Page 7 of Ghosted
I press my phone to my chest and smile, glad no one is around to see the dreamy upturn of my lips. How embarrassing to hold out hope for something that will probably crash and burn.
FIVE
“What are you so nervous about?”Wren asks from her spot sprawled out on my bed. Like a good sister, she came over early to help weigh in on hair decisions (down, but artfully curled, obviously) and makeup decisions (just a little, so I still feel like me). Like abadsister, she’s been giving me shit all afternoon about how nervous I am.
From the bowels of my closet I yell back, “Um, I don’t know, the whole thing? What if he’s a murderer? What if we don’t get along? What if wedo?” I aggressively yank my third top choice from the hanger. Wren has already vetoed the last two. One was too librarian, and the other was too oversized. We’ve already settled on a black, hip-hugging miniskirt with slightly transparent black tights and boots, but the top is about to end our sisterly relationship.
She picks her head up off my pillow and peers over her phone at me. “Yes, that’s the one.”
“You don’t think it’s too on-theme?” I ask, evaluating the merlot-colored sweater.
“If you spill any wine, it’ll blend in. Also it makes your eyes pop. That’s the one.” She nods sagely and goes back to scrolling on her phone.
I toss the sweater over my head, trying to be careful of the curls and makeup. When I tug it down into place and assess my reflection in my full-body mirror, I have to admit that Wren is right. She usually is when it comes to fashion choices, but it irks me all the same. Can’t she be wrong just once? The top hangs in a way that shows off my figure, and with it tucked artfully into the skirt, it accentuates my generous curves. The bold red color compliments my pasty skin and dark hair, making my complexion look warmer.
“Told you,” she says without looking up from her phone. Damned aura reader. Her ability to parse out emotions has only improved with age, and it means she can clock how I’m feeling without even putting in the effort.
She continues without pausing her social media scrolling. “As far as him being a murderer, you’re going to a public place. If it works out and you like each other, great. If it doesn’t, at least you get some free wine. It doesn’t have to be so complicated if you let yourself enjoy it.”
I pluck the phone out of her hands and toss it to the other side of the bed just to be annoying. “I know you’re right. I hate how vulnerable the whole thing makes me, though. Like, I’m presenting myself to some dude who swiped right on my picture. It feels dystopian.”
She sits up and replies, “Yeah, well, it doesn’t have to be that deep. Just don’t bring up the ghost thing.”
I grimace. “It makes me feel like I’m lying. Especially if the date goes well. It’s this integral part of who I am, and I can’t control it. If we end up being into each other, it feels wrong to omit.” This desire to be ultra-upfront on the first date has ruined many of them in the past. I guess you could argue that the potential relationships wouldn’t have gone anywhere anyway, but it still stings that something so intrinsic to who I am is the reason I get dumped before anything can even get started. Which is why I primarily stick to out-of-towners. I don’t shit where I eat.
“Rein it in, Rae. You’ve spent a grand total of thirty minutes messaging the guy. Just see how the night goes and go from there, okay? Before you share your deep dark secret, why don’t you just like, figure out what his favorite color is first or something?” I rub my lips together in the mirror and put my lip gloss in my bag. I nod at her, annoyed that she is, once again, correct.
“So, what’s your favorite color?”I blurt, staring at Dean’s intensely handsome face. The date is going well. Like, really well. And I’m having to work overtime to stop myself from hashing out the whole ghost thing. It’s sort of twisted, because for those outside my inner circle, I have no problem lying or omitting the truth about myself. But for anyone who is close to me—or who I want to be close to me—I can’t hold it back.
His lips quirk up in a grin, and he says, “Why? Is my favorite color supposed to reveal something about me?”
I smirk to cover up how nervous I am. In my attempt not to word vomit “I see dead people,” I asked Wren’s hypothetical question instead. Dates don’t usually go this well for me, buthe’s been kind and flirty. He literally showed up with two matching keychain-sized cans of mace, joking that he wanted me to be prepared in case I forgot mine.
I feel itchy with my secret sitting just under the skin. It’s made worse because there is, in fact, a dead twenty-something sitting in the corner booth across from us. She has her hands folded primly in her lap, and her hair is pulled back in a severe-looking braid. Her deep complexion makes her stand out against the cream-colored bench she’s sitting on. Luckily, I’m great at not making eye contact with the dead in public, so hopefully she takes the hint.
“Well, I mean kind of. Imagine if you said your favorite color was gray or something,” I say with a mock shiver. I am a color fanatic. My entire apartment is covered in antiques and jeweled tones, and all of my tattoos have bright color work. Gray is more lifeless than white or black, so if his favorite color actually is gray, I might have to end this date early.
Kidding. Sort of.
“I guess I'd better pay the tab and leave then. If someone can’t appreciate Payne’s gray, they clearly have no taste,” he replies with a mock sniffle and makes to stand up.
I reach out and put my hand on his warm wrist to stop him with a laugh, “No! Okay, I promise not to judge,” I say diplomatically, not missing his little smirk. “Any color is a good color in my book. Here, see?”
Dean resituates himself as I pull the neckline of my sweater aside so he can see the colorful collarbone tattoo that adorns my left shoulder. It is a simple fine-line vine of bright pink carnations and small blue forget-me-nots. It’s not my most colorful tattoo (that one is the multicolored moth on my thigh), but it’s the most readily available.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, studying the tattoo in detail like he’s committing it to memory. He reaches across the small table as if to touch it, but then hesitates just before making contact. I lean in a bit so his fingertips brush the sensitive skin. He allows them to trail along the flowers once before retracting his hand.
I release my sweater and take a sip of my own wine, finding that my mouth is suddenly very dry. “Thank you,” I say, hoping he doesn’t ask about the meaning. It’s too close to the “Hi, I’m a medium” conversation for comfort.
“It’s red, by the way. Like the exact color of your sweater,” he says, nodding down to my deep wine-colored top.
I raise my eyebrow and ask, “Is that a line?”
Dean laughs, “No, I swear! Look.” He pulls out his phone and swipes around for a bit before turning the screen to show me a photo. In it, he’s sitting on the floor in jeans and a worn-looking t-shirt, smiling a big, goofy smile, surrounded by opened birthday presents—all of them a dark red color. He’s holding a wine-colored coffee mug and fancy pen to pose for the picture, but he’s surrounded by various other gifts of the same color.
I can’t help but laugh and say, “Okay, I believe you. I have to know though, was that planned?” I gesture to his phone.
“No, I’m just predictable. I’ve loved red for as long as I can remember, but my tastes have evolved from fire truck to merlot. My entire house has dark red all throughout. It’s cozy.”
