Chapter 28
twenty-eight
ZEKE
Phoebe: So that episode you did at the antique store… please tell me you sanitized that chair.
Zeke: Before or after?
Phoebe: BOTH
Benji: Oh god
Zeke: That’s my little secret
Will: Do I even want to know?
Benji: Do yourself a favor. Do NOT listen to episode #3.
Sleep did me good last night. In fact, although Autumn’s rejection is still nagging at the back of my mind, I’ve been able to forget about it for most of the day. As long as I stay moving, that is—which hasn’t been hard.
I had to go out to Hadley to record an episode for the podcast, and then it was on to Pelham to film some TikToks.
Will can say what he wants about me not having a real job or whatever, but I’m staying pretty damn busy.
And these sponsors haven’t dropped me yet—so suck on that, Carter Langley, with your smarmy LinkedIn messages that never fucking stop.
Just kidding. I don’t really mean that—not about Carter. He may be a sell out, but he’s a good dude. It’s nice he thinks of me, even if the job he wants to give me would put Charlie Brown’s goddamn teacher to sleep. Hard pass.
So now I’m sitting in Brewed Awakening with my laptop in front of me, poring over the footage from last night.
I’m a natural on camera, but as I look through the clips I’ve got, I’m finding that Autumn isn’t half bad either.
She’s hot, of course—which always helps—but even more, she went along with my efforts to amp up the drama.
I mean, until we got to that bombshell Lena dropped—because after that, we didn’t need more drama.
The footage is perfect. It’s raw, honest, and completely real.
I know the people who watch these shows can’t really tell the difference, but I’ve got to think that the realness comes across somehow.
Like, maybe they can’t see the ghosts, but they’ll be able to sense from my demeanor that I can.
At least, that’s the hope. That’s what’s going to win me this competition.
I mean, that and my good looks. No need to beat around the bush here.
As I take a sip of my coffee, I slump against the back of the booth, stretching my legs out under the table. I’ve been going hard at this stuff all day, and I think I’ve about reached my limit. A little TikTok break is in order, and then I’ll wrap up, finish my coffee, and head out.
I’ve kind of been avoiding going home today because seeing Autumn right now just sounds more awkward than it’s worth, but what am I going to do?
Sleep in this booth? I’ll have to see her tomorrow at the fashion show anyway, so I may as well rip off the band aid tonight.
If I see her, I see her. If I don’t, I don’t. No biggie. It’s cool.
I flick through the first few TikToks that come up, barely even stopping to watch the first two seconds of each.
My algorithm shows me mainly ghost hunting stuff, and most of it makes me roll my eyes because it’s so goddamn fake.
But I like to know what I’m up against, know what’s trending and what kind of things I could put my own spin on—so I sift through the bullshit anyway and have a good laugh.
But then one TikTok makes me stop.
Because I recognize the guy in the frame. It’s Jaxon Slade, looking as greasy and jacked up as ever, and he’s standing in front of the Salem Witch House.
Cranking up the volume on my AirPods, I start the video again from the beginning.
The composition of the opening frame is fantastic, and my throat goes tight.
I can already tell that Jaxon knows exactly what he’s doing, that the team he said he hired for drone shots and shit absolutely delivered, and that his edits are impeccable.
And the way he has the camera pan slowly upwards, from the ground to the gables of the house? Chilling as hell.
God. Fucking. Dammit.
It’s just a teaser, but this video’s perfect—and it’s already got 200,000 views.
My heart sinks, my chest feeling more and more crushed the longer I scroll through the comments.
He’s drawing a whole damn crowd there, not just screaming, swooning girls.
The Salem Witch House isn’t haunted at all, but these people don’t know that.
Jaxon Slade’s convinced them it is—maybe even convinced himself—and they’re eating up every last crumb and begging for seconds and thirds.
I toss my phone on the table. Why did I think I could do this?
I can’t measure up to that. I may have real, authentic footage, but I don’t have a fancy camera crew—I’ve got my tripod, my iPhone.
I don’t have a professional editing team—there’s only me, sitting here in this freaking coffee shop.
And whatever confidence I had? That’s on the way out, too.
Because it doesn’t matter if Jax is a fraud and I’m the real deal.
He’s so far ahead of me it’s not even funny, and the people want what they want.
They want Salem. They want lore. They don’t care about a maid they’ve never heard of, in a house that looks like it came out of a lifestyle magazine.
It’s not the vibe, and I don’t know why I ever thought it was.
Fuck this. I don’t need this.
Jax’s stupid pilot. Will’s constant snide comments. Autumn telling her douchey ex that I’m just a player, that it’s just a little favor she’s doing for Lydia to get me out of her and Will’s hair—like I’m some kind of pesky gnat. I’m over it.
I drain my coffee, slam my laptop shut, and stuff my cup in the trash. I know I’m spiraling, but I can’t help it. I’ve got to do something. Go somewhere. Distract myself from the hurt I’m just barely outrunning. Because if it catches me… if I slow down and let it come crashing in…
I don’t know if I’ll ever get up again.
A thought jumps into my mind: I could call Jenny. If she’s around, I’m sure she’d be down for a little roll in the sheets—and she’d probably make me feel better about Jax, too. It’s no secret he’s never been able to snag her.
But it feels… bad. I’m not even sure why. It’s never felt bad before—we’re both consenting adults, right? There’s nothing wrong with some no-strings attached sex. I mean, that’s what I’ve been doing with Autumn, and it’s been just fine. No harm, no—
Aw, fuck. That’s why it feels bad.
It’s guilt. I’m feeling guilty. Because Jenny’s not Autumn.
In no way have I ever made any sort of commitment to Autumn—or even led her to believe I wasn’t sleeping with other people—yet here I still am, feeling guilty.
The most sense I can make of it is that Autumn really saw me or something.
She didn’t just see me as a good lay, as someone to hit and quit—she made me feel like we were a team in a way no one really has before.
Except not. Because, apparently, I’m nothing to her. I’m just a favor.
Ugh, this sucks. There’s a reason I don’t do guilt.
I need to nip this shit in the bud fast, get Autumn out of my head.
I still can’t bring myself to call Jenny—as much as I hate it, the guilt is still there, and I need to wallow a little longer.
Besides, what if she rejects me, too? I don’t think I could handle it in my current state.
Before I even realize where I’m headed, I’m out the door and halfway across town, headed straight for the docks.
There’s a hot ghost chick who hangs out there, who I’ve definitely messed around with before.
I won’t bang her tonight—again, there’s that guilt—but holding back on a spirit will be a lot less tempting than on a flesh and blood woman.
I just hope she’s there. Because, although I hate to admit it, I could use the fucking validation.
It’s early evening, and although the sun hasn’t set yet, it’s starting to sink beneath the clouds in the west. I’m hungry and I haven’t eaten dinner, but I also don’t want to go home and chance running into Autumn.
Likewise, crashing at Will’s and having to deal with his comments sounds awful.
So I swing by the convenience store a few blocks away from the harbor, and grab myself a donut and some Pringles.
And, despite my better judgment, I can’t resist walking out of there without a bottle of cheap tequila under my arm, too.
I don’t drink much since I got the DUI, but hell. I need it right now.
There are only a few people coming and going around the docks, tying up their boats.
They shoot me a few curious looks, probably wondering who the hell this sexy guy is sitting here with his hand stuck down a tube of Pringles.
But I don’t care. Let ‘em wonder. I’m really only known to the younger crowd in Hawthorne Bay, and they don’t hang out near the harbor—which is something I’m glad for right about now.
The hot ghost isn’t here, though. As I sit there on the edge of the dock, swinging my legs and stealing gulps from the tequila bottle, I watch the sun continue to sink behind the town.
Maybe she’ll show up. Maybe Jenny will call me.
If she calls me, I can at least know I didn’t go out of my way to initiate.
But I don’t really want her to. Because, honestly, as I sit here and the alcohol starts to warm my blood and dull the sharp edges of my loneliness or whatever the fuck this feeling is, the only person I want to call me is Autumn.
I just keep hearing her voice in my head, keep remembering how she said I was no one. Shit.
Come on, tequila. Work your magic.
The sky is a dark purple now, and the stars are peeking out one by one overhead.
I’m still feeling alone, but the lap of the water against the dock is soothing, the rumble of cars drifting in from downtown strangely comforting.
I swig my tequila, looking out across the dark, silvery waves and feeling glad for the fuzzy warmth that’s flooding my limbs and overtaking my mind.
This is what I needed. Sometimes a dude just needs to feel sorry for himself.
As I lie back against the cold, hard wood of the dock, I breathe in the salty air. The bottle of tequila’s half gone, sitting upright next to me. Will would freaking kill me if he saw me out in public like this, sprawled out on the dock with Pringles crumbs in my stubble, one hundred percent drunk.
But I’m too gone to care. Besides, caring gets me nowhere good. At some point, I turn over on my side and curl up, listening to the crash of the waves and feeling the sting of the salt on my face. And I stay that way, numb and dull and closed off to the world, until eventually, I fall asleep.