Chapter 11
Lanston
Ophelia looksaround the group circle nervously. Her fists are clenched over her knees and she bounces her left leg while we wait for the last few phantoms to show up. Jericho smiles placidly and nods as they take their seats.
I lean back in the simple plastic chair, staring at Ophelia from across the room.
It’s unfair to compare this moment to Wynn, but when I stare at Ophelia I see such different things than I did with my lovely Coldfox. Now, I see a woman who is desperate to keep up the farce of being fine. She hides her scars well, but they are there, unscathed and rotting beneath the surface.
Her eyes lift to mine and I offer her a reassuring smile.
Jericho crosses his legs, revealing his black socks that match his suit. He adjusts his glasses as he looks at Ophelia. “Everyone, today we have a new phantom here with us, one you might recognize if you’ve gone to her shows, Miss Ophelia Rosin.”
She dips her head as everyone gives an unenthusiastic “hello.”
“Miss Rosin, we like to start these by stating how long we’ve been dead and why we think we’re still here. Care to start us off?” Jericho sets his clipboard across his lap and looks expectantly at her.
For a moment, I think she’ll decline, but she surprises me, lifting her chin and straightening her back.
“I’ve been dead for ten years and I’m still here because I’m not ready to leave. I want to dance; it’s been my dream ever since I was a child.” She pauses and looks at each and every face in the circle before coming across mine. Her brown-green eyes soften and she says quietly, “I still have so much to give to the world. I want them to know who I am.”
“Want who to know? A living person?” Jericho pries.
“Just one person will do. A stranger who will often think of me for any reason other than how I died,” she replies with a severe tone. Her brows are pulled tightly together but her lower lip threatens to quiver.
An awkward silence follows and Ophelia takes notice of it. She took a big leap coming here to be vulnerable, and I can see the regret beginning to etch her frown.
She’s in denial of her death.
Fuck, we all are, but she’s convinced herself that she can still give parts of herself to the living world. A knot forms in my stomach with the sadness that thought holds.
Jericho clears his throat and says, “Surely you know that’s not possible.”
Ophelia schools her expression into one that’s cold and emotionless as she callously questions, “Not possible, how?”
The counselor’s face twists with anguish. “Miss Rosin, because you are dead.”
“So? Have my performances not affected you in some way, however small it may be? You said it yourself—you’ve been to my shows for the last five years now.” She shrugs and a few heads nod. Yelina and Poppie shoot me a look. They look perplexed that she’s here. I lift a shoulder. If they’re wondering how I got her to follow me here, I don’t have an answer. Sheer luck.
Poppie clears her throat, her voice small and nervous. “Watching you perform has become a beacon of hope for me.” Jericho looks at her and his face turns thoughtful. “The way you embrace your existence here so entirely, well, it’s beautiful.”
Ophelia looks shocked and then smiles. I’m entranced by it. “I might look like I’m embracing it well, but I’m afraid I only hide the sadness in my heart better than most.” Her eyes dull as she clenches her hands together over her lap. This is hard for her—it’s always hard the first time in a group session.
But there’s something to be said for deciding to be so abrasive and outwardly strong, all just to soothe those around you. She suffers inside, like a diseased plant, rotting from the roots—the decay isn’t visible on the surface, not at first. But it’s such a slow, tragic way to let yourself die.
I want to console her. To know all her hidden demons and wrap her in my arms until the darkness leaves us. We’ll banish the shadows that seek us together if we must.
Voices mumble around me, but I’m deep in thought, letting my mind ponder what she could be caging behind that lovely smile. She’s a puzzle; her smile could convince anyone. The way she dances and feels the music could trick any observer.
“Nevers.”
I snap my head up. The thoughts in my head are silenced instantly. “Huh?”
Jericho levels me that concerned look he’s been giving me for years now. He worries about my drifting focus, everyone does. “I said it’s your turn. Have you thought more about why you’re still here?”
My back straightens and I shove my hands into my coat pockets. “Right, sorry about that. I still think it has to do with… well, you know, dying so unfairly. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the day, not knowing how much time has passed or what day it is.” I trail off, holding back what I really want to say, but I feel so guilty for even thinking it. I should be with them, the three of us. Why did I have to die?
I’m happy it was me and not either of them, but the sadness and loneliness are too much to bear.
My eyes falter and I glance up at Ophelia. Her rosy cheeks and full lips set an ache in my chest. I don’t want to say this in front of her, but I want to be genuine, and I’m not fucking perfect. None of us are.
We are all ruined in some way, bruised and scarred. But those are the parts I love the most in others, so I want her to see mine too. Love isn’t conditional. The broken pieces of us should be where we start, not what we inevitably dig up after years of peeling back layers, only to be tired and skeptical.
“I think I’m still here because there are things I haven’t gotten to do and experience. I never got to be completely selfish and do what I wanted. There are pieces of me out there I haven’t found yet, but I want to. There are things people owe me.”
Ophelia’s eyes widen on me and a flicker of hope crosses them, like she’s never heard someone be so honest. She leans forward in her chair as if she’s clinging to my words. I can almost see the idea lighting her eyes—the bucket list.
“I want a goddamn apology from the people who hurt me,” I say in a low tone; the pain that spreads across my chest is nothing short of agony. I clench my fingers tightly together. “Is that so much to ask for? I’m sorry. I love you. I’m proud of you. Why? Why won’t they say it? Just once would be enough, even if it’s a whisper. I–I just…” The knot in my throat grows and I try swallowing it several times to no avail.
“You’re angry.”
The voice is hers—ethereal and void of emotion.
I blink past the tears forming, looking at Ophelia with torment pulling my brows lower. The understanding and sympathy I find there is comforting, and the pain in my heart subsides a little.
I nod. “I’m so fucking angry. At so many people.”
Jericho looks between us. I see something I don’t quite recognize flash across his gaze, a realization of some sort.
“It seems the two of you have agendas outside the walls of Harlow Sanctum. Why not explore that? Why not together?” Jericho says smoothly. He’s leaned forward in his seat, elbow against knee, his hand covering his mouth as if he can see something of potential in us, as though he wishes to say more but thinks better of it.
Leaving Harlow has always been an option, but this is my home. While the paranormal world is daunting, when I think of doing it with a partner it doesn’t seem so bad. The bucket list… it didn’t seem like a viable option when I thought of doing the things on it alone, but when I think of the two of us on this adventure… my eyes widen and an ache grows in my chest. My consciousness whispers “Go. Take her hand and never look back.”
I meet her gaze and it’s as if the world has faded around us. It’s only us and the chairs we sit on, staring at one another, a dream growing in my heart. Ophelia looks troubled at the light in my eyes and that dashes those short-lived dreams swiftly.
The room comes back into focus.
After neither of us says anything, Jericho nods knowingly and moves on to the next person. The mumbling starts around me again and I let the fuzzy sounds soften the intrusive thoughts in my head.
I know I shouldn’t be triggered by just a look. She didn’t do anything wrong. I understand that the thoughts and emotions that well up within me are irrational and stupid. But they are still here existing as horribly as they always have. I just want to not think anymore. To be free of the torment of my own doing.
Can a ghost be suicidal? I still think about it often: the urge to leave.
I rub my forefinger and thumb anxiously over the sleeve of my sweater.
That lingering desire to die is still deep inside me, clawing, ebbing. I didn’t understand for a long time, but I think I do now. It’s that I want to feel nothing.
To be nothing.
“You were never meant to exist.” Is that where it began? The callous words spoken so cruelly by my father. How long have I yearned to make him proud? I can’t bring myself to visit him. He didn’t even speak or shed a tear at my funeral. Does he pray for me? That I found peace?
That makes me laugh.
Godless men don’t pray, not even for their sons.
The courtyard and field beyond have never looked greener. The cloud cover is low, pressed against the evergreens in the distance and in the branches of the forest. The stones of Harlow are slick and glossy. Moss and fresh blooms add color to the institute, though I’m not quite sure it reaches all the way inside the music room today.
I hold my arms at the elbows, firmly against my chest as I peer around the room. I refuse to admit that I’m still uneasy about ghosts. Just because you’ve become one doesn’t make the unknown any less frightening.
“What did the other phantoms say about this room that made them suspicious?” Ophelia eagerly asks. Her hair is tied back into a ponytail, a few curly purple strands line her face. She turns to glance at me and shoots me a ridiculous grin. “Oh, come on, scaredy-cat.”
I glower but lower my arms so I don’t look so guarded.
It took her a few hours to decompress after the group session. But now she’s back to her normal self, or she’s just really good at pretending.
“Are you sure you want to hear them? They’re quite frightening,” I say darkly. Curiosity blooms across her features.
“Yes, tell me.”
“I’ll warn you, you’ll be too scared to sleep alone.”
She laughs and plops down on the floral print sofa in the center of the room. “Try me,” she dares and pats the spot beside her.
I grin and take the seat. Ophelia pulls her legs up and ignores the fact that she’s in a dress. It takes great focus to keep my eyes from straying from her face.
“Well? Go on,” she urges me.
I clear my throat. “As many as fifteen current residents of Harlow Sanctum have claimed to have heard or seen odd and frightening things in this very room.” I use my storytelling voice and regardless of her efforts, the corners of her lips pull up at the ends. “Sometimes it’s a hushed cry in the cover of night, other times a slam on the keys of the piano. One claimed to see a man running from one end of the room to the other in madness. But it’s the sound of the door creaking open all throughout the night that most have heard, the pitter-patter of cold lifeless feet across the corridors and always, always leading back to this room.”
Ophelia’s eyes are wide with attention and I don’t miss her shallow gulp.
“What do you think? Is there a phantom trying to stir the pot here?”
She looks around warily as if she’s now aware of the dimness of the room. The rain that ominously ticks against the window in rhythmic patterns. Her eyes draw back to me and I crack a wide grin.
“Who’s the scaredy-cat now?” I taunt her.
Her laughter is instant and she leans forward and pushes me back. I follow the motion, letting my body fall backward onto the sofa. My baseball cap falls off the edge. I stare at the ceiling and chuckle with her.
Ophelia’s hands land on either side of my head as she moves over me. Her body doesn’t touch mine but she’s so close that the heat rolls off her skin and mixes with mine.
“I think you made the entire thing up just to freak me out,” she says surely.
My lip twitches. I wish I were making it up.
“Sorry, Miss Rosin, I’m afraid I’m not,” I say as I lean up on my elbows. She sits back on her haunches, I rise with her and am not aloof to our shoulders touching.
We face the large bay windows looking toward the mountains and thick line of trees, clouds growing angry with the promise of rain. I inhale and catch her scent of roses again. It’s subtle, bare.
“Miss Rosin was my asshole stepmother. Call me Ophelia,” she tuts, and I can hear the ire in her tone. Though the glance she shoots me is playful and teasing.
I force my eyes back to the forest and clouds, not looking away from the window as I reply, “Okay. Ophelia it is.”
A pause.
“Or, rose. I… don’t mind being called a rose if you prefer nicknames.” There’s a vulnerability in her tone. I turn my attention to her, looking so small beside me.
Her eyes trail up to meet mine and neither of us speaks. Our cheeks are both flushed and before I can open my mouth to say anything, the floorboards behind the sofa creak.
Both of our heads snap back. The air is colder than it was a second ago, but there’s nobody there.
We look at each other and both stand as if on cue and walk straight out of the room. The second we’re in the hallway, Ophelia bursts into laughter and scares the shit out of me. She takes off running down the hall toward the dorm wing and I hurry to follow her.
“Why are you laughing?” I call after her, laughing too, even though I’m terrified.
She shouts back, “Because what the fuck was that?” I grin at that. She laughs when she’s scared.
We don’t stop running until we’re back in the safety of my room. I block the door with one of my flimsy ass dining chairs before collapsing to the floor and taking deep breaths.
“What are the chances that some phantoms are invisible and can pull pranks?” I huff out between breaths.
Ophelia giggles. “Probably as much a chance as there is for me to have a cloud of whispering darkness following me?”
Our heads brush and we turn toward the connection, our gazes meeting. This close, I can make out each strand of her hair, every lift and dip of her lips. Her eyes are soft and daring, making my cheeks burn.
“I forgot my hat,” I blurt out to break the trance she puts me in. I fear if I don’t, I’ll do something stupid.
“No,” she says sardonically.
I restrain myself from reaching up and brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“In the morning then?” I laugh, because we’re cowards.
She nods and sits up. “In the morning. When our heads are clearer.”
“You going to be able to sleep alone tonight, my rose?” I jest and don’t expect her to turn and look over her shoulder at me. But she does. Her eyes are drawn low and filled with desire.
Did I just say my rose? My worrying is for naught, as she disregards it completely.
“I don’t think I can. Not after a scare like that,” she says carefully, studying my features for hints of where my head’s at.
My stomach warms and I swallow hard.
“I can put a movie in and whip up some popcorn if you’d like?” I stand and offer her a hand up. She takes it and smiles suspiciously at me.
“What kind of man are you, Lanston Nevers?” She asks as she makes her way to the wall with the microwave and coffee bar. Opening cabinets until she finds a bag of popcorn and prepares it.
What kind of man am I? Is that a physiological question or a simple one? Like when an interviewer asks you, “What’s your biggest weakness?” Yeah, because normal people know how to answer questions like that. So I go with my gut.
“I’m a man who never gets what he wants but smiles anyway.” I turn on the TV and pull out my bag of DVDs. Slasher and horror films are off the table, so I flip to the section with drama and find one.
The microwave beeps and Ophelia dumps the popcorn into a big bowl we can share. “Why?”
I press play and turn to look at her. “Why what?”
“Why do you continue to smile anyway?” She sets the popcorn down on my bed and walks to her side of the room, lifting her dress up over her head.
My brain stops working.
Heat flares across my cheeks and I sharply look away. “Ophelia! What are you doing?” She chuckles and I’m tempted to turn and look just to see her smile.
“Answer the question. Why do you smile anyway?”
I can hear her rustling through my closet. It’s a miracle I can even focus enough to muster words. “Um, right. Well, I just figure that if I keep smiling, at least people will think I’m happy. It’s better than looking miserable like my father.” I pause and tighten my fists at my side. Shit, I should’ve kept that last part to myself.
“And are you?”
I turn, forgetting why I wasn’t looking at her in the first place. Her hair is let down and she’s wearing my heather-gray T-shirt. It comes down to her midthigh and I swear to God she’s testing me. I’ve dreamed of having a girlfriend wear my shirt to bed—I shake the thought.
“Am I what?” My voice is low.
“Miserable.”
Am I miserable? I have to take a moment to ponder it.
“No.” I close the distance between us with a few strides. Her jaw tightens as I stop before her, a breath away. “At least not for the last twenty-four hours.” My brows pinch together as I stare down at her.
“Can I tell you a secret?” She whispers.
“Shoot.”
“I haven’t been miserable since meeting you either.”