Chapter 7 Collins
Collins
“Any big plans tonight?” Brady asked as I helped him clean up for the day. He had been working on a love seat and there were fabric scraps everywhere. “Your first Friday back in Sweetwater Peak.”
“I think that just answered your question,” I said. Friday nights in Sweetwater Peak weren’t exactly hoppin’. And if I was going to do anything, I wanted to do it alone—if I could get Clarke to let me borrow her car. “What about you?”
Brady shook his head. The sleeves of his flannel were rolled up, so I could see the veins on his forearms.
Brady rubbed at the back of his neck. “I don’t, um, really do much. I guess.”
“Well, there really isn’t much to do,” I admitted. “But there’s the bar and most of the restaurants are decent—all that farm-to-table goodness—or that one place that never has the same name but has the arcade and two bowling lanes.”
Brady’s mouth tilted up. “It’s currently called Drama Mama’s.” I cringed. That was the worst one yet. “And, I don’t know…I just haven’t quite found my place here yet, I guess.”
“I know what that feels like,” I sighed.
“But you’re from here,” Brady said, confused.
I shrugged. “It can be a tough place to fit in, but I know all the places to hide—which I’m happy to share if that’s what you’re looking for.
” I didn’t think he was, though. Brady was the type of guy who seemed like he’d have an easy time here.
He was a business owner, a seemingly genuinely nice guy, and a rare eligible bachelor.
I had always had a harder time. Growing up, I didn’t always get it, but now it seems pretty obvious why the girl who preferred to talk to the dead over the living might have a challenging go at existing in a town as small as this one where tongues wag nonstop.
So I decided to find my own Sweetwater Peak, instead of trying to fit into everyone else’s. There were places and people here—albeit mostly dead people—I loved and cherished and missed.
Speaking of dead people, I was doing my best to ignore the two orbs that had been hanging around my desk all day. One of them pushed a stack of papers off my desk, and I had to fight the urge not to chuck my stapler through them. If I did that, Brady would really think I was crazy.
He shook his head and cleared his throat, thankfully distracting me. “I don’t think I need a hiding spot…not yet anyway,” he said. “But I’m curious about how you found one in a town that’s basically four square inches.”
I thought about a few of my favorites: an abandoned church hidden away in the mountains, the secret river overlook, an old cellar in the woods behind the post office, Boone’s farm, and the attic that I turned into my squatter darkroom when I got into film.
A desperation for solitude and a few undead pals to guide you, I thought. “Boredom” is what I said to Brady, though. “And the inability to sit still.”
“I’m familiar with the affliction,” he said. The way he was smiling at me while being genuinely engaged in our conversation made my knees weirdly shaky.
“Love seat looks good,” I said, changing the subject and nodding toward the finished piece. It was a deep blue velvet that felt reminiscent of the night sky right after twilight and right before full darkness set in.
“Oh, thanks. It turned out okay.” Brady rubbed at the back of his neck. “D-do you think you could snap a few pictures of it?” My heart dropped. “I want to be better about documenting projects—like a portfolio or whatever.”
“No,” I said, cutting him off. Brady blinked a few times, and his shoulders dropped.
“Camera needs a new battery,” I lied. “And I have to order it, so…”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “That will probably take a while.”
“I’m sorry,” I said honestly—both for lying to him and for letting him down. “But maybe the next love seat.” Probably not. “Why do they call it that?” I changed the subject again.
“Exactly what it sounds like,” he said. “Smaller couch, so, um, lovers can sit close together.” Why was I blushing at him saying “lovers”? How old was I, thirteen?
“Oh, right,” I said dumbly. “Seems pretty obvious.”
An awkward silence fell between us, and I looked down at my boots. The mention of photos threw me off my game. I was out of subject changes.
“So no plans tonight?” Brady asked after a minute. “You’re not doing anything with your family?”
“Unfortunately, Dex and Joanie have a standing Friday night date whenever he’s home, and they do not budge—not even for the prodigal daughter’s return,” I said with a small smile. Clarke and I could always count on having the house to ourselves on those Friday nights growing up.
“They don’t want a third wheel?” Brady joked.
“I promise you don’t want to be their third wheel,” I said, shaking my head. “They’re fucking gross.” I guess it was a good thing that my parents were so openly loving to each other, but growing up, Clarke and I did a lot of pretend gagging when they kissed.
Brady laughed. Ever since our ride to Ms. Papadakis’s he had been more chatty. Open. It was kinda cute.
That didn’t mean anything, by the way. It was just a fact. He was actually kind of dorky—in a mostly endearing way. He had literally quoted the first Lord of the Rings movie twice today.
“What about your fresh start?” I asked. “It’s gotta be more than sitting in your apartment,” I said gesturing upward.
I almost said haunted apartment but thought better of it.
But as if I had summoned them, one of the lingering orbs appeared behind Brady’s head.
I narrowed my eyes when I noticed one of the jars of tacks on the shelf starting to move slowly.
Brady’s face fell for just a second, and I immediately regretted bringing up his fresh start. “Really fucking it up, I guess.” I think he was trying to be nonchalant about it, but he sounded very chalant.
The jar was still scooting toward the edge of the shelf. Don’t do it, you cheeky bastard. Right as the jar was about to go over the edge, and before I could think twice about it, I reached forward and fisted the collar of Brady’s shirt, pulling him toward me, and away from the shelf.
Half a second later, I heard the glass jar shattering and tacks clattering across the floor.
“What the hell?” Brady said, turning his head. I still had hold of his shirt. I peeked around his shoulder to see the damage and looked around for the instigator, but they were nowhere to be found.
“How did that even…happen?”
“Uneven shelves?” I said hopefully, and he turned back to me. We were close. I thought I could feel his heartbeat.
He shook his head but didn’t make an effort to move away from me. “That’s been there for months,” he said, and I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what to say, but I didn’t think This entire building is haunted, and the ghosts have it out for me was the right thing to say.
“Weird,” Brady muttered. “Thank you—for…getting me out of the way.” I looked up at his blue eyes, and I felt like I was swimming in them, unable to tread water.
“N-no problem,” I stuttered. I watched him look down at his chest, where my fist was still bunched in his shirt, and I immediately let go and took a step back.
Did I hear…laughter? Wishful thinking.
I suddenly felt uneasy about leaving Brady alone here tonight, and before I could think better of it, I asked, “Do you want to go somewhere tonight?”
“I thought you didn’t have big plans,” he said with a smile—recovering from the tack incident.
“I don’t, but…maybe I have a small one,” I said, and Brady raised an eyebrow at me. “Checking up on a hiding spot. If we had gone down that dirt road by Ms. Papadakis’s yesterday, we would have come upon the old church.”
“The Old Church is in town,” Brady said, and I shook my head.
“Not the proper noun.” There was another less old church down the road that had been converted to the local watering hole way before my lifetime. It was literally called the Old Church. “There’s an abandoned one up the mountain.”
I could practically see Brady’s ears perking up. “Oh,” he said. “Yeah, that would be cool, actually.”
“You’re not afraid of ghosts, are you?”
Brady, who thought I was joking, chuckled and rolled his eyes a little. “Ghosts aren’t real, Collins.”
“Ah.” I nodded. “You’re one of those. Maybe they’ll spare you a haunting, then.”
“You actually think it’s haunted?” Brady folded his arms across his broad chest.
“I know it is,” I responded quickly. “But the bar is, too. This whole town is.” Brady arched a brow at me, and I shrugged. “You asked.”
“So we’re going to go to a haunted church while it’s getting dark?”
“We’ll take candles,” I said.
“Why not flashlights?”
“They don’t like harsh, artificial light like that.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“The ghosts, Brady,” I said, snapping my fingers a few times. “Keep up.”
Brady gave me the same look he’d given me a million times over the past few days—apprehensive but maybe…intrigued?
“I don’t even think I have candles?”
I rolled my eyes. “Not even one? What if you brought a guest home and wanted to set the mood?”
“With a singular candle? I think I’m better off setting the mood without a fire hazard,” he said.
“Boo,” I responded. “Don’t worry—I always have candles in my car.”
“Do I want to know why?” Brady asked sarcastically.
“None of your business,” I said, walking backward toward the stairs. “I need to change before we go. Meet back here in like thirty?”
Brady started toward the supply closet in search of the broom and dustpan and waved me off in agreement.