer." Returning to the fridge, he came back with Emma's preferred brand of creamer and added a respectable amount to the mug he refused to admit he'd bought for her, even though she was the only one to ever use it. She'd admired it at the coffeehouse one morning when he'd walked her to work, and the next day it was a part of his dining set. He added milk to his own mug and leaned against the counter to continue his tale. "This realm was once as plentiful as any other, but the thing about magic is that much of it is run on belief. The people around here, you may have noticed, are in short supply of blind faith. Scant traces of magic remain but are most often observed only by children." He smiled. "Adults are much too cynical for that sort of thing."
Emma sipped her coffee, regretting the turn she'd forced in the conversation. "If I'm going on a date, I need to use your shower."
"Something wrong with yours?"
"They had to shut off the water—some maintenance issue."
Not that they'd bothered to warn her. The horrible woman on the phone claimed there must've been a clerical error because she had record of a notice going out the week before, but the landlord wasn't exactly known for his professional integrity. Emma didn't trust him as far as she could throw him, and the same went for the members of his staff. All out to cover their own asses.
And how was she the only tenant affected by this supposed malfunction? Was there some kind of target on her back that only malicious forces could see?
"You are an unlucky one, aren't you?"
"Speaking of…" She had a feeling she'd regret this next turn, too, but that didn't stop her from asking, "Did you ever get around to that 'research' you mentioned?"
"Some." Killian took a long drink that made Emma wary. She knew a stall tactic when she saw one. "Still looking into a few things. The short answer is that the universe may be trying to balance itself out in preparation for your happy ending."
"Is that…normal?"
"Extremely rare, actually. It could simply be that yours is a Happily Ever After well worth the wait."
Emma went back to her coffee and Killian did the same. The universe balancing itself out? Throwing a little bad luck her way to make up for a happy ending that would trump all others? Sounded like bullshit made up so she'd feel better, but she appreciated the effort.
"We've been doing it again," he said later, as they sat opposite each other over a meal Emma would've thought impossible to put together by midday. She was going to have to rethink that word in relation to Killian Jones.
There was sparkling cider chilling in a bucket by the window, soft music wafting from well concealed speakers, and in the center of a table set for two was a modest candelabra—apparently Killian had a type when it came to lighting.
"Doing what?"
"Staying in. Excluding the 'date that shall not be named,' and this evening's scheduled venture, we've spent nigh on a fortnight holed up in either my apartment or yours—don't get me wrong, this world's take on performance art is unparalleled."
"I guess we have fallen into a rut." If binge watching shows while gorging themselves on takeout every night counted as a rut. In the last week or so, Emma noticed that they hadn't been as glued to the TV as they'd been in the beginning, and had instead lost themselves in conversation, swapping war stories, trying to one-up each other with dirty jokes—probably not her smartest move, going up against a pirate in that regard. "But to be fair, I never had this. Being shipped between foster homes growing up, living in my car. I like having the option of staying in." She shrugged, avoiding his gaze as she poked her fork at the mountain she'd made of her mashed potatoes.
When he didn't say anything, she looked up. The gleam was fleeting, and she only caught a glimpse before it was gone, but she would've sworn she'd seen empathy in his eyes.
"So, you and your brother, huh? Was it always just the two of you?"
"I never knew our mother, and our father hardly merits the mention."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He watched his fingers drum against the table, the sound muffled by his folded napkin. "Liam was thrust into a unique role at a young age. Forced to be both parent and sibling, and much later, Captain. I didn't always make it easy for him."
Whenever he talked about his brother—about Liam—something in Killian changed. It made Emma aware of how deeply he devoted himself to the few souls fortunate enough to call themselves loved ones. His affection, once given, was given forever.
The list of things he and Emma had in common was steadily growing.
"He sounds like a remarkable person," she said.
"He was."
"He sounds like you."
Killian's smile, though slight, though mildly disbelieving, was pure appreciation for the compliment. "You know, Swan." He leaned back in his seat. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you're starting to like me."
She tried not to sound too defeated when telling Ethan, "One friend."
As much as she grumbled, she'd come to look forward to their late dinners and early coffees and watching Killian discover new worlds of televised entertainment.
Not that she'd ever admit it to his face. His ego was healthy enough without her help.
"Are you guys close?"
She spotted him next to a booth selling pumpkin pie flavored cotton candy. He arched an inquisitive brow and Emma shook her head as subtly as she could. When he pointed to the concession stand one booth over that promised the traditional non-holiday inspired festival fare, she smiled.
"You could say that."
"Is this really necessary?"
"Yes. Now stop whining." Emma employed the reflective back of some kid's balloon to check the brim of her beanie for fly-aways. She wouldn't normally wear one on a date, even with the winter chill that was making an early appearance that year, but with the forecast calling for evening showers, she figured her hair was doomed either way. "Are you clear on the signal?"
"Aye."
"Good. Make yourself scarce." He went to lose himself in the crowd. "But not too scarce. If I get murdered, I'm coming back to haunt you."
His back was to her, but she liked to think that a smile accompanied the small shake of his head. Once this Ethan guy arrived, if he arrived, and Emma discerned whether or not he had homicidal intent, she'd find a way to discreetly tell Killian to steal home. Until that time, he was to maintain a wide perimeter, but not so wide that he couldn't intervene should the need arise.
"The close ones can sometimes feel like family," said Ethan. "In their own way."
I wouldn't know.
None of them had stuck around long enough to find out. A pattern she feared—a pattern she knew—wouldn't end with Killian. She thought of her promise not to get attached and took solace in the fact that it was hard to miss someone you couldn't remember. At the same time, she wondered about the permanence of her wish, once it was finalized. What happened after she made up her mind? After Killian left? Did his assurances really mean anything, or was this entire mess just an exercise in futility?
Maybe some people were meant to be alone. Could destiny really be overcome by a simple wish?
Her phone vibrated in her back pocket and she reached for it on instinct.
You okay? You look troubled.
Emma trained her eyes on the screen and not on the sender of this text. I'm fine. How's the corndog?
I don't hate it.
As they came upon the midway for the second time, Ethan told Emma to pick the most difficult game with the most extravagant prize and he'd win it for her.
She said, "Maybe I'll win it for you."
"Competitive." Ethan smiled. "I like it."
They walked side by side, keeping a comfortable distance, as they took inventory of their options. In the end, Emma didn't choose the most difficult game. She chose the one where the reward was a plush white swan that was the size of a small horse. First person to shoot three wooden turkeys in a row was the winner.
They stepped up to their marks, aimed, and just as Emma fired, she felt heat on the back of her neck.
One down on both sides.
They lifted their plastic shotguns to the ready positions and fired a second round, the same warm sensation running like a caress across Emma's skin.
Two down.
She took a deep breath, waited, and let Ethan shoot first.
A deafening buzz and a painted pop-up sign with the word "loser," in all caps.
Anticipation flooded Emma's veins, but she couldn't account for its intensity. Couldn't fathom why nervousness soon followed, lodging itself in her throat, tightening her grip on the toy weapon. The heat wasn't unfamiliar. She'd felt it when Ethan treated her to a soft pretzel outside the main tent, and again when they'd taken a turn on the carousel. She'd looked back at the ring toss to see if her mastery had gone unobserved, and he'd been waiting with a—dare she say impressed—smile and an approving nod.
The more she thought about it, the more she relished the idea of having an unbiased witness. Someone to share in a postmortem while they snacked on leftovers and caught up on the shows she'd set to his DVR.
It was the screech of sirens and the booth's lights flashing in the wake of her victory that sobered her to the lie she'd been feeding herself all evening. But it was the curiosity of what a certain watcher might think that made her realize her date was over before it began.
—
She found him at the Ferris wheel, leaning over a makeshift fence put in place to keep out animals and small children. He moved a paper cup between hands as he watched the circle of lights make another round. Emma stayed in the shadows longer than she'd intended, smiling at the sight, before making her approach.
"Have you ever tried it?"
"Can't say I have." His smile was faint as he made indentations in the surface of his cup, dragging downward with his thumbs to etch soft lines. "Where's Ethan?"
"Didn't work out." He clenched his jaw, already knowing the answer. "Hey," Emma rested her hand on his arm, where his gaze remained until she spoke again, "don't be so hard on yourself. We parted on good terms."
Ethan had been nice, there was no denying that much. A few years ago, or even a few months, he might've been exactly what she was looking for.
"An improvement over previous suitors, then?"
Emma smiled. She was pretty sure Killian used words like suitor and acquiesce and malfeasance just to mess with her. Not always, but there were times when she was feeling particularly pessimistic that he'd toss a four-syllable term her way simply to distract her.
"I got you something."
Killian took one look at the giant stuffed swan and said, "What the blazes am I to do with that?"
"Put it on your bed, hide it in your closet, leave it to your arch nemesis in your will—they don't really have a purpose."
Killian laughed. "Well, I'm glad the trip wasn't a total loss." He accepted the gift, tucked it under one arm, and held the other out to Emma. "Shall I walk you out?"
"Actually, I…thought we'd stay." She tried to keep the pity from her eyes when seeing the degree to which he was taken aback.
"You're the first client who's shown an interest in spending time with me…ever."
"I know how fun chaperone duty can be. I figured you might like to look around. Maybe check out some rides…"
Killian's interest piqued, his eyes drifting toward the Ferris wheel now at his back. "Count me in."
—
"Stop smiling," the artist repeated herself a third time. "Unless you want to leave here looking like a Picasso."
Emma forced her features to be serious, relaxed, smooth as the canvas they presently were. But it wasn't long before they were itching to rebel against the artist's instruction. She supposed it was her own fault for letting her gaze wander back to Killian, whose blatant amusement made him appear all the more adorable.
The imitation fur failed to mask the dark stubble along his jaw, the pink nose and painted whiskers that turned up with his smirk each chipping away at his overconfident air. All he needed to complete the transformation from brooding buccaneer to cuddly white rabbit was a pair of fluffy ears.
He'd taken his revenge, though, she could see it in his eyes, could feel it in every stroke of the painter's brush across her face.
They'd started their adventure at the Ferris wheel and had gone from there to higher risk attractions that were invented for the sole purpose, Emma was convinced, of testing the strength of a person's stomach. Every time she was sure they'd reached the end of the line, there'd be another ride and another, as though the fairgrounds were expanding as they went—until that morning, Emma hadn't known there were fairgrounds so close to her apartment. And as the night wore on, their surroundings appeared less like a tribute to the holiday they were meant to celebrate, and more like something that might run during warmer months. Eggnog and candied apples were traded for lemonade and banana splits.
She was weirded out at first, but her wonder at these things was forgotten as soon as Killian took her hand and led her deeper into the chaos. They'd raced go-karts and shot crossbows and gotten lost in the haunted house, moving around so much that Emma could scarcely catch her breath. At one point, she'd grown too warm for her coat and couldn't remember where she'd set it down.
"If you get cold, you can have mine," Killian had said.
Emma was just glad she'd kept her phone in her jeans.
She imagined this was what her teenage years were meant to feel like, the rush of mischief and adrenaline. Laughing too loudly, caring too little, stuffing her face with food she'd regret in her forties. Having a partner to high-five when games were won and to step in on each other's behalf when they weren't, and not giving up until they tasted triumph in the form of a clear plastic bag populated by a single sickly-looking goldfish.
"Rest assured," Killian had told his new pet—their new pet, he'd corrected, "you shall soon receive the proper accommodations."
The bumper cars were what finally did him in. He'd groaned while massaging his upper thigh and said, "I think you dislocated my hip." Emma had answered with, "Maybe we should've gone with something more age appropriate. I hear senior citizens get a discount at the monorail."
"Very funny, Swan." His hand worked its way higher as he limped toward the nearest park bench to sit down.
"All done," said the artist, reaching for a hand mirror to give Emma.
It seemed she and Killian would both be returning home with scruff, even if hers was counterfeit. The eyepatch and artificial scar made her every bit the fearsome pirate.
But Killian gave her a onceover as he rubbed at his chin, and said, "Something's missing."
His search of the face painter's booth came up empty and he left when something outside caught his interest. Emma paid the artist and followed Killian to a stall selling embellished hats. He rummaged through its bins until locating the item he had in mind, and held it up with a flourish.
"There," he said, placing it on Emma's head, "that's better. A hat befitting a captain."
Killian was less than pleased after Emma conducted her own search, but he matched her smile with his own when she secured the headband in place with a giggle, and adjusted the fluffy white ears.
He bowed his head in her direction. "Captain Swan."
Emma responded in kind. "Captain Cottontail."
"What do you say, Love?" He gestured to a photo booth just across the way. "A portrait to commemorate our new personas?"
—
They crammed into the space as best they could, Emma swearing under her breath about the damned things getting smaller every year. She was practically in Killian's lap by the time they found a comfortable position.
"Be mindful of Grandfather's hip, now," he said, which had Emma laughing well into the camera's second flash.
They switched the hat and headband for the third frame, tried and failed miserably to be serious for the fourth. And their high spirits had yet to die down even as they stood outside, waiting for their photos to print.
"What should we name him?" Emma looked to the plastic bag in Killian's hand.
"I thought it best to see if he survives the night. Does look a bit green around the gills, does he not?"
"I'd be surprised if he survives the hour." Turning her attention from the fish they'd probably have to flush once they got home, she saw a different booth in place of the one where they'd had their faces painted, and five more lined up alongside it. "Does it seem like there are more vendors than when we got here?"
Killian followed her gaze. "I suppose there are."
"Kind of late to just be setting up."
He looked at her but didn't say anything.
"What?"
He ran a hand along his jaw in that revealing way of his and Emma could sense the internal struggle. To tell or not to tell. She should probably caution him against playing poker, with all his nervous twitches. "Do you remember what I told you about magic being run on belief?"
She narrowed her eyes at him, not liking where this was going. "Yes…"
Instead of elaborating, he waited for her to draw her own conclusions. To connect the dots that were apparently obvious. She was about to ask him to skip the riddles, just this once, when something stirred in the back of her mind, turning like the key to a door she didn't want to unlock. She started to feel as unwell as their new pet looked when she thought back to the moment between rides. To the suspicion that something wasn't right. To the sense that, despite feeling off, it wasn't as strange as it should've been.
He continued with his slip of paper, which appeared to have increased in length in the span of ten seconds.
Emma blinked rapidly to clear her vision and commanded herself to keep it together. Paper didn't grow.
…in the months to come, she'd remember the instant the script glowed bright as flame and disappeared, the page following soon after, as its true defining moment.
She heard a sound like the snapping of fingers and then there was light again, softer than fluorescent, warmer—
"Are you trying to tell me none of this is real?"
"It's entirely real," said Killian. "Since when does the involvement of magic negate the natural laws? If anything, the two are mutually inclusive."
Oh, God.
She was right. He was delusional. Completely, certifiably batshit crazy.
"When was it you first noticed a change? I'd wager around the time you started to open up and enjoy yourself, for once."
"Enjoying myself isn't the same as believing in magic," Emma insisted, her voice sounding anxious in her own ears.
"Yes, but hope is its own brand of magic. Somewhere between the Ferris wheel and your second snow cone, you started to believe that the circumstances surrounding your life could one day improve, that maybe you aren't destined for a bitter and solitary end—and that, Swan, is a vital step forward. No matter how small it may seem. And because of it, the enchantment worked."
"Enchantment? Like a spell?"
He scrunched up his face, tilting his head to one side and then back. "We try to steer clear of the word spell—has a bit of a negative connotation in most lands."
The queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach worsened when she surveyed their surroundings. As though to prove Killian's insane theory, the fair seemed smaller in the aftermath of his explanation, less bright.
If he was crazy, what did it make Emma that she'd been hanging on his every word from the moment he arrived?
Thunder rolled in the distance and, as if by reflex, they both turned their eyes toward the sky. Dark clouds loomed above, moving fast. The first drop of rain coated Killian's cheek and Emma reached to wipe it away, realizing when he looked at her what an odd impulse it had been. The next drop landed on her nose, a third on the hand still touching Killian's face. She swallowed thickly for the expression staring back at her, and was almost grateful for the downpour that broke them of the quiet tension, as swift and as startling as the crack of lightning that came next.
"I take it that's our cue to leave."
Emma turned back for their photographs and secured the strip of black-and-white prints in Killian's jacket pocket, safe from the storm that would follow them home.
