Chapter Eleven
Harriet
Nolan appears on my front porch three days later with a cup of coffee in his hand and an apologetic look on his face.
I’m not particularly inspired by either, and I ignore the doorbell when he presses it. I watch him through the camera instead as I continue to wash the figs I impulse bought at the market earlier in the morning.
I’ve decided I’m going to make my own damn jam. I should get something positive out of this whole ghost arrangement. The jam seems like the most likely candidate.
The jam wouldn’t yell at me in a closet.
The jam also wouldn’t ignore me for three days, even though he said he’d show. I’m starting to think that cat story was a load of baloney. In addition to every person who has ever been even moderately important to me, I’m being ghosted by a literal ghost. My life is a joke.
My phone pings with another alert, Nolan bracing himself with his hand against my doorframe.
Not that I care, but he looks frustrated in the tiny, grainy picture.
His hair is sticking up every which way and the collar of his flannel is twisted.
He looks like he hit a tornado on the way over here. Maybe a trash truck.
Good. He was an ass the last time I saw him. He should look worse, frankly. That curl of hair over his forehead is an insult. The shadow of his dimples is an atrocity.
He presses the doorbell again.
I ignore him some more.
“I could just appear in your kitchen, you know,” he says conversationally, his voice tinny through the speaker on my phone. He squints at me through the camera. “I’m trying to be nice.”
“You weren’t trying to be nice in my storage closet,” I say to myself, scrubbing one of my figs too hard and sending it bouncing around the inside of my sink.
I’m holding on to my frustration with a whiteknuckled grip.
I’m so tired of people treating me like I’m dispensable, like my feelings don’t matter.
That if the reality of me doesn’t line up with their expectations, I’m not worth their time or effort.
All I did was suggest an idea. I didn’t …
hold him hostage in the closet and demand he succumb to my whims. The entirety of my life, I’ve had to listen to people vocalize their disappointment at how I haven’t measured up.
I don’t need it from the undead, too.
“Harriet,” he tries again. His body is one long line in the middle of my front porch. He drops his head in defeat, like he can’t bear to hold himself up any longer. When he looks up again, his face is earnest.
I scoff. I bet he practiced that move in the mirror. I bet he spent twenty-two years doing nothing but that.
“Harriet,” he says again. “Open your door.”
I tap one soapy knuckle against my phone screen. “Give me one good reason I should let you in,” I say through the speaker.
“Well, I’m bo—”
“If you say you’re bound to me for the holiday season, I will—I will—” I’ll explode into tiny pieces of rage confetti in my kitchen. I’ll hurl one of these figs through my historically preserved windows. “I’ll do something unkind,” I finish.
I watch through the camera as an infuriating smirk tugs at the left side of his mouth. He should be shaking in his boots, not smiling. “And what does that entail, Harriet?”
“I won’t share any of the jam I’m making.”
His eyebrow jumps up in interest. “You’re making jam?”
“I am. And I won’t share it unless I get a sincere apology out of you.
” Some of the wind leaves my sails and I deflate.
I’m not very good at demanding things from people, even worse at holding my ground.
I’m usually the first to apologize, even if I don’t need to.
The only thing I hate more than constantly being underestimated and undervalued is making waves.
It scratches at the walls of my heart until I’m bending over backward to make sure everyone is okay.
“I understand I might have inadvertently touched on a sore spot with you, but you didn’t need to be rude,” I continue, still holding my finger to my phone. You didn’t need to hurt my feelings, I almost say. Not when I thought we might be friends.
“Can I come in? I want to see your face when I talk to you.” He straightens, holding a to-go cup in front of his face. “I brought you a peppermint drink.”
I drop the figs in the colander and shuffle my way to my front door, wiping my hands on my pajama pants as I go. They’re cherryred flannel today, a matching, oversize set I put on as soon as I got home from the farmers’ market.
Nolan’s eyes light up when he sees me, his gaze quickly traveling down to my bare feet and back up again.
I can’t decipher the look on his face. I don’t particularly want to.
“You can’t buy my forgiveness with overpriced holiday drinks.
” That’s a lie. My forgiveness can absolutely be bought with overpriced holiday drinks, especially if he remembered to get whipped cream on top.
But I want to try something new where I don’t immediately fold for the comfort of someone else.
Nolan holds out the cup. “I know.”
I grab it. “And I don’t want to hear a single word about my wardrobe choice,” I warn. I’m afraid if he says anything else belittling to me, I’ll crack right down the middle.
“I think you look nice.” His gaze drops to somewhere around my hips and he takes a long pause. His throat bobs with a heavy swallow. “These are—ah. Very cute.”
I roll my eyes and take a sip of the coffee. It’s still hot. I wonder if he used the magic he seems to hate so much to keep it warm, or if he just power walked from wherever it is he calls home.
I wouldn’t know because Nolan doesn’t talk to me. I’m just a job.
An item to be crossed off his checklist.
“Would you like to compliment my hair next?” I gesture at the chaos on the top of my head.
“Maybe my stunning organizational skills?” I sweep my arm across my living room.
The cluttered, overcrowded bookshelves and the mantel over the fireplace, loaded down with enough empty frames and knickknacks, it’s a wonder it’s still level. “What else?”
Nolan frowns. “You don’t think I’m being sincere?”
“I think you’re saying nice things because you were a jerk the other day.” I take another long sip of my drink, buying time and building courage. “But I don’t want you to give me compliments because you feel bad.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” I know well enough when someone is being genuine, and when someone needs me for something. Nolan wants to move forward. He hasn’t let me forget it. I’m merely a means to an end for him. Our conversation in the closet cemented that fact.
“Listen.” It’s too difficult to keep looking at his face, so I look at my bare feet instead.
I painted my toes bright red last night because it made me feel good.
Because I’ve always been able to make my own happiness when the people around me decide I’m not worth the trouble.
“We can just go about our business. We don’t have to do this part anymore. ”
“This part?”
“The part where you pretend you’re my friend.”
Nolan edges closer, his boots on either side of my bare feet.
His fingers lightly brush beneath my chin until I’m looking at his face.
His eyes are storm clouds, a heavy line between his brows.
His expression looks like it’s been chiseled out of stone, all of his features sharp.
For probably the first time, I actually believe he’s something …
other. He looks imposing. Like he took on some of the sea when he died, and now it roils around inside of him.
“I’m not pretending anything,” he says. “When I say you look lovely, I mean it.” He traces the curve of my chin.
For a fleeting moment, I think I can feel him tremble.
But then he drops his hand and I tell myself to stop imagining things that aren’t there.
“Sometimes I think I’m too honest with you. ”
I scoff. “You haven’t given me anything honest.”
“I’ve been more honest with you than anyone else, Harriet.” He rubs his hand against his jaw. He’s still standing so close. “I owe you an apology.”
“Yes,” I agree. “You do.”
His eyes search mine, his mouth set in a firm line. “Harriet, I—” My phone rings from the kitchen, interrupting him. My stomach twists. That ringtone only sounds when a very specific person is calling. It’s my very own tornado siren. When it rains, it pours, I guess.
I start my slow, defeated walk toward the kitchen. Nolan follows closely behind.
“What is that sound?” he asks. “An emergency?”
I don’t know why he thinks I’d categorize an emergency call on my phone with “Misery Business,” but I suppose there’s a technology gap in his knowledge. Probably a pop culture one, too.
“Do you know Paramore?” I ask.
He stumbles behind me, his knee hitting my gingerbread house.
Something rattles. He barely notices. “You have a lover?” he asks.
I swipe my phone off the counter. “What? No. I—” I’ve already let this phone call ring for too long. God help me if it goes to voicemail. Donna York does not leave messages. “I need to answer this call from my mother and then we can finish our conversation.”
Nolan leans back against the counter at my side, making himself comfortable. “All right.”
“You can wait in the living room.”
He shrugs, interest blazing in his eyes. “Here is fine, too.”
I roll my eyes, hitting the answer button before the call trips over into voicemail and I rain hellfire down upon my existence.
“Hi, Mom.” I try to force my voice into something chipper and enthusiastic, not the bone-deep dread that settles every time I see her name flash on my screen.
I’m out of practice, though. “How are you?” There’s a brief pause and I hear the clink of a china cup in the background.
She must be having her scheduled 11 a.m. tea. Earl Grey.
One sugar. Served in the same Hermès china cup she’s had since I was a child.