Page 81 of Devils' Day Party
“My eyes are killing me. Explain.” He rests his elbows on his knees, watching me with trepidation and unease, like he isn't certain I'm not about to pepper spray him again. There's a bit of betrayal in his eyes, too, like I let him down tonight.
“You and Raz and Calix were planning on taking me to the cabin in the morning, the treehouse cabin where Calix and I slept together last year. Sonja and Luke were there, and you were going to surprise me with that. Today, you decided not to do it, but that's not always true. Some days, you do. And then you come and get me from the cabin after dark, lead me into the crevice in the woods with all the butterflies. We kiss, and then you run off after telling me that I'd prefer a male butterfly trapped in resin because I'd never accept a fairytale where the female was trapped like that.”
Barron stares back at me with equal parts frustration and confusion.
“Karma, you've lost your mind,” he whispers, but there's a doubt there. Something about this is rubbing him the wrong way. “If you wanted to see my sketchbook, you could've asked.”
“And you'd have shown it to me?” I ask skeptically, raising my eyebrow. “Don't act like you would have.”
He says nothing, rising to his feet and then, reluctantly, holding out a hand. I place my gloved hand in his, and he pulls me to my feet. Our bodies are too close, and his face seems raw and exposed without the red devil mask. Even with his eyes red rimmed and swollen, Barron is remarkably handsome, just as much a devil as either Raz or Calix, but in a different way. He's like black and white, light and dark, a dichotomy of errors.
“Did Calix drive you here?” I ask and Barron shrugs one, large shoulder.
“Does it matter if I have his keys?” he replies, lifting a key fob out of his pocket with a single finger. We head over to the dented Aston Martin, and I slide into the front seat. Before we leave, Barron turns on the song “Shut Up” by New Years Day, and my heart lodges in my throat.
“This is my favorite band,” I tell him as he puts the car in reverse and then pauses to glance my way. He says nothing though, taking us back down the drive and pausing to get our phones at the gate.
Part of me wants to ask where we're going, the rest doesn't dare. I decide to lean back and enjoy the ride, surprised when we end up at Thorncrown Chapel, the glass and wood church near Eureka Springs.
“There's a lock-in here tonight,” I say, but Barron just shakes his head as we pause at the bottom of the driveway, just in front of a chain that's hung across the road. The sign reads Closed.
“There was supposed to be, but nobody showed up. By eleven, they decided to cancel, and everyone went home.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, my heart thundering as I consider the possibility that Barron is on a time loop of his own. But of course not.
“My parents are friends with the owner of the chapel.” Just that, a succinct response. Barron sneaks a honey-colored sucker from a bag between the front seats, and then climbs out, tearing the wrapper off and sticking it in his pocket as he goes. He slips the sucker between his lips, and then bends down to unlock the bolt on the chain with a key.
It seems that Barron has keys to everything.
He gets back in the car and drives us the rest of the way up the hill. We park and climb out into the moonlight, Barron's rainbow-colored hair impressive in the ambient silver glow. He pauses to slip into the detached bathroom to wash his eyes while I stand at the end of the walkway and look up at the steep spires of Thorncrown Chapel with gently parted lips.
“Impressive,” I say as Barron pauses beside me, stray droplets of water catching on his lip. As I watch, he swipes his tongue across it to clear them away.
“Isn't it?” He takes off walking, his sketchbook tucked under his arm, the long, curled white tails of his coat bobbing across the ground as he moves, barefoot, to the door, and unlocks it. Tonight, I'm down for any challenge.
I follow after him and inside, to the rows of pews, the dais at the fair end, and the Jurassic-like ferns decorating the interior. All the lights are off, but we don't need them. The entire chapel is framed in wood, and the walls are glass. We can see the woods from in here, the moon, the stars.
“How did you get the keys to this place?” I ask, briefly surprised that the chapel hasn't already been broken into. I mean, it's Devils' Day for fuck's sake. But then I remember that Devil Springs is the only town in the world to officially acknowledge the holiday. The world's loss, I suppose.
