Chapter 6
six
ZEKE
Zeke: Yo. What’s for dinner?
Will: You don’t live here anymore!
Zeke: So????
Phoebe: I want dinner.
Phoebe: Will, will you make me dinner?
Zeke: See ya in 5!
Phoebe: Will. Feeeeed meeeeee.
Will:
Benji: You guys, PLEASE. This is the group chat.
Will’s house smells amazing when I let myself in the front door and make a beeline to the kitchen.
It’s Tuesday evening, and I haven’t been by Will’s place since the weekend—which, incidentally, means I also haven’t had a decently cooked meal since the weekend.
But hey—I’ve been more interested in texting Jenny, the chick from the bar, and researching for the podcast episode I want to record about the Ashfern Forest in Vermont than tying on an apron and shoving a casserole in the oven. Sue me.
The fact that I haven’t seen Will or Lydia since Saturday also means that I haven’t told them about the SyFy pilot contest—or about walking in Autumn’s fashion show.
I already know Will’s going to grunt at me about the contest—that fucker grunts about everything and he still thinks I need to get a “real” job—but I’m low key intrigued to see how Lydia’s going to react when she hears I’ll be modeling that menswear line for her best friend.
I mean, I haven’t exactly kept it a secret that I think Autumn’s a fine piece of ass.
Lydia’s no dummy—she’ll see right away that my plan is in motion.
Oh, yeah. It’s all coming together.
“Duuude,” I announce, flinging my backpack onto a barstool and taking a glass down from the cupboard. “Whatever that is smells dope.”
Will’s chopping a clove of garlic, and I hear him grunt as I pour myself a glass of orange juice from the fridge and take a hefty gulp. “Sure does. You helping?”
I swallow the orange juice with an exaggerated sigh of refreshment. “Nah, I’m just here to mooch.”
Will shakes his head, but his lips twitch and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.
He’s been a lot less grouchy since Lydia came around—probably due to getting his dick sucked regularly—but he’s been on this don’t-encourage-the-kid kick lately, which I find very endearing.
I also love how he cooks now—and not just omelets and spaghetti-os and frozen pizza.
It’s honestly amazing what good head will do for a man.
Will takes another cutting board out of a lower cabinet and tosses it on the counter next to me. He hands me a knife and points to a bundle of freshly washed herbs that are lying next to the sink. “You. Basil. Chop.”
“Oh, Will, I can’t,” I fake whine. “These fingers are precious. They’ve pleased countless women. If something were to happen to them—”
“Then you’d use your mouth, dipshit. Just like you do for everything else. Get chopping.”
Will gestures to the basil again, but he’s hiding his face and his shoulders are heaving with laughter. I grin and give him a playful punch in the arm as I pick up the knife. Just as I do, my phone buzzes. It’s Benji on FaceTime.
“Yo!” Turning the call volume all the way up, I flip my phone horizontally and prop it up against my orange juice glass on the counter. “Will and I are here cooking—just call us Julie and Julia.”
“Oh, yeah?” Benji looks skeptical. He’s got on joggers and a tight-fitting tee, and I’m only the tiniest bit jealous of how put-together he looks. “What are you guys making?”
“Uhhhh.” I glance at Will, who’s grimacing and giving Benji a come save me sort of look. “We’re making… I have no clue what we’re making. Will, what’s this supposed to be in the end?”
“Spaghetti bolognese.”
“Huh. I’m surprised he’d trust you with a knife,” Benji says.
“I know. I said the same thing. I said if one of these fingers gets accidentally chopped off—”
“You don’t need to finish that sentence,” Benji says, nose wrinkling. “I think we all know where it’s going. Anyway—what’s up? You said you had some news?”
“News?” Will glances at me as he adds his pile of minced garlic to the pan of already sauteing onions. He freezes, as though a thought’s just come over him. “Holy shit. I swear to god, Zeke, if you got somebody pregnant—”
I burst out laughing. “Jesus, what do you take me for—some kind of amateur? No, I did not get someone pregnant. I am, however, entering a reality TV contest.”
Benji snorts. “Reality show—what, like Survivor?”
“As if,” Will says. “Zeke wouldn’t last two seconds on Survivor. More like… the Real House-Slobs of Hawthorne Bay.”
“Or Love Island,” Benji puts in, slapping the arm of whatever sofa he’s on. “Wait—what’s that show Phoebe used to watch? Too Hot to Handle?”
“For your information,” I retort, pretending to be mad even though I’m loving the attention, “I am too hot to handle. But can you two be serious for, like, thirty seconds? This is an actual thing I’m excited about.”
“Okay. Yes. Okay,” Benji says. He’s biting his lip, clearly trying to get his laughter under control. “We’re listening. What’s the show? What’s the contest?”
“The SyFy Channel has plans for a new ghost hunting show, and they’re doing a contest for it.
” I’m waving my knife around with excitement while I talk, the basil all but forgotten.
“You enter by filming and submitting a pilot episode for the series—you know, putting your own spin on it—and the winner gets their pilot produced, along with a season-long contract. It’s perfect. ”
Will walks to the stove and flicks on another burner.
Having only recently opened himself back up to the spirit world, Will is still a little hesitant to get involved in anything having to do with ghosts.
As he adds ground meat to the pan, he quirks an eyebrow at me. “Interesting. You think you can win?”
“Duh. I mean… this is moi we are talking about,” I say, puffing out my chest.
My degree in sound production means I also studied a lot of videography in college, so I do know a little about what I’m doing with a camera—but I’m nowhere near as confident as I’m trying to make it seem.
That’s a little trick I’ve picked up over the course of my life: Pretend everything’s great, and everything will be great. Or, at least, your nonstop momentum will allow you to keep on cruising when things eventually go south.
Slow down and acknowledge shit? Psh. You’re toast.
“That actually sounds pretty cool,” Benji says. He runs a hand through his long, glorious hair and gives me a nod that says he’s impressed. “I like the initiative. Let me know if you need me for anything.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But I want this to just be me. It’s important for the brand, bro—can’t have you coming in and stealing the damn show with those luscious locks of yours. Granted, with this fashion show I’m walking in—oh, yeah. I forgot. You guys. Autumn Carroway asked me to—”
“Autumn Carroway?” A sharp voice cuts me off, and Lydia comes striding into the kitchen, tossing her keys onto the counter. She fixes me with an expectant gaze. “What about Autumn, Zeke?”
“Well, shit—hello to you too, Madam Librarian,” I say, blowing her a kiss. I’m teasing Lydia like it’s a joke, but there’s a part of me that’s a little wounded by the defensive tone in her voice. Like I can’t be trusted with her friend. Like she’s just waiting for me to screw up.
“You’re right—sorry,” Lydia says, blowing out her breath as she goes to hug Will. He plants a kiss on the top of her head, still pushing the meat around in the pan with a spatula. She glances at the iPhone and waves. “Hey, Benj. Hey, Zeke. Everything okay?”
“Sure is,” I say. It’s a half-hearted apology, and she doesn’t address the tone she just took, but I’m not about to go down that road.
She’s probably right, anyway. I’d be wary of me if I weren’t me—which is something I’m weirdly proud of, come to think of it.
“And as I was saying, Autumn Carroway” —I flash a little grin in Lydia’s direction— “asked me to walk in her fashion show a couple weeks from now. Said she needed someone to model her menswear line, and she thought I’d be just the man for the job. ”
Benji looks amused, but he’s nodding along with me. “Right on, man. I’d imagine they’ll be taking tons of photos—you’ll probably get some good headshots out of the deal, too.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Lydia says, holding out a hand. “I thought Autumn got Nico Brooks to walk in her show. What happened with that?”
I shrug. “Dunno, don’t care. All I know is she asked me, and I said I’d be down for it if she’d let me film my pilot episode in her house. Because damn, is there something in there.”
This time Lydia holds up both hands. “Okay, I’m going to need someone to catch me up because I am officially confused.”
Will chuckles. “We all are, babe.”
“Zeke’s entering a contest to get his own ghost hunting show produced by SyFy,” Benji offers, his normally rich voice tinny through the iPhone speaker. “I guess he made a deal with Autumn that he’d walk in her show if she lets him film his entry for the contest at her house.”
“Bingo,” I say, shooting finger guns at Benji.
“Dude, she already lets you live in her freaking cabin,” Will says, dumping a jar of tomato sauce into the pan on the stove. “How the hell did you eke out more of a deal?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I ask, winking at him.
He doesn’t answer, just moves to the fridge and takes out a block of parmesan, which he lobs at me. “Forget the basil—grate that. Grater’s in the top drawer there.”
“Well, I’d like to know how you know her house has ghosts,” Lydia puts in. She’s eyeing me as I dig for the cheese grater. “Are you, like, finding yourself inside her house frequently…?”
“God, Lydia,” Benji laughs. “If you want to know if Zeke’s been banging your friend, why don’t you just ask him? I’m sure he’d love to tell us about it!”
“You bet your ass I’d be talking about it,” I say, smirking at Lydia. “In fact, if it ever happens—oh, sorry, when it happens—you’ll be the first to know. But alas, that day has not yet arrived.”
Lydia rolls her eyes at both me and Benji, and I cackle with delight. It’s really no wonder she and Will wanted me out of their hair—I get so much joy from ribbing them. I flash Lydia a grin as I slice off a huge hunk of cheese and pop it into my mouth.
“Zeke!” Will growls. “What the hell? Did you just eat half that block of parmesan?”
“Sorry,” I say, grinning through a mouthful of cheese.
“I couldn’t help it. It—it just crumbled into my mouth.
In all seriousness, though…” I pause to chew and swallow.
“I’m excited for the opportunity. I checked out Autumn’s previous collection—she’s got it on her website—and she does some really dope stuff.
It’s all upcycled—like, she takes these vintage pieces and gives them a whole new life. She fucking sews.”
Lydia cracks me a smile, and I know she’s not pissed anymore. She appreciates my genuine recognition of her friend’s talent. This is the nature of Lydia’s and my relationship—wobbly, like some kind of hanging footbridge, but we always manage to make it across with each other.
“Autumn’s amazing,” Lydia agrees. “And I’m excited about her show, too. You’ll be great, Zeke. Just… I don’t know, take it seriously. Please?”
I can tell by the look in her eyes when she turns to me that she’s talking about more than just the fashion show.
She’s asking me to handle this situation with care, to make sure nothing happens to Autumn Carroway’s toughened, yet recently broken heart.
And I love that about Lydia—she cares. Like, really cares.
But she doesn’t need to worry. I’m not getting involved with anyone’s heart, Autumn Carroway or otherwise.
The one time I did I ended up with a knife in my back, and although that was ages ago, I’m taking no chances.
I don’t need a girl—or a guy, hell—to tell my secrets to at night, to kiss me on the forehead and tell me it’ll all be okay.
Nah, you start letting people in—start slowing down and getting attached—and all of a sudden, you start realizing things. Things like, “Dad probably left because of you,” and “You’re the screw-up of the family,” and who wants to hear those voices? Not me.
“Cross my heart,” I say to Lydia, giving her a nod.
And as I continue to grate the rest of the parmesan, watching as Lydia sets the table and Will puts the finishing touches on the pasta, I realize just how much I meant what I promised.
People like Will and Lydia? They’re cut out for this domestic kind of bliss.
They’re not walking around all the time, wondering if they’re good enough. Wondering if they’re screw-ups.
But for someone like me? Hell, I’d need a fucking soul transplant to even dream of it.
So if Autumn Carroway wants to get down and dirty with me—boom. I’ll have her screaming all night long. But that’s all I want from Autumn. That’s it.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.
Zeke Holloway does not mess around with feelings.