Page 35 of Ghosted
“Hey,” Dean says. “This architectural monstrosity is myhome.” He comes up next to me, crossing his arms defensively.
“That you admitted to hating,” I say with a laugh.
Rather than argue my very valid point, Dean purses his lips in a pout I’ve already gotten to know so well. Today, he’s sporting a casual t-shirt—something I’ve never seen him in—and sweats. He’s definitely got the ghostly wardrobe change thing down. I’ve found that ghosts can change their appearance at will, so long as they can visualize the change well enough.
This outfit showcases the twisting botanical tattoo that fans over his right arm. Black monstera and fern leaves twist and writhe from his elbow over the muscular swell of his forearmand down to his wrist. It’s deeply satisfying to finally see the full tattoo on display.
We decided to come here today on my morning off and see if Dean can jog his memory. Since we were interrupted last time, it’s worth a shot to try again. I sent Jack a text earlier letting him know we’d be here, so he didn’t need to bust inTakenstyle again. I promised to keep him updated on any new developments after the fact. I didn’t ask him, but I think it must be emotionally draining for Dean to be around his dad, which makes it hard for him to focus.
“So, what’s the plan?” Dean asks, rocking back on his heels. The man can’t stand still, even in death.
“I think we should go through your typical routine. Walk me through it from the moment you open your eyes,” I say, hoping that going through his routine will spark a new memory.
“You just want to get me in bed, don’t you?” he teases.
I shake my head, focus hard on my hand, and give him a light shove against the swell of his shoulder. “Come on, Casanova. We have work to do, and we won’t get any of it done if you keep being a shameless flirt.”
“Because my masculine wiles will be too distracting?” he quips, booping my nose with a staticky tap.
“Masculine wiles? Is that a thing?”
“It is with me,” he says, nodding sagely.
“Come on. Show me your bedroom,” I reply, ignoring the way he bounces his eyebrows at me suggestively.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, winking at me. Ialsotry to ignore the little molten pool that builds low in my abdomen at that.
He leads me up the stairs, pointing to the various picture frames, telling me the stories behind each one. Like I hadsuspected the last time I was here, most are of his family, but he has a few good ones of him and his friends.
My favorite is a wedding shot of him and his best friend, Marco. They stand side by side with their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. Marco holds a reserved smile but there’s a softness to him, and Dean looks incandescently happy for him. His smile is so wide that you can barely see his eyes, and his dimple is a deep slash in his cheek. I stare extra hard at the picture, hoping to commit it to memory.
He guides me down a wide hallway, our steps dampened by a deep, ox-blood colored rug. We walk through the last door on the right, and I pause for just a moment on the threshold. It swings open silently and reveals a bedroom that is soDeanit almost chokes me up. Something about this physical manifestation of him serves as an even more stark reminder that he’ll never be alive in this space again. Light pours in from the floor-to-ceiling window on the opposite wall, spilling over everything inside and making it glow. The king-sized bed is unmade, but it’s draped in nice sheets and a wine-colored duvet that looks so comfy, I want to cocoon myself in it.
I take a small step inside and sweep my gaze across the space. Above the deep mahogany dresser, two long shelves of records stripe the wall. The accompanying record player sits dormant on the dresser, looking like it’s waiting for him to come home and play his favorite album.
More pictures and artwork surround the large mirror across from the bed, although these are a little less put together. Many of the photos look like they were quick snaps taken on a phone and then lovingly printed out later. There’s one of him and his sister that looks a little blurred, like their laughter made his arm shake while he took the picture.
“Sorry I didn’t get a chance to pick up,” Dean says, squeezing the back of his neck, “I didn’t think the next time I’d be here would involve being dead. Or having the girl I’m crushing on tagging along to help solve the whole, ya know, murder case. I definitely would have made sure I incinerated my gym clothes.” He gestures with a wince to the pile of clothes directly next to the overflowing laundry basket in the corner of the room.
I follow him deeper into the room and laugh a little. “If you think a glass of water, an open book on the nightstand, and some dirty laundry are messy, you’re never allowed to comment on what I consider clean,” I say, pointing a finger in warning.
“Deal,” he replies with a smirk, probably remembering the state of my place the last time he came over. I’m notdirty,but I am messy. My family used to call it “nesting” when I was growing up. I get all settled in one spot and surround myself with the book I’m reading, whatever hobby I’m fixated on, my laptop, a cozy blanket, and a snack or two. Then, I tend to have issues putting those things away. What’s the point if I’m just going to use them again in a few hours—or the next day?
“So,” he bounces on his toes. “What’s next?”
“Well, I want you to pretend it's your normal workday. Lay in the bed for a second to start, then you’re going to go through your whole morning routine and see if something brings up a memory.”
“Are you going to join me?” he asks, eyes trailing over me appreciatively.
As much as I’d like to…
“I don’t think that’ll help with this whole exercise, considering I wasn’t here that day.”
“And what a damn shame that is. If I had known it wouldbe my last day alive, you wouldn’t have left my bed,” he rumbles, flitting closer to me. He traces a finger down my arm and grabs my hand with his. It’s hard to distinguish if the buzzy feeling in my chest is run-of-the-mill butterflies or a result of his proximity.
“If only I had the foresight of my mother,” I say ruefully.
“Your mom…?”
