Page 25 of Ghosted
I change the subject, hoping to point his attention away from sexy veils and masks. “You’ve been gone a while, Dean. How are you?”
“Have I?” he asks, twin lines of confusion forming between his immaculately groomed brows.
“Almost a week,” I reply with a nod.
“Damn. Time flies when you’re dead. Sorry, I needed rest, and then I was practicing staying in one place for a while. I got pretty good at it, so prepare to be sick of me,” he says with a grin that makes my stomach feel funny. He steps closer until I can nearly count every eyelash and looks into my eyes before lowering his attention to my mouth.
Stop it,I chastise myself. Having a crush on a dead guy has heartbreak written all over it. It’s difficult to leash the desire because I’ve kissed the man, and it was a damn good kiss. I really need to throw up some boundaries for my own sake.
“Look, Dean. I’m happy to help you, I am. I want you to move on and find peace. But I can’t deal with the flirting, okay? It’s confusing and makes my job harder.” I take a step back so there’s more space between us. Even though I can breathe normally again, I feel a little like I’ve just given up something precious.
“What’s there to be confused about? I thought we had a good time,” he says with a small pout of his plush mouth.
“We did. If we weren’t in this scenario,”—I gesture between us—“I’m sure we would have gone on many more dates and gotten a dog or something eventually. But that’s not our reality. So, no matter how much we liked each other, we have to keep things friendly. Anything else will just end up causing pain. There’s only one way this ends, and that’s you going to wherever spirits rest, and me here. Alone,” I say, my voice scraping over the last word.
He searches my face and nods. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll keep the flirting to a minimum.” After an awkward beat, he clears his throat and says, “Why the new business venture?”
I’m grateful that he takes the lead in changing the subject.
I explain our upcoming money troubles again, feeling likeI’m reciting a script at this point. You’d think repeating it over and over would make it less anxiety-inducing, but no such luck. Once I’m done, he hums and asks, “So, this whole medium for hire thing, you’re okay with it?”
I’m surprised at the question, because he’s the first person who’s asked me that. Not if Icoulddo it, but if I wanted to. He’s the first to understand the nuance between the two.
I surprise myself even more with my answer. “I am. I wasn’t at first, but a new friend helped me see that just because I view it as a duty doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to get paid for it. I’m still not sold on attaching my face to it, but if I can remain anonymous, I think it might be nice to help people. There’s also the hope that it would attract customers year-round, which would help with the money issue.”
He nods thoughtfully. “I hate to ask this, seeing as how you’re stressed over your job, but do you think you can still help me figure out what happened to me?” There’s a vulnerability in his tone. A gentle crack in his voice over the question, and I’m slammed with grief and anger all over again.
When I talk with him like this, it’s easy to forget that he’s dead. It’s easy to shove the heartbreak down and dwell in the pleasure of having him here, now. But I have to force myself to remember the reality of this situation again and again until it sticks. He’s dead and in need of my help, so he can move on and be at peace. He deserves that.
“Yes. Of course I will.” I look up into his eyes, and it’s only then that I notice how close I’ve gotten—like a supplicant drawn to a deity. I take a small step back again, feeling his energy buzz along my body like a feather drawn down my spine.
He grins at the movement. “Where do we start?” I might be imagining it, but I swear his voice went a little husky.
I clear my own throat and say, “We should probably go to your house. Sometimes returning to the site of death helps jog a person’s memory. Have you been back to your house yet?”
He shakes his head, saying quietly, “No. I haven’t. It’s been too… Difficult, I guess.” He shrugs and runs a hand through his hair, clearly agitated at the thought.
“Would it help if we went together?” I ask, hoping that he has a spare key hidden somewhere. He nods again, so I say, “Alright. After I close the shop for the night, we’ll go. You should probably rest until then. I know you say you’ve gotten good at hanging around, but it’s better to conserve your energy so you don’t blink out without wanting to.”
“Off to get my beauty rest then,” he says, pantomiming a giant yawn. “Will you yank me back into existence like you did the first time?” he asks, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I feel my cheeks heat. “Yes, but I’ll try to be more gentle this time.”
“Oh, don’t do that on my account,” he says with a wink before disappearing.
SIXTEEN
“It’s right up here,”Dean says, pointing to a beautiful, modern home with a long driveway, partially obscured by the encroaching forest. The clean edges of his house are a stark contrast to the nature bursting around it. His home looks like a giant built a sculpture out of concrete and glass, and then tossed it into a clearing. I knew Dean made good money, butdamn; his place rivals the Cullen house with all its sleek lines and large windows looking out into the forest.
“Wow,” I can’t help but say as I pull into the driveway. I look around conspicuously. Thankfully, there’s no neighbors to witness my tired little Toyota puttering into the driveway, practically screaming, “I don’t belong here!” Or maybe I do… As the cleaning lady. Or dog walker.
“My dad may have convinced me to buy this place,” Dean says with a wince. I look over to see embarrassment color his cheeks. “It was a surprisingly good deal because the personwho started building it went bankrupt, so I got it from the bank and was able to add my own finishes.”
“I think your version of a ‘good deal’ and my version of a ‘good deal’ are two completely different things,” I say, mortified that he’s been inside my little home, which looks like it could fit inside his living room. “My idea of a good deal is when my oat milk creamer is $4.50 instead of $5.00, or when my underwear comes five for $25. Not…This.” I lean forward and peer up into the many black eyes of the house.
I’m not trying to shame him for his wealth. He should be proud that he earned so much before he even hit thirty-five. Dean can’t help that he came from money any more than I can help that I didn’t. It’s just that this type of wealth is inconceivable to me. We weren’t exactly poor growing up, but I have many memories of dinner decisions being weighed by what coupons were available that week. The only time we got to override the coupon rule was on our birthdays, and even then, we had a budget.
Money for me as an adult speaks the language of scrimping, saving, and even scavenging. So, this type of wealth is like a language I’ve never even heard before with an alphabet I can’t decipher. We’re not just in different social circles; we’re in different stratospheres. And not just because he’s currently a member of the dead-under-forty club.
