Page 63 of Ghosted
I feel my mouth drop open in disbelief. “He left,” I say to Misha, running my hands through my hair, probably doing irreparable damage to the carefully styled waves.
He opens the door with a bang before saying loudly, “Well, this was a nice show and everything, Rae. Very spooky and on-theme with the whole curtain falling, ‘I see dead people’ act. Happy Halloween.”
He cuts his way through the crowd so fast, I lose track of him in an instant. I don’t think, I just run after him. “Misha, wait!” I call, bursting through the door. But I can’t even see him anymore. All I see is a dense forest of eyes staring back at me in astonishment.
I stand, frozen in horror. This is so similar to the recurring nightmare I’ve had, I find myself pinching the inside of my arm to make sure it’s real. Unfortunately, this is a real-life horror show and not one I’ll wake up from in a cold sweat anytime soon.
Wren grabs my arm but before she can ask anything, someone says, “Wait, Rae is the medium?” Murmurs and chatter spread through the room like an infection until my name becomes a stain on everyone’s lips. People press in towards me on all sides, and my lungs struggle for air. People volley questions my way, but I can’t hear anything over the loud buzzing in my ears.
All the blood leaves my extremities, and my fingertips start to tingle. “I—” I start, but can’t finish. I don’t even know what to say. I pull free of Wren’s grasp and push forward until I make it outside into the brisk, late-October night. I pull the crisp air into my lungs as I step hurriedly around the building and stumble up the stairs to my apartment.
My heart feels like it’s going to explode. I might be sick. My hand shakes as I try to put my key in the lock, and frustrated tears well along my lash line. At least, I tell myself they’re from frustration and not the combo meal of remorse for upsetting a friend, anger that he revealed my secret to the town, and panic that my secret is no longer my own.
“Here, let me help,” Dean offers, placing his hand over mine and guiding the key into the keyhole. I push the door open, and he follows me inside. I collapse on the couch, mortified that he’s bearing witness to my sniffling, mascara running, snotty mess, but grateful he’s here all the same. He sits next to me and puts an arm around my waist.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I check it with shaking hands.
Wren:
What happened? Are you okay??
Long story, but Misha found out it was me by accident and now he thinks I’m faking it. Everyone saw. Everyone knows.
It’s going to be okay. Do you want me to come up there? Mom is asking, too.
No. Thank you, but I just want to be alone right now.
Talk tomorrow then, sis. I’ll beat anyone’s ass, just say the word.
I know. Love you
I put my phone down and collapse into Dean’s chest, letting the tears go.
THIRTY-SIX
I calledout of work today for the first time pretty much ever. I feel a little guilty because I know there’s a lot of cleanup to do before the store opens for a half day, but I just do not have the energy. When I woke up this morning, my eyes were so puffy and irritated from all the crying I did last night, they felt like they’d been glued shut after being exfoliated with sandpaper.
Am I making a bigger deal out of this than I need to? Yes. Do I still feel like I was gutted in front of the whole town last night? Also, yes. All the stress I’ve been under compounded into an hours-long crying jag. I feel wrung out and hollow inside, and I need time to figure out what to do next.
Dean stayed with me the whole night, holding me against him while I went in and out of crying. Staying for that long drained him, so he decided to go recharge when he could tell I was okay enough for him to leave. I practically had to force him to go so he wouldn’t burn out.
I’ve finally washed off last night’s makeup, but you can take my ten-year-old sweats and holey t-shirt from my cold, dead hands. This is as good as it’s getting today. I fully intend on wallowing until it’s time to pass out candy to trick-or-treaters tonight.
I dig my hand into my popcorn bowl, stuffing my mouth full of the movie theater butter goodness. One of my favorite reality shows is on the final elimination episode, and I’m locked in. I’m so ready to lose myself in other people’s drama for the day.
The last two couples are having an explosive argument, likely fueled by a lack of sleep and too much alcohol. The obscenities are coming out in a continuous stream, and all that’s audible is one longbeeeeep.Both gesticulate wildly, so I know it has to be juicy. What I wouldn’t give for the raw, uncut footage.
My door opens behind me and I groan, hitting pause. “It was just getting good,” I complain.
I look over my shoulder to see Wren stomping in, two large grocery bags dangling from her arms, both perilously close to bursting. She kicks the door shut behind her and tosses the bags on the counter. “It’s never actually good. You know that, right?” She historically hates reality TV, although I don’t believe her because she always watches it with me.
“You can’t be mean to me today,” I pout.
“Yes, I can. It’s practically my duty as your sister to continue to treat you the way I always do.” She haphazardly tosses things into the fridge, slams it shut, and then carries the rest of her haul over to me.
“I didn’t even know you were coming today,” I say, snatching the grocery bag from her hands and pawing through it like an animal.
“What? You thought I was just going to let you wallow in self-pity? When have I ever allowed that?”
