Once, on a family trip to Boston, the Russakoffs had done a historical bus tour. Greta and Maggie had hoped it would be a haunted tour, but it had turned out to be a lot of shit about Pilgrims, the Founding Fathers, and patriotism, which their parents had enjoyed in the vague way of parents relieved to have someone—anyone—else briefly in charge, but had left the sisters cold. Bored and hungry, they’d begun a game of I Spy that quickly devolved into chaos as all the things they saw were gone by the time the guessing could commence.

Apparently they’d gotten louder than they’d realized, because the next thing Greta knew, her parents were hissing at them in embarrassment to sit down and be quiet. Greta and Adelaide had passed notes in silence after that.

Carys emerged from a doorway, and Greta’s breath caught. She wore a spangled black skirt, worn black Frye boots, and an openwork lavender shawl. Her hair was in a messy topknot, and she wore octagonal wire-rim glasses. Her lipstick was maroon, her luscious mouth curled in a mysterious smile.

“Good evening, y’all. Are you ready to explore the supernatural mysteries of the Crescent City?”

Murmurs of Yes and uncertain clapping commenced.

Greta wanted to show enthusiasm to help Carys, but the idea of making a sound in front of other people mortified her.

Carys, however, clearly had no need of her help. She went through a list of rules and then said, “Follow me, if you dare,” and turned to stride off into the French Quarter.

At the very last moment, she caught Greta’s eye and gave her a wink.

When Carys had texted her, inviting her to come on her tour and hang out afterward, Greta’s first response was relief. She’d woken the morning after they’d met wondering if it had all been a dream. Surely, that magical afternoon couldn’t have happened? She agonized over how soon was too soon to text Carys and try to see her again.

So when a text came from Carys the next night, she jumped on the invitation.

However, in preparation to come claim the ticket Carys had left for her, Greta had been a tumbleweed of nerves.

Her last date had been six months before—a dating app meetup at a bar on the mainland. It had been excruciating. The woman had been a few years older and asked pointed, derogatory questions about living on Owl Island and the lack of an active queer dating scene.

Greta had left feeling like the awkwardness was all her fault, since she’d admitted to not having had many girlfriends, and her date had said she didn’t feel a vibe but that she liked to “pay it forward,” so Greta could message her if she had any questions.

“Questions?” Greta had said. “Like…about you?”