Chapter 11 #2
“A little old lady with a cat. She was a fiber artist. Very nice. Quiet. Lived there for years before moving into a retirement home.”
“I’m not sure we’ll have much in common, but maybe she can teach me to crochet.”
“You aren’t scared by all this?”
“‘Scared’ isn’t the right word. I don’t know what would happen if I met myself, and I don’t want to find out. But having Cosmo haunt my studio only succeeded in giving me a crush. And he thinks the whole thing is fascinating.”
Her laugh was exasperated but not unkind. “You’re right. The eccentric artists will probably be fine.”
“Coffin Crew, this is–”
“Don’t tell me your name. I don’t want to know.” Micah twirled a pencil between his fingers, the phone pressed to his ear. “But pronouns are okay.”
“Is this a robbery? Because there’s only like sixty bucks in the till, and I don’t have the key to the safe.”
“Not a robbery.” Micah leaned toward his laptop screen and expanded a picture of a cemetery. “I just have some questions I was hoping you could answer.”
Static rustled through the speaker. “Are you the old guy with the fro-yo sitting on the bench by Epic Shoes? Look, man, I’ve seen you eyeing the neon fishnets in here more than once, and it’s totally okay for you to buy them. The orange ones would probably look rad on you.”
Micah smiled. “Orange sounds like a great choice, but I’m nowhere near the mall. I’m taking someone on a date, and he’s kind of into the gothic thing. He planned and attended his own funeral party, with an obituary and a grave and everything.”
The cashier made an appreciative noise. “Damn. That’s cool as hell.”
“We’re going to picnic in a graveyard, but I’m not sure what to wear.”
“Ooh. Okay. Well, you don’t want something too fancy because you’ll be sitting on the ground. A button-up shirt is always a good choice. And it doesn’t have to be black. Red or purple, maybe. Leave the top button undone, roll up the sleeves to your elbows. Wear some nice black jeans.”
Micah jotted down notes. “This is good. I thought I might have to dress like Vincent Price.”
“Nah. Plus, you want to be your true self for your date, right? If you go overboard, it’s going to look fake.”
“So I should save the plastic fangs for the third date?”
The cashier chuckled. “I gotta go. Fro-yo guy is coming this way. Oh, hang on. You’ve got cologne, right?”
“Er, I have some of that body spray stuff in the can.”
“Ew, no. We’ve got one here called Moonlight. It’s super sexy but not obnoxious. Trust me, he’ll love it.”
Micah was going to have to add the mall to his list of errand locations. His phone beeped with an incoming call. He said goodbye to the cashier, then answered.
Déjà’s sandy voice came through the line. “Did you find Cosmo in the flesh?”
Strange that she was asking when she didn’t seem to want anything to do with him or the situation. “We have a date in a graveyard.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
He snorted. She could do morbid humor too, apparently. “Yeah. I found him in the flesh.”
“You figure out what’s going on in your studio?”
“Sort of. You want the working theory?”
“Maybe later. Right now, I need you to promise me three things.” He started to speak, but she continued. “One. You don’t ever cheat on Cosmo.”
“Okay. I can promise that. But why do you–”
“Two. You treat him like the queen he is.”
Micah wanted nothing more. “I promise.”
“Three. You fuck the brains out of his pretty head.”
“Uh.” He scrubbed at his eyebrow. “I’m ace. I can’t promise that.”
There was a beat of silence. “Huh, I thought I was saving the easiest one for last. We can’t have a promise with only two parts. Then you promise to pay attention to his physical needs, whether that’s food or cuddling or getting him a sex toy.”
“What about my needs?”
Conviction filled her voice. “Cosmo has a tender, giving heart. He will shower you in adoration and baked goods. Unless you hate brownies, you’ll be fine.”
“Well, I was on the fence, but the brownies sealed it for me. I promise.” He paused. “I know it’s not my business, but maybe you should reach out to him. It’s obvious you still care.”
“Text me later. Tell me about the studio. I’m curious.” There was a click, and the call ended.
Déjà’s sudden and active interest in Cosmo’s well-being surprised him, but it shouldn’t have.
When Micah had broken up with Courtney, she’d cut off all communication with him, never even acknowledging his requests for her to pick up her things from his apartment.
He never saw her in the places she used to frequent, and she changed the password on the music app they’d jointly used, locking him out, even though he was the one who’d been paying for it.
A year and a half later, the assault had happened. A month after that, Courtney called. She’d called every month since then to see how he was doing, and had even invited him to go get a coffee, though he’d declined.
Maybe she did it out of guilt or pity, or maybe it was because the wounds that had sundered them weren’t as fresh as they once were. He wasn’t going to ask what had happened between Déjà and Cosmo, but he hoped that if one of them reached out to the other, that the outcome would be positive.
A knock came at the door, and his heart filled his throat.
He crossed through the hall and into the living room.
He’d lived in a studio for so long that keeping his bed and drafting table in separate rooms was too strange, and he wasn’t sure what to put in the living room at all.
Right now it held milk crates and unframed paintings, but maybe he’d come around to the idea of making it his studio area.
He shook out his hands, drew a slow breath through his nose, then opened the door. Ximena stood on the step with a box and a stack of his shirts and jackets draped over one arm.
“Geez, you don’t need to do this.” He picked up the jackets by their hangers, then set them on a crate just inside the door. “I was going to get more stuff out of there later.”
“I don’t mind helping. The sooner everything is out of there, the better. Not sure what to do with the space now, but that’s a worry for another day.” She stepped over the threshold and into the living room.
Micah’s chest seized, limbs vibrating with the energy of a nuclear reactor. Alarm bells rang through his mind, and a strangled noise tore from his throat. He needed to go, to push past her out the door, but he couldn’t move.
Ximena dropped the box and the side burst open, hemorrhaging kitchen utensils and spice shakers. She threw her hands over her mouth and backed out the door. “I’m so sorry! I’m so, so sorry. I wasn’t thinking about this being like your old place, and I don’t know why.”
He worked the lump from his throat and flexed his fingers. A shaker had popped open, and pepper covered the floor. After a few deep breaths, he said, “It’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t.” She stared at the mess like it was taking every ounce of her willpower not to lean inside and clean it up.
Bending down, he gathered everything back into the box with quivering hands, then set it on the kitchen counter. Ximena stared at the pepper on the floor, her eyes watery. Micah stepped outside, then pulled her in a gentle hug. “It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry, mijo.”
Ximena was sweet and wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, but the fear came anyway. Had it been past-her dropping lightbulbs everywhere, he wouldn’t have panicked.
It made no damn sense, and he couldn’t keep living like this.
“I need help.” He walked into the living room, planted his feet firmly on the carpet, and said, “Will you step back in? Just stand over the threshold and–”
“No!” She waved her hands and backed into the balcony railing.
“If you do it a few times, maybe I’ll get used to it and won’t panic.”
“No! I’m not going to hurt you a second time.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes, then hurried across the balcony and down the stairs.
Damn it. It might not have worked anyway, but he was never going to know without someone to assist him.
He shut the door, walked back to the bedroom, and dropped into the desk chair. Hopefully the mall had gift baskets, because Ximena deserved one. Something from the cooking store.
If Everett was here, he could practice with Micah, but it probably wouldn’t work. It was Everett, so Micah wouldn’t panic to begin with. And Everett would have to take time off of work and fly in, and Micah couldn’t put that burden on him.
Maybe what he needed was the help of a beautiful ghost.
He opened his phone, hesitated, then typed,
After a moment, Cosmo replied.
He started to type his request, then thought about Cosmo speeding down the stairs after Micah’s awful outburst, only returning because Ximena threatened him. He hadn’t known Cosmo long enough to ask him for something so big, especially if it might scare him away for good.
Instead he wrote:
Micah laughed.
His heart fluttered, and he leaned back in the chair. Saturday couldn’t come soon enough.
A crash came from the kitchen. He gripped the armrests, the breath snatched from his lungs.
What now? Leaving the comfort of his knife below the desk where it was taped, he crept down the hall and told himself a little old lady would be much more frightened of him appearing out of nowhere while she was trying to watch Murder She Wrote.
That thought didn’t slow his pulse, however, and it took all his effort to peek into the kitchen.
The box he’d set on the counter lay on the floor; ladles, egg beaters, wooden spoons, and spice tins were strewn across the tile.
“Hello?”
Something brushed against his leg, and he yelped.
A white cat with heterochromic eyes stared up at him, purring loudly. He drew in a steadying breath, then sat on the floor. The cat immediately hopped into his lap.
“Wow. You’re friendly.” He tentatively scratched behind her ears, and she kneaded her paws into his thigh. Her coat was silky, and she wore a collar that looked brand new. “What’s your name, little phantom?”
The cat mewed loudly and butted her head against his chest. He chuckled and leaned back against the oven, stroking her fur. She’d surely vanish soon, but not before getting him completely hairy and possibly knocking over something else. That was alright. This was a haunting he could deal with.