Page 38 of Heart, Haunt, Havoc
It was all of those things, probably. Every single one.
“Does Thai sound good?” Bishop asked.
Colin nodded. He would’ve agreed with whatever they suggested, though. “Chicken Khao Soi with extra noodles, please.”
Bishop’s lips lifted into a crooked smile. They mouthedokay, unplugged their phone from the charger on the nightstand, and left the room.
Colin picked at the growing hole on his sock and tried to dismiss the sadness that’d cracked through Bishop’s honey-brown eyes. He thought of last night, lying naked by the fireplace, telling stories to each other.When I was a kid—at Christmas we—tell me about this oneas Bishop touched a tattoo. Thought of laughing against their neck while the two of them fumbled to undress each other. Thought of Bishop’s fierce, ancient eyes lit by candlelight in the basement, their shadow prying magic from inside a living cadaver. Thought of holding their hand—of not holding their hand ever again—and swallowed around a childish lump growing in his throat.
He closed his laptop, slid off of Bishop’s bed, and walked into the guest bedroom to quietly pack. Folded his clothes and placed them in his rolling case. Slipped his laptop into his messenger bag, packed his toiletries, and stopped to stare at his reflection in the bathroom. The butterfly stitches holding his wound closed were stark against his freckled skin, reddish hair pushed away from his face, neck decorated with rosary beads and a small, circular hickey.
The doorbell rang. Colin startled. He exhaled slowly, blinking back the fight-or-flight this house had installed inside him over the last few days. Bishop thanked the delivery person, paper bags crinkled, and their voice flitted through the foyer.
“Food’s here,” they said.
Colin gave his room a once over. Sheets, tucked. Pillows, fluffed. Carried his case downstairs and set it beside the door.
“Want a beer?” Bishop asked.
He shook his head and took his time walking into the kitchen, pressing the soles of his feet against the floor where they’d tangled together yesterday. “Coffee, if that’s okay. I’ll be driving for a while.”
“Right. Obviously,” they said, and filled the coffee maker with water.
Plates clinked, steam curled away from Colin’s mug, and the silence deepened. Colin picked at his food, aware of Bishop’s eyes on him, and when they turned toward their dinner, he lifted his gaze and knew they felt him watching, too. It went on like that. Eating, looking, sipping, until the food was gone, and they were left with nothing but each other.
Colin met their eyes. He tried a weak attempt at a smile. Bishop did the same, curling their hands around their beer bottle while Colin finished his coffee.
“Weird bein’ here without him,” they said, suddenly. “I know it shouldn’t be. I should be okay with how… how the house feels without him wandering around, ghost or not, but… I don’t know. He’s never actually beengonebefore.”
“Sometimes grief comes late,” Colin said.
“Yeah, I’ve been grieving him for a long time, though. Too long.”
“It’s never predictable, you know. How a heart reacts to loss. I’ll go three days without thinking about Isabelle, and on the fourth morning I’ll smell her perfume at a café or hear her laughter in someone else’s mouth, and I’ll be catapulted back into the thick of it. I never know when it’ll happen, I can never anticipate how it’ll feel. Some days, I shake off the worst of it. Some days, I’ll find a church to cry in. Some days, I drink. Every day is new, at least. I open my eyes and find a way to live without her.”
Bishop nodded. They stared at the bottle, peeling the label with their thumbnail. “So, how does this go, huh?Keep in touch? Have a nice life?How do you close a case, exorcist?”
Colin stilled. His throat cinched, but he breathed through the ache in his chest. Opened and closed his mouth, searching for something, anything.
“This isn’t a typical case,” he said, and it was the truth. “But I’d like to keep in touch if you’re okay with that.”
Their smile twitched and they adjusted their glasses. “Yeah, I’m okay with that.”
“Good,” Colin said. He knew what came next, yet he still hesitated.
“Good,” they echoed.
Colin stood. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he took his dish and mug to the sink, and he didn’t know if he should leave abruptly, so he soaped the dirty plates and put them in the dishwasher. But after that, leaving was the only thing he had left to do. He cleared his throat and buttoned his coat, slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and extended the handle on his hard-shell case.
“Text me and let me know you made it safely,” Bishop said. They leaned against the banister with their arms folded across their chest and offered a barely-there smile.
He nodded because he didn’t know what else to do. Because he wanted to kiss them, but if he kissed them, he’d stay, and he couldn’t stay. Because Bishop Martínez was smart and brave and powerful and beautiful, and he did not want to leave. But if he didn’t leave then, he might not leave at all.
So, Colin Hart left. His polished shoes made hollow, hoof-like sounds on the sturdy, renovated porch, and crunched on fallen snow. He threw himself into the driver’s seat, closed the door and locked it for good measure. But as he sat there, letting the engine purr, squeezing the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, he couldn’t seem to put the car intodriveor place his foot on the pedal. He thought of his life without Isabelle, how terribly lonely it’d been, and tried his damndest to drive.Just drive, Colin. But he didn’t—couldn’t. He’d channeled angels and saints, ripped demons out of writhing bodies, captured ghosts and ghouls with his bare hands, but he couldn’t leave Bishop withouttrying.
Truthfully, he hadn’t realized he’d exited the car until he was trudging through the snow, stomping on the porch, and rapping his knuckles on the door.
Bishop answered while he was still knocking. “Colin, I—”
