I feel Anna relax beside me and I let out a breath. Although I’m relieved, the idea of waiting longer makes my insides squirm.

“We should enjoy the party while we can, then.” Anna pulls me into the throng.

I’ve never seen someone navigate a crowd so expertly. Anna moves with the flexibility of a snake, winding through people until we reach the other side and step out onto the porch.

The back of the house looks as magnificent as the rest. There are even more lights and paper lanterns out here, scattered throughout the grass and hanging from the deck railing. There are bonfires going in several of the pits off to the side, and Anna leads me toward them.

“Is there food in this direction?” I ask, noting a table with scraps of paper and pens on the edge of the largest pit. There’s another one on the other side that looks as if it might have something edible. Max groans as if to second my question.

“I hope so.”

After filling plates with food, we sit down at the table with the paper and pens and slide our masks off to eat.

“You write something you want to be rid of on the paper, like an old habit, and then you drop it in the fire,” Anna explains as she balances her plate in one hand and picks up a pen with the other. “It disappears in the flames.”

“Can I do more than one?” I ask. When she’s forced to look at me to check if I’m joking, I can’t hold back a smile. “One day you’ll accept that I can be funny too,” I tell her, setting down my plate to pick up a pen and slip of paper.

Anna snorts quietly and uses her body to shield her paper from view. “I think we need to work on your definition of funny first.”

“Right. I’ll just put ‘bad jokes’ down on here, then.” This time she actually laughs.

It takes me a moment to decide what to write down. Finally I scribble Loneliness down on the paper and fold it in half. We toss the pieces into the fire, watching and eating our food as the flames grab hold and turn the notes to ash.

Chapter 25: Anna

The tradition of throwing papers into the bonfire is my favorite. Despite how simple it seems to write something down and toss it into the flames, the action feels big. It’s similar to making a New Year’s resolution, but watching the paper burn is far more satisfying than making a promise to myself. This is like making a promise to something bigger than me instead.

I write a single word on mine: Loneliness. Then I toss it in the fire.

“I suppose we can’t tell each other what we wrote?” Colin asks. The firelight makes his pale skin glow.

I grin. “Nope.”