Chapter 15
The hostess is clearly expecting us. She greets Amir by name and gives me a small, curious smile. Like she’s asking who I am without actually opening her mouth. Or maybe why I’m with him.
Honestly, I’m wondering the same thing.
But Amir doesn’t give me a chance to either bolt or try to figure out Morse code with blinks. He gives her a charming grin right back and follows her through the mostly empty restaurant.
I’m definitely underdressed, though no one says anything about it.
I don’t even get looks from the other two tables that are occupied by an older couple and two women.
The hostess takes us to a table by the window, gesturing for us to sit, then placing menus in front of us.
The hard-backed leather is fancier than anything I’ve seen since coming to Still Pines, and I brush my fingers across the textured surface as she tells us about the specials.
I’m barely listening, unfortunately. Because outside the restaurant, the ghost of Mr. Addison, whom I did intake and a preliminary on earlier today, is staring at me.
I remember checking the clipboard twice when I saw him.
For all the man is only forty-seven, or was, before he died, he looked so much older than that.
His pale, bloodless face looked sixty, if I were going to guess, and the dried blood on the side of his head where it hit the pavement doesn’t help that.
He came in with skull and brain matter sticking to the outside of his head, so no matter how much Mrs. Addison begged to see him, that was not something I was willing to humor.
God, I think to myself. He just looks so sad. The dead don’t have expressions. Especially once they’re on my table. But standing there in the blood-soaked shirt and jeans he came in wearing, I can’t say if I’ve ever seen a sadder man.
“I can’t find her,” he breathes, and I know that it’s not actually possible to hear him through the glass, but my mind makes the window not matter. “Can you help me find her?”
When fingers brush the back of my hand, I jerk back in my seat, eyes jumping to Amir to find he’s already staring at me.
“Hello again,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking my knuckles.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like you to myself tonight, I think.
” He hesitates, though, and I can see the interest in his eyes. “Will you tell me who it is?”
When I glance back out the window, Mr. Addison is gone. I blink, a little surprised, because normally it’s not that easy to get my ghosts to fuck off.
“It’s…” I look back at Amir, then down at his hand on mine. The physical touch is grounding in a way. And gentle in a manner I’m not used to.
Back at the hospital, no one was ever this kind when they found me talking to ghosts, or even just staring off into the distance like there might be one there. Whether or not there was, somehow I always ended up on the bad end of a therapy session and with medication adjustments.
“You don’t have to humor me.” There’s a defensiveness in my voice that I don’t expect or plan for, and my eyes drop to the table between us. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to snap at you.”
Why the fuck am I apologizing to a murderer?
When he doesn’t say anything, I find I can’t maintain the silence.
“Mr. Addison.” The words come out quickly, and soft.
“The man that I had to do intake for today. He was in a car accident. He—his brains were—” I make a vague gesture to the side of my head as if that explains it.
“Which you probably don’t want to hear about. ”
When he tilts his head and lifts a brow, I huff a reluctant scoff of laughter. “Yeah, my bad. Maybe you do.”
“What did he say?” For someone who wants my attention, he seems suddenly oh so curious about the ghosts we both know aren’t real. “How long do you usually see them after?”
I can only look at him. With confusion on my face and my heart beating in my ears.
No one has ever asked me things like this in a way that feels almost conversational, rather than placating or informational.
“I don’t know.” It’s not quite a lie. But I look down at the menu where my hands are still resting.
“Usually days. Sometimes weeks, but not usually much longer.” But I hesitate, knowing that isn’t exactly true.
“Except for Elaina. I still see her and she’s been dead—well, my sister has been dead a long time.” My voice is soft, barely a whisper, and I swear when I look at Amir, something softens in his face.
“Did Mr. Addison warn you about me? Is that why he’s out there tonight?”
Slowly, I shake my head. “No. It’s not usually anything like that. He…he wasn’t talking about you.”
He was mimicking me. Though I don’t know why that’s the case. I haven’t said those words in over a decade, and only once.
I can’t find her, I said to the nurse, my hand in hers as she led me away from the room where Elaina died. I was too young, too in shock, to understand that my sister was already dead, and my parents’ hearts had turned to ice.
Can you help me find her?
Yet tonight, my brain apparently thinks I need to relive the worst moment in my life.
I shake my head when he continues to look at me, trying to fix him with a look that feels like anything other than desperation.
“That’s all you’re getting from me. My hallucinations are my own, thank you very much.
” There’s a dry note to my voice, and maybe that’s what brings a soft smirk to Amir’s lips.
“As you wish,” he finally relents, lifting his hand from mine.
I want to let out a breath of relief at that. He’s no longer touching me. No longer pinning me in place with the soft stroking of his thumb over my knuckles.
So why do I feel suddenly like I’m less anchored to the moment than before? Why do I miss the warmth on my skin, and the way his touch had been like a feather?
I shouldn’t want it back.
I snatch my hand back, maybe a little too quickly, though Amir doesn’t remark on it. But I follow his lead and open the menu, nearly stroking out over the prices listed.
“You know I am not paying for my meal here, right?” I ask before glancing up his way. “Because I do not make this much on a mortician’s assistant salary.”
Amir just fixes me with a quick glance of his honey-brown eyes. “Nell, I invited you out for dinner.”
Invited might be the wrong word, I think to myself. But I’m smart enough not to press the point while we’re out in public.
“Get whatever you want. The meal is on me, and your repayment is your company.”
“My unwilling company,” I grumble. My fingers tap against the laminated pages of the menu, but my eyes drift back down to it. The demure, mindful thing to do would be to get something cheap. Something not messy and something I know I’ll eat.
The waitress comes over, setting down two waters as she does. “Good evening, guys,” she greets, her glance going from Amir to me. If she recognizes him like the hostess, she doesn’t show it. “What can I get started for you? Something other than water?”
It’s times like this I wish I was a drinker. Their wine list is impressive, including the—
“May I have a glass of the Ornellaia?” Amir asks gently. My eyes flick down the wine list, and I find it’s definitely in the higher range, and only a few ranks lower than the most expensive option.
Well, there goes my ability to empty his wallet tonight. Amir looks at me, expectant, and I have to admit defeat in this arena. But he continues to stare, like there’s something important about this specific wine that I’m obviously missing.
Maybe he expects me to be some kind of wine connoisseur, when I am most decidedly not.
“Can I just get unsweet tea?” I ask politely, though by the way the waitress looks at me, I realize I’ve revealed my Midwestern roots.
“Iced tea,” I correct myself. Though the embarrassment in my chest is small, it feels like a coiled up worm trying to wrap around my heart.
Not painful, but not comfortable, either.
The waitress leaves and I look back down at the menu.
“No wine? Not even a mixed drink? A beer?” Amir asks with interest.
“Psych meds don’t like alcohol,” I reply in a quiet voice. He already knows I’m unwell. There’s no harm in letting him know that I’m also medicated. “I doubt you want me puking and ruining your reputation at this very nice restaurant.” I flip the page, discovering the first page of Italian entrees.
I cannot remember the last time I ate really good pasta. When the waitress comes back, I order first, asking for the lasagna. For Amir’s part, he gets the surf and turf. A literal fucking lobster tail on a random date, while sort of kidnapping the girl he’s threatening.
What a weird guy.
Or maybe just a really rich guy who likes what he likes and doesn’t compromise when he doesn’t need to. He also orders oil for the bread, then takes one look at me and asks for a cup of marinara as well.
I’ve never felt more like an uncultured plebeian. As the waitress leaves, I fix him with a look, sitting back in my chair. “You think my palette isn’t refined enough for oil and vinegar?"
“I think I would rather cover my bases than assume. You’re not very forthcoming, in case you didn’t know.” He sits back as well, studying my face unabashedly. “Is he still here?”
I know who he means without asking, and I can’t help but glance out the window to see only the empty sidewalk and mostly empty parking lot beyond.
“No.”
“I see.”
We sit there in silence for long enough for the waitress to bring us the bread, along with the oil and marinara Amir had requested.
Pointedly, I ignore the marinara sauce in its little black condiment cup. I tear off a piece of my bread and swirl the balsamic into the oil, not caring if he doesn’t like it that way. It’s my silent protest, or maybe an assertion of why I do not want to be here.