Page 25 of Such Sharp Teeth

“What time did this start?” I ask Scarlett.

She shrugs. “Six?”

“Six?” I ask, incredulous. “Are we parties-start-at-six years old?”

“Don’t,” she says, lifting a single finger to me before opening the door.

I have a quick vision of her performing this gesture with her kid someday. The stone-cold single-finger “Don’t.” I know she’ll be a good mother. Better than ours was.

We step inside and are met with a blast of hot air and pumpkin-scented something. There are a lot of smells at play here, but it’s really the pumpkin that’s king smell.

In the foyer, there are two men dressed in those plasticky dinosaur suits and a woman dressed as a cave person, or maybe one of the Flintstones. I’m not sure. They smile politely to acknowledge us and return to their conversation.

I look at Scarlett. “Do you know any of these people?”

“I know a few of Ash’s friends from these parties.”

“Amazing she has other friends besides us,” I say. “The nerve.”

Scarlett nods in agreement. She takes my wrist. “I’m starving. Let’s get food.”

We push through the crowd to get to the kitchen, where there’s an incredible amount of food. I’ve never seen so many Crock-Pots in the same place. I count nine Crock-Pots. Nine! There are little pumpkin place cards in front of each identifying what’s in their respective pot—a variety of meatballs, sausage and peppers, pumpkin chili. There’s a folding table covered in a Halloween-themed tablecloth that has an assortment of dips and platters with mummy hot dogs and mini pizzas shaped like ghosts with black peppercorn eyes. There’s guacamole in a cauldron surrounded by purple corn chips.

The dessert table is equally impressive, but I’m more interested in the makeshift bar Seth has set up outside on the deck, where he appears to be serving Halloween-themed cocktails dressed as Gomez Addams.

“I’m going to get a drink,” I tell Scarlett.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll make us plates and meet you outside.”

There are lights strung up on the deck. A few cocktail tables are arranged around a heat lamp. They’re covered in plastic cloths with fake flickering tea lights and real tiny pumpkins. I walk over to Seth, who I can tell is confused by my costume.

“You look . . .” he starts.

“Ridiculous,” I say. “Scarlett picked it. I’m being a good sport.”

“You look good, I was going to say.”

“Don’t lie to me, Gomez.” I set the bottle of Stoli on the bar. “For you.”

“Salted Karamel. Nice,” he says. “You want this? I’ve got a special menu.”

He points to a small chalkboard on the corner of the bar. In Ash’s perfect script it reads, Dracula’s Blood Orange Spritzer, Poison Apple Bourbon, Black Magic Margarita.

“The bourbon one, please,” I say. “What’s in it?”

“Jim Beam Apple, ginger beer, dash of cider, and a cinnamon stick.”

“Do I have to tip you?” I ask as he mixes my drink.

“No, but you could respond when I text you.”

He’s reached out a few times about how I’m healing, and I’ve either ignored him or replied using only random assortments of emojis.

“I’m fine, Seth,” I say. “A mere flesh wound.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I don’t want to think about it, all right?”