Chapter 3 #3
I frown. He…doesn’t know? He’s fine with slamming computers, rattling closet doors, and wholly unfortunate soy sauce explosions? I guess he’s just got it very easy where his haunting is concerned. Or he’s full of shit, like everyone else here.
“It’s just life,” Sawyer goes on. I resist the urge to point out we are, in fact, discussing the literal opposite of life. “It’s fine. It’s good, even,” he says. “I don’t mind unexplained drafts or cold temperatures. Or specific songs getting stuck in my head.”
I’m strongly considering ducking out of here in discouragement when Sawyer’s last words stop me dead.
Specific…
“Songs?” I repeat.
He looks over, surprised I’ve interrupted him. Finally, clarity parts the somber emptiness in his blue eyes.
Yeah, well, I’m surprised, too. I really, really expected today would prove nothing but Bullshit-R-Us with bad parking.
But I thought the song stuck in my head was Zach’s thing. I didn’t even know it was something ghosts could do until it happened to me.
“It’s not like the normal way a song gets stuck in your head,” Sawyer explains, under the reasonable impression I’m confused instead of understanding him perfectly.
“It’s not something I’ve listened to lately, or caught a strain of at the grocery store.
It’s a song I haven’t thought about at all, but I know it’s… It usually means…It’s…”
I know what he’s trying to say. “The ghost’s favorite song,” I finish.
I have Sawyer’s full focus now. He holds my gaze, and I watch him realize what I have. We’re both haunted—for real.
“Yeah,” he confirms reluctantly. “For mine, it’s ‘A Sunday Kind of Love.’ Etta James.”
“I got ‘Call Me Maybe,’ ” I say.
He blinks. I think I’ve thrown him off. I don’t know why he came here, but clearly, like me, he didn’t really expect to find someone who shares his experiences.
He tugs his sweater sleeve like it’s instinct to roll it down, then thinks better of it.
His wool sweater, I realize, remembering his unexpected words of wisdom.
I figured he was just trying to shut me up with useless advice.
He wasn’t. It was real.
It is real.
“Whenever it plays in my head, I know, um, the ghost wants to communicate something or is nearby,” Sawyer continues. “Honestly, I find it—”
“Really annoying.” I laugh.
Sawyer doesn’t. My laughter dies when his expression hardens defensively. “I was going to say comforting,” he says.
“Comforting?” Incredulous, I can’t help repeating his overgenerous characterization. He’s obviously never had to draft scheduling emails while Carly Rae—or his ghost’s oh-so-romantic Etta James pick—clamors in his head. “Well, I just want it to stop,” I say.
“I don’t,” he retorts.
I don’t want to discount anyone’s personal experience in a support group, but I cannot fucking believe this. I need immediate, useful help, not Ghost Appreciation Week. Yet the one guy who might know something real is just…at peace with being haunted? How is that going to help pay my rent?
The unfriendly goths observe our exchange with their customary scorn, though I don’t know whether their judgment is for me or Sawyer.
The teenagers have disengaged with their phones to watch us with open interest. I get it—we’re two perfect strangers fighting over ghosts getting songs stuck in our heads.
“Your ghost doesn’t use their song to bother you when you’re ignoring them?” I press him.
“Why would I ignore my ghost?” Sawyer sounds as disbelieving as me.
“Because you’re in the middle of living your life,” I reply, “and…they’re dead?”
Now something hot sears through the haze in Sawyer’s eyes. He drops his guard, and resentment hardens his expression. “Dead doesn’t mean gone,” he returns.
“No. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it?” I feel my own temper starting to rise. I’ve had no one—no one—who I could turn to while my little paranormal problem eroded every part of my life. “It means whenever you want to relax or go out to dinner or date or just…be by yourself, they’re there. It’s—”
“It’s a gift,” Sawyer interjects.
“I was going to say nightmare,” I shoot back. “I wish they’d just rest in peace like they’re supposed to.”
The comment bewilders Sawyer. Recovering his composure, he scowls. He’s opening his mouth to reply when Gwyneth intercedes.
“Fear not. I believe I have crystals to help both of you,” she says in her damn soothing voice.
Fear not? Yeah, I was really fearing you would not have the crystals I need, I restrain myself from saying.
“I encourage everyone to take advantage of the discount. Today only!” she goes on.
With her words, I hear faint clatter over my shoulder. From the overstock shelves, some blue stones seem to tumble inexplicably to the floor and roll right to my feet.
I sigh. Sawyer may be ridiculously content with his haunting, but he might be right when it comes to warding off Zach.
Give him what he wants, Sawyer counseled, his one semi-useful idea.
“Do these happen to be blue quartz?” I inquire, holding one of the stones up wearily for the shopkeeper’s inspection.
Her eyes light up. “They are! I think you would benefit from their calming energy. Maybe I can interest you in some black tourmaline for protection, too?”
I collect my bag. Between me and my ghost, one of us is going home happy. “Might as well,” I say.
The group disassembles, retreating to the snacks or to peruse the shelves. I follow Gwyneth to the register, where she rings up my crystals.
While she does, I glance out the front window.
Sawyer, shoulders hunched in the sunlight, is walking out the front door.
Despite our less than harmonious introduction, I make a quick decision.
I can either leave Gwyneth’s Crystals with nothing except my dubious geological purchases…
or I can pursue my only real lead. Everyone else here is obviously a fraud, but Sawyer’s unprompted description of his own haunting had enough in common with mine to convince me.
When I finish paying, I sweep the crystals hastily into my bag and chase after him. Sawyer may like his ghost—and he may be a sanctimonious grump—but he’s the only person who might know something that could help.