Page 18 of Baking With A Ghost

I really should go back to bed, but I'm compelled to keep talking, to let Simon know who I am.

Wrapping the blanket around me, I get comfortable on the sofa and switch on Netflix.

"I learned to bake when I had this one babysitter who was always baking at my house. When I was older, I fell into watching all these baking shows on TV." I scroll through the list of shows, all of them I've seen so many times, but I settle on one that makes me laugh. "This one is calledNailed Itand it's amateur bakers trying to replicate the picture. Funny as hell. I like to watch it when I need a laugh or when I need a pick me up."

I watch the episode with heavy eyes, as a woman tries to dig her cake out of the pan with a pair of butter knives.

"You're going to break the cake, don't do that!"

When her cake breaks into pieces, falling out of the pan, I sigh to the empty room. "It's like they never want to win. Just turn it out on the cooling rack." The woman on the TV does the usual moaning about it being too hard and I roll my eyes. As I always do. But then I laugh at the ridiculous effort of icing that ensues.

My eyes are drooping and I should really go back to bed, but I also want to stay with Simon. Which is… odd. But he made me soup and I haven't had a sign from him all week. I'm compelled to keep him here, so I keep talking.

"I've seen this one so many times." I yawn and stretch out on the couch. "She has to make about five pounds of icing to make anything stick together. It's a mess really, and if I remember correctly, it's supposed to be a pig but it ends up looking like a giant pink balloon." Another yawn. "But she tried, right? If she read the directions she'd have done better."

My eyes close as the episode plays out across the TV screen and I fall back asleep. As I slip away into the land of medicated slumber, I'm almost positive I hear a whisper near my ear.

It's simple, but packed full of comfort and care.

"Rest."

John

The River

Sunshinestreamingthroughthebay window, and a cat licking my nose, draws me from my sleep.

"I know, I'll feed you, just give me a second."

It's been ages since I've slept on the couch and my body feels it. You can't replace the comfort of a supportive mattress with the foam filled cushions of a couch. Stretching, I notice it's after 9 A.M and I'm grateful for having switched the sign to remain closed today.

While I do feel much better, I'm not a hundred percent. I know I'm burning myself out, and after hearing that single whispered word as I drifted off to sleep, I'm going to follow the request and rest.

After feeding Snowball, I notice the pot and dish in the sink from last night and my chest tightens. He made me soup. Somehow, he rattled around my kitchen and made me something to help me feel better. I'd be lying if I didn't admit it felt good to have someone care. To have someone so concerned about me, they sacrificed their own time to make sure I was okay. It's been far too long since I've felt like I mattered to someone and it's a feeling I could get used to.

But a hot shower is needed to work out the aches from not sleeping in bed before I can think of what's next. The pulsing hot water soothes my sore muscles and I brace myself under the stream. Steady inhales of steam help relieve my congestion and the vice my head was pushed in loosens itself. Physically, I'm feeling so much better, mentally it’s another story.

Since speaking to Mike, I've been obsessed with learning about spirits. My obsession may not be a good thing because I'm learning things I have no business learning. I'm a business owner and a baker. I'm a cat dad. The fact I'm reading articles online about paganism and a process called evocation should be the first clue something isn't right with me. Those searches stand out in my google search history like a cowboy in church.

Not that there's anything wrong about wanting to talk to spirits, it's just very out of character for me. I prefer to meet people online or through a workplace. Not try to bring them back from the dead in spirit form. Maybe it's a new trend I'm not aware of. I've never been accused of being in the know of what's trendy.

As the water runs cold, I reluctantly step out, but my thoughts are still focused on meeting Simon. I should call Ivy and talk this out with someone not directly involved. She might be overly concerned and think she needs to come rescue me from a breakdown, but I think she would understand my position, too. Probably better than most.

Changing into clean clothes, I open the fridge and again, my chest feels too tight and my heart does that crazy flutter thing.

Another bowl of soup sits covered in my barren fridge and I take it out carefully, placing it in the microwave. This time when I sit to eat, I notice the uneven circles of carrots and extra thick pieces of celery, cut with an inexperienced hand. The shredded pieces of chicken are from my leftovers I had a few days ago. It's not just a soup. It's a gift to me. Something he could physically do for me when I needed comfort. That kind of gesture packs a punch to my feelings and it's not easy to forget.

Slurping it off the spoon I picture Simon here, awkwardly slicing vegetables and shredding chicken at my counter. Maybe he's swaying along to music as he cooks in a loose t-shirt and snug fitting boxer shorts. He'd concentrate on making it properly and I bet he'd be more concerned about how I felt after eating it than if he made me a tasty soup.

If he were here, he'd set it aside to cool before crawling back into bed with me and kissing me on the forehead to make sure I didn't have a fever. His lips would linger, just to be sure, and I'd snuggle into his arms and feel the absolute perfection of having a real, caring embrace from a partner.

My spoon scrapes the bottom of the soup bowl and I stare at the empty vessel with a heavy sigh.

Rain drops ping against the bay window, drawing me from my daydream and over to peer outside. Today is a grey and wet September day, but it's still a breathtaking view. The sun hasn't shown itself enough to warm the land yet and a gauzy blanket of mist still settles over the creek. Grabbing the blanket off the couch from last night, I settle on the bench seat and search the creek. Where would Simon have struggled with his dad?

Like an old home video, I view the images in my mind as I scan the creek. His beau perhaps waits on the other side for him and watches it all happen. His father would still be half dressed and it was surely night time. He'd reach him at the creek because he'd hear the splash of Simon's shoes in the water. My gaze sweeps the creek and I choose the largest boulder as the place of the accident. With vivid clarity, I watch Simon spin around to confront his father. He's wearing dark black pants and a white shirt, what most men wore then, with suspenders. His father grabs his arm, shouting vile words at him while Simon flails his arms to be let go. Tears run down Simon's face and I imagine it's from the words his dad is shouting and not the strong grip on his arm.

He stumbles and I cry out to my empty loft when his head bounces off the large rock. Blood runs down his face, but he stands up to confront his father who has retreated, but not far. Simon looks over his shoulder to the opposite bank and when his shoulders drop, I know the plan was foiled and his beau wasn’t there to help. Probably too afraid, he remained hidden or even worse, he changed his mind.

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