12
Demi
Last night’s storm ushered in a cold front that brought autumn to Ivy Hollow in what feels like an instant.
The leaves haven’t started turning yet, but when I walk outside or catch a breath of the breeze through the windows, I swear I can smell fall in the air.
The scent reminds me of bonfires, apple cider, and thickly knitted sweaters that are at least one or two sizes too big. I love it.
I’m celebrating the cooler weather with a bottle of red, a crackling fire in the hearth, and a scary movie.
There are two living rooms in the Manor—the formal living room on the first floor, and a second, more cozy one on the second.
I prefer the latter. It has light-blue pastoral toile wallpaper, a massive fireplace, a TV, and the absurdly comfortable floral sofa I bought when I moved in.
Curled up on my side, I’ve wrapped myself in a fluffy down comforter on which I’m hoping not to spill my wine.
There’s a pile of snacks on the coffee table within arm’s reach (essential) and one of my favorite spooky movies playing on the TV.
The goal is not to get up or even to emerge from my blanket burrito, unless absolutely necessary.
The movie I’m watching is set in the Gilded Age, around the time Beaumont Manor was built, and it’s about ghosts haunting a house to ward off a more sinister evil from its new occupants.
I can think of few things more perfect than this: cozied up with a wood-burning fire and a horror movie in my very own haunted mansion.
It just might be nice to share it with someone.
The thing is, I don’t miss Owen, but I do miss the comfort of being part of a couple.
I miss it so much that it’s hard to breathe around the longing sometimes.
I miss sharing my life with another person, of finding sanctuary in their arms. I’m fine by myself; I like my independence, of course.
But there are some itches only another person can scratch, and the absence of romance in my life is becoming increasingly apparent.
Deep down, I’m just a lovergirl at heart.
There have been a few times over the months since I left Owen that I’ve regretted it, for no other reason than being on my own for the first time in years makes me wonder if I’ll ever find love again.
I feel like I made a poor choice in Owen as a partner and wasted time with him that could have been spent finding someone better.
Sometimes, I feel convinced that the right person passed me by while I was busy giving my love to the wrong one.
When it comes to soulmates, I don’t think a person has just one. I know my sister is my soulmate, and I know my big, dumb cat is my soulmate, too. But a romantic soulmate? There’s a buried-deep part of me that feels like my romantic soulmate found someone else during the years I spent with Owen.
Very, very lonesome. That’s what Kitty said when she felt the energy of my house for the first time.
As she spoke those words, a sense of shame washed over me.
I’m not supposed to be lonely, and certainly not so lonely that my aunt can feel it the moment she walks through my door.
I’m supposed to be unaffected, cool, proud of taking my life in my own hands by buying the house I always dreamed of and walking away from a shitty relationship.
This evening is my definition of perfection, but it’s infected with a tinge of sadness because I know how much better it would be if someone else were cuddled up behind me in this cozy nest, gasping in my ear at the movie’s jump scares. Mittens, purring at my feet notwithstanding.
My thoughts tiptoe away from me until I find myself thinking about Tristan Beaumont.
The Rolling Stone photos of him are etched into my memory.
That, and I’ve looked them up again quite a few times since the night we spoke.
He was so goddamn handsome. We haven’t spoken since, but there have been signs of him all around me.
More than that, I’ve felt him near more times than I can count.
I wonder if he’s near me now.
Curious, I open the notes app on my phone and type out a simple “ Hi.” ?Then I wait. It’s strange; I feel a sort of anxious energy in my chest as I watch the phone screen, wondering if he’s going to respond. Hoping that he will.
After a few moments, I start to feel foolish, like maybe our texting conversation was a one-time thing, or, worse, that I’d imagined the whole experience.
But then my screen lights up, and a word appears on the line below my message.
Hi.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t here,” I say out loud with a smile I can’t hide.
I’m always here .
That sounded creepy.
I laugh. “This is a big house; you could have been somewhere else entirely.”
There’s a pause, and then:
This house has been empty for a long time. I like being near you.
Maybe it shouldn’t, but that makes me feel unexpectedly warm. The words are so sweet, in a way that he probably doesn’t even realize, as if it’s just in his nature to offer casual kindness like that.
“Have you seen this one?” I ask, nodding toward the TV.
I haven’t been to the movies since the 70s.
“That sucks.”
It does.
What’s this about?
“A haunted house.”
A little on the nose.
I shrug. “What can I say? I know what I like.”
What else do you like?
If this were a date, I would compliment him on the smooth transition.
“That’s a big question,” I say, taking a sip of my wine. It sits smooth as wet silk on my tongue. “Anything specific you want to know?”
Honestly? Everything.
It might be the wine going to my head, or the romantic flicker of the TV screen and the crackling fire, but his response lights me up. A wave of warmth moves through me, and I have to shimmy out of my blanket burrito a little to let the skin on my neck and chest breathe.
“Well, I’m a Pisces. You? ”
Virgo.
I smirk. “Makes sense.”
How so?
“Virgos can be micromanagers. You’re always moving my things and blowing out my candles,” I say with a chuckle.
To be honest, I’ve grown fond of the way he seems to follow me around, undoing the things I’ve done —it’s like a reminder that he’s here.
Sometimes I leave a glass of water on the edge of a table or counter just to see if he’ll move it back, and he always does.
Just trying to make sure the house doesn’t burn down. Again.
Sheepishly, I wince. “Sorry.”
What else should I know about you? He replies, ignoring my apology.
“I like music and books.”
I know. I read one of the books you brought home.
“Which one?” I exclaim, sitting up a little straighter. I’m not sure why, even though I brought the books home for Tristan, I didn’t really expect him to actually read them. There’s something intimate about someone reading a book you’ve recommended. Like sharing a secret.
The one with the vintage-looking cover.
“Ooh, good choice,” I marvel. A contemporary romance with top-tier yearning and spice so hot, it altered my brain chemistry. It’s by far the most smut-forward of the books I brought home and, for whatever reason, the last one I expected to catch the eye of a ghost who died in the seventies.
My cheeks heat when I think about some of the chapters in that book, and the way I felt when I read them. I wonder what he thought of those pages, the ones dripping with want and words typically only uttered in the shadows of a hot night.
The screen on my phone lights up: I liked it.
“It’s one of my favorites,” I say, and when curiosity gets the better of me, I add: “What did you like about it?”
I liked the way he loved her.
That throws me off balance in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
I anticipated him to be a guy about it and say something about the sex or make fun of the book in an effort to offset admitting to enjoying a genre usually seen as for women.
Instead, he pivots in the opposite direction and leans into the romance of it without any sense of shame.
With something resembling a swoon, I relax into my blanket and sigh. “Me, too.”
From the moment he saw her…he was hers.
“Have you ever felt like that?” I ask.
The screen sits blank for so long that I think maybe I hit a nerve, or went too deep too fast. But I’m not afraid of a little awkward silence, so I wait.
I glance up at the TV and find the main character wandering through the dark mansion in her nightdress with only a candle to light her way.
Finally, my screen illuminates again, and I find his response.
Yes. A few times.
I find myself feeling strangely… jealous. He’s fortunate to have found a love like that. Maybe the digital age has killed romance, but I don’t think I’ve ever truly felt like someone was mine, or I theirs. I’ve never been loved like that. With utter freedom. With someone’s whole self.
“You’re lucky,” I say .
You haven’t?
“Nope.”
What about your ex?
A laugh bursts out of me, and I nearly spill my wine. “No. It wasn’t like that with Owen.”
So, why did you bother?
“What do you mean?”
You could have anyone you want. Why did you settle for someone like him?
Heartache presses into the center of my chest.
“It didn’t feel like settling at first.”
It was always settling if it didn’t feel like the book.
“To be fair, I think believing a relationship should always feel like a romance novel is setting unrealistic expectations,” I reply with a laugh. ???????? No, it’s not.
I wish I could see his face, or hear the tone of his voice, to know whether he’s being facetious or sincere.
Somewhere along the way, I think I lost that idealistic part of me that believed love could feel like Romeo’s passion, or Mr. Darcy’s yearning.
Maybe it’s just buried deep beneath the horrors of dating apps and three years with a deadbeat.
“Do you really believe that?” I ask.
Yes.
“You’re a bit of a hopeless romantic, aren’t you?’
Also, yes.
“I like that,” I say with a smile.
Really? It’s not too old-fashioned?
I shrug and take another sip of my wine. “Maybe. But the world could do with a little old-fashioned romance. Dating these days is tough.”
Why’s that ?
“People are afraid of commitment. Not looking for anything serious. And there’s this trend called ghosting.” I raise an eyebrow archly, anticipating his response.
Ghosting?
“Yep. It’s when someone just stops interacting with you without any explanation.”
Well, that’s just fucking rude.
“One million percent.”
I lean forward and pour myself another glass of wine.
The blanket slips down to my waist, and I feel that cool tingle on my skin that often accompanies being near Tristan.
I’m wearing an old t-shirt, so worn out that the neckline falls off my shoulder.
My neck erupts in goosebumps, and a shiver skitters down the length of my spine.
You okay?
“This happens to me when you’re around sometimes,” I reply, pulling the blanket back up and settling in again.
What does?
“I shiver, get goosebumps.”
You can… feel me?
“I think so,” I say with a nod.
There’s a pause, and then: What does it feel like?
For a moment, I think about how to put it into words. “Like static electricity, but softer. Or maybe when your foot falls asleep and starts to wake back up. It’s strange…it’s sort of cold and warm at the same time.”
How do you know it’s me?
“It only started happening to me when I moved in. I’ve never felt anything like it before that. ”
There was a moment a few weeks ago, in the library, when the sensation of his nearness was almost overwhelming.
My foot slipped off the rolling ladder, and I almost fell.
But then Tristan was there. Or, at least, I think he was, because I stopped moving and felt that same energy wrap around me like a pair of arms. I imagine being enveloped in starlight, feeling the same: cold and warm, crackling and buzzing with otherworldly vivacity.
“Can you feel me?”
I can see you.
With a laugh, I say, “Obviously. But I mean… if you were to touch me, could you feel me?”
I wish.
“Do you?” I ask as a rolling warmth moves through me. Does he think about me like that? Like a man thinks about a woman, with desire and curiosity? Does Tristan Beaumont want me?
You have no idea.
Another pause, and that warmth in me heats about ten more degrees.
Can I watch the movie with you?
I like the idea of that. “Yeah. It’s about to get really good. I’d offer you some wine, but—” I gesture broadly to our situation.
I appreciate it. But I’m good just being here with you.
Maybe it’s just that his sincerity surprises me, but I swear the sensation of him comes nearer, and it feels like fireworks.