Page 6 of A Midsummer Night's Ghost

“Do we do that often enough that it’s a look?” I asked, bewildered. “You act like we’re keeping secrets from you left, right, and center.”

“Don’t evade, Margaret.”

“Fine. There may be an issue at the senior center, but I don’t have details so let’s just get in the car and go.”

As we stepped off the porch, a rousing gust of wind blew my curls into my face. Since I was holding onto my ancient grandmother for dear life, terrified she’d fall, I couldn’t swipe them away. I just had to cough and splutter my way around feral hair until we got to my car, in our new two-car-wide driveway. The improved parking—especially come February—made ourdated kitchen with the burnt orange built-in can opener and wall mounted Seal-a-Meal worth it.

My previous house had a very skinny and super short driveway that fit just one car, so I was thrilled not to have to park on the street anymore in bad weather, a regular spring occurrence.

May in Cleveland is like a promise ring. Good intentions, but not an actual commitment. May was just trying to buy time, put you off before you demanded eighty degrees and sunshine. Some days were balmy with blue skies, others were gray with gusting winds and precipitation.

Today had been both. It started out with blue skies and was now determined to test the stability of patio furniture and tree branches everywhere.

“Whoa, you guys have a lot of boxes to unload still,” Ryan commented.

“Don’t let Jake hear you say that.”

“He can’t hear me, remember?”

Right. The whole ghost thing.

I really did forget sometimes.

Once we were all in the car I asked, hopefully, “Is this a regular death? Like someone who was one-hundred-and-one and their heart gave out?”

Ryan scoffed. “You know that’s not our department. We’re Homicide.”

This lady doth protest. “No, we’re not.Youare. Or you were. Whatever. Why does this keep happening?”

“Murder? Because people are dicks.”

I mean, true, but couldn’t everyone take a breather and enjoy the spring thaw?

“I don’t know how many more murders I can stumble across without needing some serious therapy,” I told him.

“Who got whacked?” Grandma asked, fussing with her seat belt. “I hope not Sara Murphy. She’s so young.”

“Sara Murphy?” Ryan leaned forward from the back seat right as I glanced behind me to check for traffic before I backed up.

My face melted into his and it felt like I’d sucked on seventy-five mints simultaneously. Cool air shot across my lips and into my mouth.

“Ah! Jesus, don’t do that.” I scrubbed my lips and chin.

“Don’t take the name of the Lord in vain,” Grandma said.

“Yeah,” Ryan agreed. “And don’t even pretend like you weren’t just trying to kiss me.”

“I was not trying to kiss you! I didn’t know you were there.” I hit the gas harder than I intended and all of our heads whipped forward. “Sorry.”

But he was right. That had been like a kiss. A weird, ghostly and creepy peck from a dead man I had once fancied myself in love with pre-Jake Marner.

Ryan liked to refer to my life prior to dating Jake as BJ, which allegedly meant Before Jake, but we both knew that’s not what he really meant because he was super mature that way.

The facial collision had been an accident, but it still felt weird and oddly intimate in a way that made me uncomfortable. Determined to ignore it, I said, “What do you know about Sara Murphy?”

“She’s hot, right? I think I remember her from high school. A bonfire, some PBRs, a little country music playing in the background…”

Ryan’s sentence trailed off and I glanced at him in the rearview mirror as I drove. He looked strangely melancholy and it bothered me. “You didn’t even know me in high school. I doubt you knew Sara Murphy.”

---