Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 52976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
And he turns his eyes onto me. He says nothing.
Why does that scare me the most?
“Thank you, Douglas and Mortimer,” I quickly say, facing the dads. “That’s a generous gift that truly moves me beyond words. Thank you both so much.”
I notice the tiniest hint of puzzlement on Douglas’s face, as if he’s surprised by my response. Then it’s gone in an instant and he smiles again. “It’s our pleasure to do this for the both of you—and the young man who has made our young man so happy.”
“Indeed,” says Mortimer, his only contribution, as he stares at me inquisitively.
I guess that is where the conversation seems to end on the matter: with no further discussion, no more super awkward embarrassment from Byron, and no more of his dads’ suspicious stares.
Just a sinking feeling in my gut, and loads of dread.
After they’re thanked, hugged, and seen out, Byron closes the door behind them and stands there in silence. I watch him from a few feet back, as still as stone.
Then with his back to me, Byron says, “Westley.”
His voice is so cold and empty.
I remain silent.
I feel like a stone sits in my stomach where brunch should be digesting. My skin prickles with discomfort. He isn’t even looking at me.
“The guy who died here,” he says. “The spirit my dads warned me about, who allegedly dwells inside this apartment … Westley Harmeyer.” Byron turns only halfway to me, still not looking me in the eyes. “You said his name earlier.”
I could tell him it’s just a coincidence.
I could make up some fanciful lie about pretending to speak to the ghost, knowing the history also. Maybe it’s my thing ever since I moved in—my way of coping, pretending I can talk to the ghost.
Instead, I find myself unable to stomach even one more damned lie.
So I say: “Yes.”
“The same Westley.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve … You’ve contacted him somehow. He’s made himself known to you.”
I take a breath. “Yes.”
“When?”
“Two years ago. Around the time we met.”
It’s now that he finally looks at me fully. His eyes swim with questions. “All this time …? Why didn’t you tell me? You’ve spoken to this spirit? He communicates to you? How? When? What does he say?”
I sigh as I decide to give in a little more. “He says a lot, actually.”
“Bad things?”
“No. He’s … He’s actually kind of normal. He gets moody. He gets lonely. He’s … annoying sometimes.”
“How do you talk to him? Does it have to do with the candles?”
Byron has always been so much more observant than I clearly give him credit for. “Yes.”
“You’re always lighting them all of the time … or leaving them on when you’re not here … or—”
“I’m so sorry for keeping this from you,” I finally blurt, overcome. “I want to explain everything.”
“Do the candles keep him away? Do they summon him? Is he …” Byron swallows. “Is he here right now? Is that what really spooked you during brunch? No, I don’t know if I’m even ready for the answers,” he realizes, backing himself against the door with a huff. “I can’t help but wonder what else you haven’t told me.”
For a moment, I feel guilty.
Deeply, deeply guilty.
The next moment, something hits me. “How long have you known about this apartment?”
He looks at me. “What?”
“You didn’t want to come up here,” I remember. “It was right after our first date. You insisted we go to your place instead of mine, so we did. As soon as you heard the address of where I lived, you balked, like the very name gave you chills. I saw it in your eyes. You knew.”
His gaze flicks away. The day slowly comes back to him. “I … I did,” he says. “You’re right. I knew. My dads warned me about the alleged haunting here.”
“Why didn’t you say anything either?”
A long moment passes as he thinks it over. “I don’t know.” He stares at the ground. “I guess we’ve … both been less honest than we thought all along.”
My heart hurts. I come up to him. “Can we talk this out? Can we just cuddle on the couch and talk this out?”
He looks away. “I need some air.”
“Byron …”
He opens the door and slips out at once. I come up to the doorway and watch him disappear down the hall. Echoes of his footsteps ring in my ears as he descends the stairs, fading, fading, then silence.
-6-
How To Suck At Literally Everything In Life
So my fiancé is out “getting some air”.
And my ghost bestie probably destroyed himself.
Mrs. Shaheen is convinced I’m consuming my own soul as payment for dancing with the dead.
What else can I possibly fuck up?
The only thing I have to comfort myself with is the wide, colorful arrangement of plants on the fire escape, which are Westley’s pride and joy, his hobby that keeps him occupied. Byron thinks these plants are mine.