“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I say, suddenly more alert.
“Suit yourself,” he says, shrugging and taking another long draw from his flask.
Throwing him a sideways glance, we settle into a semi-awkward silence.
“So, what’s your name, anyway?” he asks, tipping his chin toward me.
I chew on my lip a moment, deciding what to say. I finally decide on, “Drusilla.”
It’s the first name to pop into my head from my mom’s favorite TV show. So lame, but in a sorta good, sorta dorky oh-my-god-I’m-not-gonna-ever-tell-my-Mom sorta way. It’s literally the only connection I’ve ever seen my mom have with anything supernatural, so I guess I have to take what I get.
The guy actually snorts.
“Yeah, okay. And my name’s Angel,” he laughs.
My eyebrows flick upward, surprised.
I mean, c’mon. My name could actually be Drusilla. The show is ancient enough. Besides, I think Mom even said she thought about it but decided she didn’t want to give me a complex about being named after a deranged vampire.
After a second, I tip my head. “Yep, I can totally see it. As long as it’s not Angelus, I think we’re five by five.”
“Ha—even quoting Faith. See, now I know it’s bunk,” he says, winking at me. “I knew I’d like you.”
I’ve never seen a wink actually pulled off before where it didn’t look like some sort of spasm—but damn, he does it. And it suits him.
“Figures you’d be a fan,” I chuckle despite myself and narrow my eyes. “How about this? I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“I have a better idea. How about we leave things as-is,” he says, a big, cheesy grin spreading across his lips.
“Hmmm… Trying to hide, are we?” I say, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Not at all. Just trying to honor the mystery. I mean, this is a small town. We’re bound to find out each other’s real names eventually. Right?”
I cross my legs and turn to face him.
“Deal. Nice to meet you, Angel,” I say, jutting out my hand.
“The pleasure is all mine, Drusilla,” he says, taking my hand in his as he kisses the top in an old-fashioned kind of gesture.
I snort under my breath as I pull it back. Despite being a dorky move, something about it breaks the ice between us.
“So, what are you doing here? Planning which graves to tip over?” I ask, lowering my eyebrows playfully.
Shock, with a hint of horror, flash across his features. “Absolutely not. That…you’re not planning on doing that. Are you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
He exhales slowly, clutching at his chest. “Thank goodness for that.”
“So, if not to tip graves, why are you here?” I ask. Not even my friends understand my fixation on this place, so I can’t help but want to know his reasoning.
His eyes lock with mine and for the briefest of moments, a wave of sadness consumes him.
I glance down at my hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s okay. I guess you could say I feel sorta drawn to the spirits here.”
When I look up, a faint smile graces his lips.
“Do you have family buried here?” I ask, looking around the space, as if somehow I’d know which ones are tied to him.
“You could say so, I guess,” he says, fiddling with the flask lid.
Pressing my lips tight, I divert my gaze to one of the older stones. The words are all but worn off, but there’s a certain elegance to the scrollwork and sculpture of the stone itself.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asks, his silver eyes watching me closely.
I shrug. “No, not really.”
Confusion flashes across his features. “Really? That’s surprising, actually.”
“Why?” I snicker.
“Well, you clearly like supernatural stuff. Ergo the Buffy references.” He looks over his shoulder, eyeing the headstones around us. “You’re here, in a graveyard, talking to…who was it? Charlotte?”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck as I glance back at the headstone. He was listening to my conversation with the headstone. Lovely.
“So, if you’re not here for the ghosts…why are you here?” he asks.
Swallowing hard, I weigh my words. “I guess because it’s the only place where silence reigns. I can think here.”
He chuckles softly. “Silence, huh?”
“Yeah, silence,” I say, smirking. “What else would you call it? It’s not exactly loud out here.”
“Depends on who you talk to.” He smirks, taking another swig from his flask.
I roll my eyes. “Oh boy. Let me guess, you’re a ghost hunter?”
“Not exactly,” he says with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “But I was meant to meet you tonight, Drusilla. I can feel it.”
Narrowing my gaze, I hold my hand out, and flick my fingertips. “All right, I changed my mind. Better give me a sip of that.”
Without a word, he holds out the flask.
Spinning the lid off, I press the cold metal to my lips and let the cool liquid splash over my tongue. Surprised, I pull back and sputter.
“What in the— Is this…is this flavored water?” I laugh, thrusting the flask back at him.
He grins like the Cheshire Cat.
“Maybe? Being a rebel doesn’t always have to mean rebelling with the bad stuff, right?” he says, shrugging sheepishly.
I shake my head, and a deep, boisterous laugh escapes. It feels good—really good. Things have been really heavy lately, and I didn’t realize just how much I needed a little bit of humor in my life.
“You’re so absurd,” I say.
“Look who’s talking. Absurd? Who says absurd anymore? What are you? A hundred years old? Did you just watch Titanic? That’s it isn’t it?” He laughs, pointing in my direction.
“No, I just like the word, smartass. Besides, not everything great comes from the TV,” I fire back at him.
“Oh, really? Where else then?” he says, quirking an eyebrow.
“Ever crack open a book?”
“Ever crack open a smile?” he retorts, then scrunches up his face. “Okay, that didn’t work as well as it sounded in my head.”
We both laugh and I reach for the
