Chapter 10 Consequences, Schmonsequences #3
“I don’t think that fay left a number, but I can check,” says Bulan.
He uses his nose to rifle through the papers Rochester left behind.
I force myself to inhale a shallow, pained breath.
This room smells like dust and herbs and the cruelty of fate.
It’s funny how when your life burns down around you, it doesn’t have the decency to leave a smell.
“I’m going to have to call Baldy. Then Steve, my supervisor in New York,” I explain to the head, as well as to Grandma’s doubtlessly listening-in spirit.
“I think I’ll try to claim FMLA. Even if my company fights it or tries harder to get that a doctor’s note, that’ll buy me time.
It’ll mean I still have a job to return to after…
after I figure out how to get out of here.
I’ll take up one or two more jobs as a wedding planner in the meantime. ”
“Oh! All those words just to say you’re having a change of heart.”
“No,” I say. “This is only temporary. I’m a faux wedding planner. A hungry one.”
“Well, if you’re accepting deposits, I believe your customers will expect you to stay in business and carry out their weddings. If you ran out on them, that would be stealing.”
“I’m not stealing,” I reassure Bulan as I bring out my phone.
The last thing I want to do is commit sketchy white-collar crimes that could land me in jail. Nope. I’m going to use this unique, unfortunate opportunity to supplement my financial education.
What could be more hands-on for an accountant than to learn how to run a small business? Monitoring expenses, finding avenues for growth and all that?
A lot of things, probably. But if I’m going to be stuck in Salem, I refuse to let the paranormal world suck me into its grimy vortex, swirling me like water down a toilet. Nope. I’m going to get work experience.
Take that, Grandma Rose. Take. That.
Baldy must be elated to bill more hours to Grandma’s account, because in spite of it being the weekend, he calls me back immediately after I send my text.
Then he leaves a voicemail, which lasts so long, my phone is tied up the entire walk from the shop to Grandma’s house.
According to the live transcript of the voicemail, he’s gotten to the point of quoting Proust when I text him:
that’s all really cool, thx, but all I want are pictures of the will and that section talking about the tides, up close and in high-def, ok?
At Bulan’s request, I set out a bucket of water for the head to soak in—whether this is a method of relaxation, hygiene, or (as he suggests) feeding is unclear—and pace the room while he sloshes water onto the carpet.
Normal people have roommates who utilize bathrooms. Take Jane Doe, for example, who religiously showers at 11 p.m., rubs lotion on her legs, and stretches.
If only last night had gone how it was supposed to, I could be joining in that routine too, while gossiping about literally nothing. If only…
No. I’ve got to stop thinking about how upset I am to be here instead of New York. What will angst do, anyway, except bring me down? Insulting Bulan, on the other hand, is a guaranteed mood lift.
“Hey, Bulan,” I say. “You aren’t peeing in the water, are you?”
“Absolutely not!” Bulan recoils. “That was uncalled for! A warlord has dignity.”
I raise my eyebrow. “A warlord? You?”
“Indeed I was! Many centuries ago,” says Bulan, his sorrow puddling around him. “Alas, I am now nationless. And armless. Would you grab me a towel?”
Pleased at his tacit acknowledgment of my superiority, I grin and duck out—but not to comply with his request. Instead, I take a shower of my own. While working my hands through a surplus of shampoo bubbles, I ponder Bulan’s existence.
Following my freshman year of college, I’d been forced to spend a few weeks with Grandma.
Obviously it wasn’t ideal, but I hadn’t figured out how to get on-campus summer housing, and James’s bachelor pad reeked of poor male hygiene.
Grandma was ecstatic I’d come to visit after more than five years’ absence.
Her friends got excited too. Which is why I spent most of my time hiding from them at the public library.
The way Bulan talks, it seems like he was as well-established a fixture in Grandma’s house as her yard flamingos.
How could I have missed that when I came to visit?
Like, who ignores a severed talking head?
I know I’ve been single-minded about getting my degree and qualifying for my CPA license and starting my job.
Which might’ve meant I was triple-minded.
In other words: too busy. I guess I was just too busy.
And now the tap’s running cold.
Once I’m dressed, I use a kitchen towel to create a landing pad where Bulan can dry off. He may be a severed head, but once you look past that, he really is a model house pet.
“By the way, Sabby, you missed a visitor,” he says as I pat his ears. “While you were singing moodily in the shower.”
A tired hope flickers in my chest. Could Dave and Amanda have returned, after everything, to pay me for the wedding? I would do anything to avoid eating more frozen Italian illness-food tonight.
“Please tell me they were newlywed vampires,” I say.
“Alas! I cannot.”
Though I deflate slightly, I cover it with a scowl. “Then who? Baldy?” We both shudder. “A mourner for Grandma Rose? Remy, recovered from amnesia, demanding to know why ghosts were onstage last night? That fairy guy, Roach? Someone who can rescue me from tidal hell?”
“A person.”
How dare Bulan be so coy. “You’re really not going to tell me who it was.”
“I’m not your butler, Sabby.” For some reason, he blows a wet raspberry at me. “Besides, they left a note.”
It’s true. I find said note freshly tucked beneath the doormat. The text is short and to the point and written in absurdly polished penmanship. It reads:
Sabby,
I was glad to hear you arrived home safely last night. I’m sorry I missed you today. If you’re free, I’d like to see you again soon. Maybe you can join me in a forage on Wednesday night? I suspect you’re a night owl like me. If you want to come, here’s my number.
Yours,
Hanry
“Yo,” I call out to Bulan. “Hanry’s asked me out on a date! Whoo!”
“Don’t say ‘yo,’ ” he replies from the other room. “You sound lame.”
So what. I pocket the note, stunned to feel my lips tug upward in an unrestrained grin. I don’t know how I’m managing to smile when my life is crumbling around me.
But then again, this is an invitation for a date. Not even some kind of casual hang, but a date. With Hanry. And he wrote, “Yours.” Yours!
Last night I was ready to be done with Salem for good, and done with handsome foraging men too. But maybe being stuck here for a few more days won’t be the worst thing imaginable after all.
Just the second-worst.