Page 15 of Before the Summer He Found Her

His hand tenses, like I’ve taken him by surprise. Which only causes me to cry harder. Did he not know? No. He had to have known. Why is he playing it this way, then? Usually, spirit guides I’ve connected to simply tell it to me directly, but in a loving way. They’ve never feigned surprise before, but this guy is…different… so it seems to fit him.

I clear my throat. I try to pull myself together.

“I know what he’s doing is wrong,” I say, trying not to think about the pain wedged in my throat. “I know I deserve better, and I’m a great girl with so much to offer a partner.”

I stop as I realize the words are starting to come out sarcastically. Clearly, they aren’t genuine. Don’t get me wrong. No one deserves to be mistreated or abused. My logical brain understands I should say goodbye to Andrew, that he’s dangerous, that he’ll never change. Even so, I think of my behavior in this relationship, and a knot forms in my stomach.

I’m the problem.

The words dance in my head, not much more than the whisper of a thought.

They’ve danced in my head for so long I have a tendency of believing it’s true.

That I am actually the problem.

Even if Andrew is the abusive one—I’m not proud of many things I’ve done. I may not have gotten physical with him, but I’ve reacted in ways that were also not healthy.

“I’ve done things wrong,” I add more softly. “Lots of things.”

A loud breath escapes Tom’s lips, which only deepens my pain. He isn’t saying much, and I sense that he’s quiet because he’s in shock. Which makes no sense. Spirit guides normally don’t act this way. Not usually.

Dark emotions well up behind my eyes. The despair, the loneliness, that feeling of abandonment I know so well. The way kids in school berated me for being thespecialgirl who talked to ghosts. My history of attracting the unhealthiest people. How the empath in me always wants to see the best in someone, even if all that person does is take the best parts of me. There’s a heavy weight dragging me down from all the years of pain residing in my heart, pulling me into my own version of eternal hell. I’m sensitive. I don’t know how to get past this shit. I don’t know how to heal from it. So, I wallow in my pain instead.

And I keep making the same mistakes.

I’ve lived this cycle for so long, I don’t know how to escape.

Tom glances at me with pity marking his expression. He glides onto the mattress, taking a seat on the other side of the bed, away from me, with his legs crossed. I expect him to comment on what I’m thinking. Spirits on the other side of the veil are telepathic, so there’s no hiding your thoughts, either. Yet this guy has given me no indication during my internal monologue of knowing a damn thing on my mind.

Instead of commenting on anything, even the things I have said, he asks something totally left field.

“How old are you, Channah?” His eyes are tense, and he looks spooked, like I’ve overwhelmed him. Has he heard my thoughts, then? Or is he simply reacting to the things I’ve said? And if he hasn’t heard me, is he not a spirit guide sent to help me? If not, then who the fuck is he?

“Why do you want to know my age?” I ask incredulously before adding, “If we’re going there then how old areyou?”

“Thirty-five.” He pauses for a moment. “I’ll explain why I’m asking after you tell me your age.”

“Fine. I’m twenty-eight,” I say, realizing that thirty-five is a little on the young side. He’s either giving me the age when he died, and he stopped counting after that and he’s been dead for a millennial (although, he enjoysStar Trek, so either he’s been keeping up with the times from the afterlife or he’s from at least the generation of the 1960s). Or maybe he died recently and he’s having a hard time adjusting. Although, spirit guides usually feel more comfortable with their circumstances (i.e. they’ve had time to process and heal from the events of their own lives) before they take on the job of helping someone else.

“Twenty-eight,” he repeats, his eyes processing this information as if he’s calculating something. He nods his head when he draws whatever conclusion inside his mind. “Sorry, I needed to recall your birthdate and then do some quick math.”

“What, they have dossiers on the other side of the veil now?” I ask. “Tell me the minute and place of my birth, kind sir.”

There’s a glint of humor in his eyes now, and again, he’s gazing at me like he knows me.

“Never mind,” he says, his lips returning to a neutral position. “I should not be telling you this, but my point is, in a matter of six short years, you’re going to be in an entirely different place than you are now. Free from pain. You’re going to be happy. A workaholic. But a happy one.”

“Are you the oracle here to share my future?”

He laughs slightly. “No, and I’m afraid I’ve already shared too much. But I don’t know how else to help you. I’m notoriously bad at pep talks and peopling, especially helping a person who is clearly in distress and experiencing an abusive relationship.”

“Good, because I don’t want a pep talk, and I can handle Andrew on my own. Without help from a spirit guide or, uh, whatever it is you are. Dude, if you can’t people, then why did they send you?”

“Yes, very good question.” He scratches his blurry chin with his blurry finger. “Channah, have you told your parents yet? About Andrew.”

His question causes me to flinch. “Did you… did you seriously just ask me that?”

“Of course I just asked you that. What’s wrong with the question?”

---