Chapter Four #2
“Debatable,” she responds, breaking the word into multiple syllables so she can sing it. She slows to a stop near an ornate, evergreen wardrobe. I can see only the very top of her berry-pink hair.
“Remember to stand your ground!” she shouts. “Stop giving people refunds and stop letting them steamroll you!”
I pick up the music box again.
“I’ll do my best.”
I don’t intend to follow through. People have always pointed to my subdued nature as a weakness.
Every time I had to participate in a debate at law school, I’d get the same feedback.
Too timid. Gives in to external pressure.
Hesitation lessens the impact of argument.
Everyone expected more from the youngest York, a sentiment that has more or less followed me for the duration of my life. I’ve always been better on paper.
But there’s strength in picking your battles. I’m good at reading a room and setting my expectations accordingly. It’s a skill I perfected while growing up in a cold house with cold parents. Sometimes it’s best to make yourself as small as possible so you can go unnoticed.
Even if going unnoticed breaks your heart.
“I can’t imagine she was talking about you,” a familiar voice drawls from the other side of the countertop.
“Stand your ground?” He clicks his tongue.
“I didn’t think that was something you had trouble with.
” My head shoots up so fast my neck cricks in protest. It’s the so-called ghost man from my peppermint-drunk-concussion-addled dreams. He’s standing on the other side of my register, a cup of coffee in each hand.
Last night, I couldn’t make out his features, but I can see the details now.
Midnight blue eyes. Thick eyelashes. A nose that’s slightly crooked, like it’s been broken a time or two. Full lips that tug up slightly on one side. A thin white scar above his left eyebrow.
If he’s a ghost, he’s a handsome one.
“You,” I whisper.
“Me,” he says. Amusement makes the lines by his eyes deepen.
Two dimples wink to life in the scruff of his beard.
Fuck, my brain whispers.
He drops a coffee cup in front of me and braces one arm against the countertop. “Hello again, Harriet.”
The thermal he’s wearing is dark green and well-loved. There’s a small tear at the base of his neck. I study it instead of meeting his eyes. His throat strains with a swallow.
“I thought you were a figment of my imagination,” I whisper.
He grins in response and the dimples deepen, two divots in his cheeks.
Or the subject of a particularly indecent dream. He looks like the type of man from those old-school romance covers. The ones my aunt Matilda used to keep in a haphazard stack on her nightstand. He’s strong. Rough around the edges.
The dimples are an unfair—and frankly unnecessary—addition. “Nope.” He pops the end of the word, then nudges the coffee cup closer to me. “Here. I brought you this.”
“Did I fall down the steps again? Did I drink NyQuil?” Once I accidentally had too much cold medicine and thought there were dancing gophers on my windowsill.
I tried to call an exterminator. I’m sure that voicemail lives on in infamy.
They probably play it during their new employee orientation.
“Am I in a coma?” I ask in a whisper. “No. You’re not in a coma.
” He glances at the beautiful stained glass lantern hanging between us.
Aunt Matilda got it at an estate sale in Baltimore and then went on a bender, picking up about sixteen more.
They hang throughout the store at various, haphazard heights.
“Though these lights are pretty low. It’s entirely possible you smacked your head on one. ”
“Am I asleep?” I pinch the inside of my wrist again. “Did I take a hallucinogenic?”
“You’re conscious and unharmed.” He frowns at the red mark left on the inside of my wrist, then plucks the cup from the counter and dangles it in front of my face. “Drink your coffee.”
I frown at the cardboard cup, suspicious.
“It’s peppermint mocha, not arsenic.” He wiggles it back and forth. “Drink it.”
“I’m not sure I should take strange drinks from strange men.”
He drops the cup back to the counter. He swaps it with his. “Take mine then.”
“You drink coffee?”
He brings the peppermint mocha to his lips and takes a sip. His shoulders push up to his ears as he swallows with obvious difficulty. “I’d hardly categorize this as coffee.”
“But you said … you’re a ghost?”
Blue eyes slant to mine. “I am. Nice to see you do indeed remember our conversation.”
“Ghosts drink coffee?”
One of his dark eyebrows jumps up. “That’s what you’re choosing to fixate on?”
I nod. It’s either that or reevaluate everything I’ve ever known. I’m not sure I have the mental capacity to wrestle with the universe right now.
He scrubs his hand against the back of his head, then drags his palm down the line of his jaw. I can hear the way his scruff scrapes against his skin. It’s a middle-of-the-night sound, paired best with rustling sheets and bedroom whispers. Wind at the windows and hands tracing over sleep-warm skin.
I pinch the inside of my wrist so hard I suck in air through my teeth.
This is what happens when I don’t get proper sleep. My brain starts wandering down alleyways it has no business traveling. I start thinking inappropriately about ghosts.
“I drink coffee. I eat food,” my ghost says slowly, oblivious to my mental deterioration. “I sleep in a bed and I have a rather torrid love affair with Hot Tamales. I don’t need to do any of those things to exist as a spirit, but old habits are hard to break.”
“Habits from … when you were a human?”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re a ghost.”
“Yes,” he says again, more than a little exasperated. “Because I’m a ghost.”
“Hmm.”
His eyes narrow. “You told me you’d believe me if I came back.”
“Yes, well, I also thought you were an imaginary person. Dream bargains don’t count.”
“It wasn’t a dream.”
“Apparently not.” After a moment of hesitation, I reach for the coffee cup he’s not holding and take a sip. It’s a dark roast from Paula’s without any of the fun stuff. It tastes awful.
“Would you like your peppermint mocha back?” he asks, voice laced with more smug amusement than any man—living or dead— should possess.
“Ugh, yes please.” I practically throw his cup at him, reaching for the other with two hands. I guzzle at it like a greedy little goblin. It’s the perfect balance of sweet and rich, chocolate and peppermint exploding on my tongue.
He props himself up on his elbows, leaning up against my counter. He’s one long curve, his sleeves pushed up over his forearms. His hands are covered with scars. Thin white ones that overlap his knuckles.
“Better?” he asks.
“This coffee is much better, thank you.” My life, on the other hand, continues to spiral.
“Excellent. Shall we discuss the rest of this now?”
“Bold of you to assume I have any idea what this is,” I say under my breath.
Summoning my courage and suppressing the ten thousand questions ping-ponging around in my head, I shake my hair behind my shoulders, a stubborn strand or two caught in the collar of my sweater.
I try to corral it with my hands, struggling to contain the entirety of it.
It’s particularly out of control today, the dry, winter air infusing it with static.
Some days I try to shove it under a beanie or subdue it with a braid, but I was too tired after a restless night to do much of anything with it.
Now it’s letting its displeasure be known, probably rising above my head like a sea creature. I bet I look like Medusa.
I drop it with a sigh. There are bigger things to deal with than the state of my hair. Like the self-proclaimed ghost standing in front of me and his so-called soul-reckoning. I study him. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about him.
“Sasha is here,” I tell him abruptly.
He drags his eyes with obvious reluctance from my hair to my face. “Who?”
“My store manager. She’s here. If she comes out, she’s going to see me talking to no one and probably check me into one of those special spa clinics.”
He hides his smile behind the lid of his motor oil disguised as coffee. “People can see me, Harriet.”
“They can?”
He nods. “They see, but they don’t remember. Ghosts skirt around the edges of your consciousness.”
“Yeah, right.” I snort. It bursts right out of me without permission or thought.
His blue eyes turn sharp, curiosity burning cobalt. “What is that supposed to mean?”
I gesture at his overall person while my cheeks burn hot. The scruff. The jaw. The hair. The … forearms. The almost-mustache. Didn’t think that would do it for me, yet here we are. “You’re telling me people don’t notice you?”
A smile hooks the corner of his mouth. It’s almost as devastating as the dimples. “Flirting won’t win you any favors, Harriet.”
“I’m not flirting,” I tell the top of my coffee cup.
His eyes crinkle at the corners.
“I’m not.”
“Aye, all right.” He laughs. He takes another long sip from his coffee, then scratches at his jaw. His gaze turns thoughtful. “Have you ever gotten goose bumps for no reason? Been in a room and felt like there was someone there with you?”
My breath catches. Sometimes when I’m here by myself, I swear I can hear a low voice in the back corner humming the chorus of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.
” The floorboards creak with the pattern of footsteps I know by heart and I expect Aunt Matilda to emerge from an aisle with a wind chime or a ring plate, proudly showing off her latest treasure.
“Sometimes,” I croak.
He takes another pull from his coffee. “Probably a ghost nearby. You feel it, even if you don’t understand it.
Children can usually tell better than adults.
” He pauses and tilts his head to the side, thinking.
It’s a painfully human gesture. Entirely earnest. “Cats, too,” he adds with a small smile.
“Cats?”
He nods. “Cats can always tell when there’s a ghost.”