Page 55 of Ghosted
Over the rest of the summer, her aunt reveals all sorts of family secrets. Her late husband had passed from some disease with a horrible fever. But that wasn’t the end of the line for them. He came back to her as a spirit and stayed with her for decades.
Decades?
I try not to get too excited by the prospect, but I can’t help the way my thoughts turn to Dean.
The aunt said she created a tether for her husband by doing what sounds like astral projection to me. The account isn’t too detailed, which is frustrating, but I had no idea this was possible. But from what I can tell, the aunt astral projected into the ether and found a way to bind his soul to hers.
They lived quite happily, despite the fact that she was the only one who could see him. Suddenly, her aunt’s isolation made sense. She was living her best life with the love of her life; and nothing, not even death, could separate them.
I sit back and blink my bleary eyes, suddenly feeling more conflicted than ever.
THIRTY-ONE
Wren is still snoringon my couch while I lie in bed, staring at my ceiling hours later. I couldn’t fall asleep even if someone knocked me over the head right now. Not when I know there might be a way I could keep Dean with me permanently. But is it wrong to want that? When he has the ability to move on and find peace?
The unselfish, helps-all-ghosts-in-need part of me says yes. It’s wrong because he deserves to find that peace. The very selfish other part of me almost doesn’t care. Because losing him would feel like a small death of my own. Like watching a part of me atrophy and disappear.
I’ve never felt this way before. He’s taken possession of my heart and invaded my every thought. His humor and humanity. The way he achieves the goals he sets for himself. How much he cares for his family and friends. The way he decorates his home and office with pictures of those he loves, like he can’tbear to be apart from them. The way he cares for me and makes me feel seen. How am I supposed to give that up?
You don’t have to,says the selfish part of my brain. I groan and roll to my side, nearly jumping out of my skin when I come nose-to-nose with Dean.
“When did you get here?” I whisper.
“Just now. You were thinking about me extra hard,” he says with a smirk. I roll my eyes and smile at him, unable to deny that he’s right. “You don’t seem happy, though. What’s wrong?” he asks, searching my face.
“Nothing,” I lie, not wanting to tell him about the tether. At least not until we solve his murder. I want him to know that he’s free to move on first, and I don’t want to add any confusion onto his plate. Or worse, make him question my willingness to help him. “Just tired and have a lot on my mind,” I say truthfully.
I can’t tell if he buys it, but he pulls me into him, pressing my nose to his throat so he can run his fingers through my hair. I don’t fight my heavy lids, closing them while he finger-combs my long hair, gently untangling any knots. “Sleep, Rae,” he whispers into the crown of my head, tucking me even closer.
I waketo the smell of coffee;goodcoffee. Which can only mean that Wren is still here, using the espresso machine she got me for Christmas a few years back. I never use it because my clumsy attempts at pulling shots don’t compare to anything she could make blindfolded. I roll over and hear her talking to someone. I wonder if she’s on the phone, but she hates phone calls, so I doubt it. Especially this early in the morning.
“So, anything new on the murder investigation front?” she asks, just as I round the corner of my partition into the living room and blink in surprise at the scene before me. Dean is sitting on the chair, a safe distance from Wren in the kitchen, but they seem to be… Talking?
“Are you guys talking?” I ask, voice rusty with sleep. I rub my eyes extra hard to see if I’m dreaming, but when they swim back into focus, there they are. Chatting, apparently.
“Yeah. We figured out a way to talk,” Dean says at the same time Wren says, “Yup, I learned how to communicate with Ghost Boy.”
I slump onto a barstool, tying my unruly bedhead into a haphazard knot on the top of my head. “How?” I ask her.
“Well, I can sense auras, and he has one, so I figured if I asked direct questions, he could answer me. He can’t, like, describe a recipe to me in detail, but yes or no questions are pretty easy.” She hands me a mug filled to the brim with what smells like a vanilla latte, topped off with a little latte art heart. Aww.
Wait…
“Is this a middle finger?” I ask, squinting at the mug.
Her face brightens. “Oh, good, I’m getting better at them. Trying to come up with more discreet ways to say ‘fuck off’ to my least favorite customers.”
“Won’t you get fired for that?”
“Nah, we always hand them their coffee with the lids on. It’s just for me. Purely for my satisfaction alone, knowing that Brad the accountant gets to drink my large fuck you in his skinny vanilla, oatmilk latte, with whole milk foam, set to scalding temperatures.” She scowls at the memory of pickyBrad, and I laugh into my latte, dispersing the foam middle finger.
“She was asking about my untimely demise. Have you told her you were drugged?” Dean asks, turning in his seat to look at me.
“No, I haven’t,” I answer, making a ‘zip it’ motion as inconspicuously as I can.
“Haven’t what?” Wren asks.
“Nothing,” I say, before taking a sip of my piping hot latte. Wren is very protective. I don’t know what she’d do if she found out.
