Page 32 of Haunt Me

F: Was the boy freaked out? Was it hot when he saved you?

Eden: No, it was gross. I was so hungry I emptied his cupboards. But thankfully it must have been one of Father’s long nights at the office, because his car was not in the driveaway this morning when I got back home. I think he hasn’t been in the house all night. I’m guessing he will arrive any minute now, and with any luck, I might pull this off. When he comes to check on me, he won’t know I haven’t been in my bed all night.

F: Smooth.

Eden: I’m already in bed, texting you. I hope he doesn’t see the light of my phone.

F: Don’t be so paranoid.

Eden: I’m not paranoid. It’s happened before—him watching me while I was asleep. He’s filmed it too.

F: Parents are weird.

Eden: I don’t know, is that weird? Is it normal? Who knows? Not me.

F: You’re weird.

Eden: I know I am. Do you know what I did while Isaiah was walking me home?

F: Wait, he walked you home?

Eden: I asked him about his family. I don’t think he realized how curious I was about everything. I wanted to know all I could, how families work, how normal people do it. How dads are generally with their kids… I’m not sure I am being a daughter correctly.

F: You are the queen of doing things correctly. Like fainting alone in the woods.

Eden: Well, it was because of the fasting. You know I had no choice. Father has his rules for a reason. Besides, I think it’s normal for parents to tell their kids to fast for five days. Everybody does it, right? Please tell me it’s normal.

F: It was a punishment, that’s what you said.

Eden:…

F: You told me that your father said you had to be hungry for a few days as punishment for reading a book you shouldn’t have. Those were your words. You said it was your fault you were hungry.

Eden: I did say that.

Eden: I’m not so sure it was my fault though. Isaiah said—

Eden: Oh, wait, I hear Father, he’s home. He’s coming up the stairs. Gotta go. Cross your fingers for me.

F: Yeah, I’m not doing that.

*messages deleted*

ten

It’s barely six thirty in the morning and everything is covered in a fine, white mist as we walk through the trees. The air is beginning to smell of snow, even though it’s too early for it, too warm. But this mist makes everything look like it is happening within a dream.

Did I dream her in my bed last night?

Am I dreaming her now, walking next to me?

“Tell me something about your parents,” I ask her.

“My books,” she says. “Some of them belonged to my mom. That’s what got me started on reading vintage romances.”

“That is so sweet.” She is waiting for me to say something, but I can’t talk about my dad. Not yet. “My mom plays the cello,” I say.

“Wow. So you take after her.”

---