Page 81 of Ghosted
“This place is very you,” Misha remarks, looking around.
“A mess?” I ask with a laugh.
“No. Warm. Lots of wonderful things smushed together,” he says happily as we sit on my couch. “A little spooky,” he continues, gesturing to the taxidermied moths hanging in gilt frames on my walls.
I push his shoulder and bat my lashes at him playfully. “Are you flirting with me?”
“You know, Felix and Ihavebeen looking for a third,” he deadpans.
I cackle and cover my flushed cheeks with my fingertips. “If I remember correctly, you once told me that I don’t have the proper anatomy for that. And besides, I’m seeing someone who doesn’t like to share.” Now it’s my turn to smirk at him.
He inhales sharply and leans in. “Tell me everything,” he orders. And I do, relishing in his gasps of both horror and delight. “You saucy little minx,” he says once I’ve brought him (mostly) up to speed. “Getting yourself a supernatural hottie. Some of us can only dream and write fan fiction about it.” He sighs a beleaguered sigh.
“Yeah, he’s pretty great,” I say, feeling myself get all starry-eyed while I think about Dean.
Misha shakes his head at me good-naturedly.
After I drain the last dregs of my hot chocolate, I ask, “Okay, are you ready?”
He sits up straighter and nods. “Let’s do this.”
“Just a forewarning, your uncle is difficult. I know you know that, but let’s just say it has continued into the afterlife,” I warn.
He laughs humorlessly. “That doesn’t surprise me. Let’s get this over with.” He takes my empty cup from me and sets them both on my coffee table.
I cast my awareness out and am unsurprised to find Ivan hovering nearby. I had a feeling he hadn’t gone far since our last little run-in. I try not to let it give me the heebie-jeebies and call him forth.
He comes willingly, popping into existence with a violent burst of static that makes me flinch. “Finally,” he grouses.
“Are you willing to cooperate this time?” I ask, watching as he struts to my chair and sits like a king upon a throne.
He grunts, looking like he’s trying to work up either a belch or a fart, but his current state of being doesn’t allow it. He looks disappointed by that fact.
“He’s here, Misha,” I say, gesturing to his uncle. Misha slowly turns to face him.
“Hi, Uncle Ivan. Long time, no see,” he says, laughing awkwardly. Ivan scowls and crosses his arms. Misha looks to me for reassurance, and I nod. “So, I wanted to talk to you. I know the last conversation we had ended badly, and I wanted to make things right.”
Ivan snorts derisively and says, “That’s one way to put it. As I recall you called me an asshole and told me to go rot in hell.”
I chew on my lip, reluctant to repeat what Ivan said. Whenhe turns his glare on me, I sigh and reiterate the gist of what he said, trying to take some of the sting out of the words.
Misha looks down at his lap, rubbing the goose bumps on his arms. “I know. I know I said that to you and then you were just gone,” he pauses to look back towards the chair, “All I’ve wanted every day since is to have a chance to speak with you and tell you how sorry I am for what I said.”
Ivan sits forward, elbows resting on his massive thighs. “Because of you, I couldn’t move on. You became my unfinished business, whether I wanted it or not. Was everything I did for you not enough? You had to fuck up my death?”
I scowl at Ivan and say aloud, “I’m not repeating that because it’s bullshit.”
Misha turns a puzzled look my way, and Ivan stands, getting in my face in a blink. “You’ll tell him what I said like a good little witch,” he spits.
“Then be nicer. You’re being a dick and I’m over it,” I say, crossing my arms.
“I—it’s okay,” Misha says, reaching out and touching my arm, “He’s allowed to be upset. I did say some awful things to him.” I watch as he shrinks into a smaller, more vulnerable shell of himself. I see the scared little boy he used to be painted across the furrow of his brow and his tightly clenched fists.
“See? He knows he should be sorry,” Ivan says, gesturing to Misha.
“What is your unfinished business, exactly?” I ask Ivan sharply. He gestures to Misha, and I say, “I know. But what exactly do you need to say to him? Listen to your gut.” I glare at him until he looks away.
Ivan backs up a bit, stepping through my coffee table as he thinks. He looks down at his legs, which have disappearedthrough the table, and then says, “He needs to know that I never cared about the gay thing. I know I could be hard on him, but I was never angry about that.” He crosses his arms uncomfortably.
