Page 22 of Ghostlighted
“Think about it, Maz. He always responded to your texts, even if he was a jerk about it. If he truly wanted to ghost you, he would have maintained radio silence. Not to mention he pointedly didnottell you not to come by today after you left that message.”
I glanced at Greg’s reddening face. “I’m pretty sure he?—”
“Also, that much cologne should be illegal.”
Greg flung the door open. “Get the damn boxes already. Don’t mar the walls, and if you scatter any dust or trash around, you’re cleaning it up.”
“I always did, Greg. I always did.”
I led the way through the sunny great room. Regardless of how my relationship with Greg had ended, I’d always appreciated the design and execution of the space, although industrial chic had never been my vibe. I much preferred my Queen Anne beauty in Ghost.
The small second bedroom where I’d worked was at the end of a short hallway, the desk still under the wide window. The center of the room was clear, so I pointed to the trap in the ceiling.
“Stairs to the attic.”
“Good.” Ricky glanced over his shoulder to where Greg loomed in the doorway. “’Cause I doubt he’d loan us a ladder.”
“He’d have to buy one first.”
The hook I’d used to open the trap was standing in the corner, exactly where I’d left it months ago. With it in my hands, it only took a few seconds to snag the recessed handle overhead and pull—I’d had practice, after all. The stairs extended smoothly, although dust motes danced in the sunlight. I offered up a brief thank-you to Avi, who kept our house completely dust free.
I mounted the steps until I could see over the attic floor. My boxes still sat exactly where I’d left them, as far as I could tell. I went the rest of the way up the stairs.
When Ricky joined me a minute later, I was standing with my hand on the top box.
“Is this everything?”
“Y-yes.” I rubbed my chest, easing a sudden pang. “I didn’t remember there being so many. I thought there were only six.”
These boxes held everything that was left from my childhood, from my life with my parents, from their lives. When their RV went off the road in the Rockies, everything they’d had with them had been lost, too. Even ten boxes weren’t a lot to show for three lives.
Ricky sidled up next to me until his shoulder bumped mine. “You okay?”
“I will be.” I patted the top box. “This one has all my dad’s kitchen stuff that he didn’t take with him when he and Mom embraced van life. He kept his recipes in a few loose-leaf notebooks.” I glanced at Ricky. “Did I ever tell you that my grandfather on Dad’s side was the youngest of thirteen? My grandmother was the youngest of seven.”
Ricky’s eyebrows shot up. “You must have tons of cousins, too.”
“Maybe. But not all of them emigrated to the US, and they were mostly all a generation older than me. My mom and dad were both only children, so no first cousins for me, and my momnever introduced me to any of her extended family.” Which was why I’d never known about Oren.
He squeezed my arm. “You’ve got another family now.”
I swiped a hand under my eyes. “Yeah. I do.” I took a deep breath. “Anyway, Dad’s cookbooks have handwritten recipes for his aunt’s pita bread, his dad’s cheese, my grandmother’s kibbe. I haven’t seen them for almost a year. Haven’t cooked any of them for even longer.”
“Why not?”
“Greg doesn’t care for Arabic food, and he had nothing but scorn for my mom’s recipes.” I chuckled softly. “Not that there are many of those. Mom hated to cook. She said it was the principle of the thing—in her midwestern fundamentalist family, cooking and cleaning were always the women’s responsibility, and she refused to bow to the patriarchy. But I think she just found cooking so boring that she didn’t see the point when she could grab a bowl of cereal and spend her time reading instead.”
Ricky studied where my hand rested on the box. “Will you make some of your dad’s dishes for me?”
The pang in my chest eased for the first time since I’d come into the attic. “If you’d like me to, sure. Although I confess to being a little intimidated. I’m not the fantastic cook my dad was, and your family runs a restaurant with the best Mexican food I’ve eaten anywhere except Sofia’s kitchen. I doubt I can measure up to your standards.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s the willingness to give the gift that matters more than the gift itself.”
“All right,” I murmured. “It’s a date.”
“Hey!” Greg called. “I do have other places to be today.”
Trust Greg to kill the mood.
