Page 20 of Ghostlighted
“Uh. Wow. Okay. Thanks.” I wiped my hands on my jeans, which only succeeded in transferring residual garden dirt to my palms. To be done with Greg for good? Yes, please. However… “Could we postpone the trip until tomorrow?” I needed time to gird my mental loins for the confrontation—and probably should give Greg a heads-up that I’d be showing up at his door.
“Tomorrow, then.” He backed up until he was at the top of the steps. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Before I could do anything more than nod, he was off the porch and across the lawn.
Chapter Seven
“Ready for this?” Ricky asked.
I peered through his windshield at Greg’s building, a converted warehouse in Portland’s Pearl District. “Not sure I’d ever be truly ready.”
“Hey.” Ricky unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to face me. “I pretty much strong-armed you into this trip. If you’d rather not deal with it, we can just go home again.”
Home. Home is good.
“No.” I managed a smile. “Let’s not. I’m a master at procrastination and conflict avoidance, so I’d have found excuses to put this off forever. And despite my griping about Greg’s inhospitality, I really shouldn’t impose on him any longer.” My smile turned more sincere. I hoped. “Thanks for the push. I needed it.” It was beyond time to tie up this loose end and get on with my new life.
Which, hopefully, would continue to include Ricky.
We climbed out of the truck, and when he joined me by the passenger door, I said, “I’m going to owe you lunch at least after this. Maybe dinner too.”
He grinned at me and patted the shell that covered the truck bed. It hadn’t been there yesterday, so he’d installed it just for this trip.
Just for me.
“I won’t say no to either of those. Your stuff will be safe, even if we have to park for a while.”
I swallowed and made myself take the first step forward. “His condo is on the top floor. I called yesterday to let him know we were coming.”
“Did he answer?”
“Voicemail.”
We hadn’t actually spoken since I’d moved out. His response to my texts was always the same:No messages, no mail, screw you.Come to think of it, I hadn’t texted him lately either, not since I’d moved to Ghost.
“Guess we’ll see if A) he’s home, B) he’ll open the door for us, and C) he didn’t actually dump all my stuff on the curb months ago.”
Ricky’s black brows drew together. “Do you think he’d do something like that?”
I led the way inside to the elevator lobby. “Nah. That’d mean he’d have to move those boxes by himself. He wouldn’t exert himself that much and he definitely wouldn’t have paid anybody else to do it.”
“Then I guess we’ll find out.” He gestured to the intercom. “I’d ring it for you, but I think it would be better for you to do the honors.” He grinned. “Closure, and all that.”
I choked back a laugh as I pressed the buzzer. “You have a point.”
A moment later, Greg’s voice emerged from the speaker. “Yes?”
“It’s Maz.”
“Maz.” His tone was perfectly flat.
“Greg.” I matched it. Also perfectly.
“This isn’t a good time.”
“I called yesterday. If you wanted to reschedule, you should have replied to my message.”
His long-suffering sigh was audible—and drawn out far longer than necessary. “Fine. Come up.”
