Chapter Eleven
Harriet
olan appears on my front porch three days later with a cup of coffee inN his hand and an apologetic look on his face.
I’m not particularly inspired by either, and I ignore the doorbell when he presses it. I watch him through the camera instead as I continue to wash the figs I impulse bought at the market earlier in the morning.
I’ve decided I’m going to make my own damn jam. I should get something positive out of this whole ghost arrangement. The jam seems like the most likely candidate.
The jam wouldn’t yell at me in a closet.
The jam also wouldn’t ignore me for three days, even though he said he’d show. I’m starting to think that cat story was a load of baloney. In addition to every person who has ever been even moderately important to me, I’m being ghosted by a literal ghost. My life is a joke.
My phone pings with another alert, Nolan bracing himself with his hand against my doorframe. Not that I care, but he looks frustrated in the tiny, grainy picture. His hair is sticking up every which way and the collar of his flannel is twisted. He looks like he hit a tornado on the way over here. Maybe a trash truck.
Good. He was an ass the last time I saw him. He should look worse, frankly. That curl of hair over his forehead is an insult. The shadow of his
dimples is an atrocity.
He presses the doorbell again.
I ignore him some more.
“I could just appear in your kitchen, you know,” he says conversationally, his voice tinny through the speaker on my phone. He squints at me through the camera. “I’m trying to be nice.”
“You weren’t trying to be nice in my storage closet,” I say to myself, scrubbing one of my figs too hard and sending it bouncing around the inside of my sink. I’m holding on to my frustration with a whiteknuckled grip. I’m so tired of people treating me like I’m dispensable, like my feelings don’t
matter. That if the reality of me doesn’t line up with their expectations, I’m not worth their time or effort. All I did was suggest an idea. I didn’t … hold him hostage in the closet and demand he succumb to my whims. The entirety of my life, I’ve had to listen to people vocalize their disappointment at how I
haven’t measured up.
I don’t need it from the undead, too.
“Harriet,” he tries again. His body is one long line in the middle of my front porch. He drops his head in defeat, like he can’t bear to hold himself up any longer. When he looks up again, his face is earnest.
I scoff. I bet he practiced that move in the mirror. I bet he spent twenty-two years doing nothing but that.
“Harriet,” he says again. “Open your door.”
I tap one soapy knuckle against my phone screen. “Give me one good reason I should let you in,” I say through the speaker.
“Well, I’m bo—”
“If you say you’re bound to me for the holiday season, I will—I will—”
I’ll explode into tiny pieces of rage confetti in my kitchen. I’ll hurl one of these figs through my historically preserved windows. “I’ll do something unkind,” I finish.
I watch through the camera as an infuriating smirk tugs at the left side of his mouth. He should be shaking in his boots, not smiling. “And what does that entail, Harriet?”
“I won’t share any of the jam I’m making.”
His eyebrow jumps up in interest. “You’re making jam?”
“I am. And I won’t share it unless I get a sincere apology out of you.”
Some of the wind leaves my sails and I deflate. I’m not very good at demanding things from people, even worse at holding my ground. I’m usually the first to apologize, even if I don’t need to. The only thing I hate more than constantly being underestimated and undervalued is making waves. It scratches at the walls of my heart until I’m bending over backward to make sure everyone is okay.
“I understand I might have inadvertently touched on a sore spot with you, but you didn’t need to be rude,” I continue, still holding my finger to my phone. You didn’t need to hurt my feelings, I almost say. Not when I thought we might be friends.
“Can I come in? I want to see your face when I talk to you.” He straightens, holding a to-go cup in front of his face. “I brought you a
peppermint drink.”
I drop the figs in the colander and shuffle my way to my front door, wiping my hands on my pajama pants as I go. They’re cherryred flannel today, a matching, oversize set I put on as soon as I got home from the farmers’ market.
Nolan’s eyes light up when he sees me, his gaze quickly traveling down to my bare feet and back up again.
I can’t decipher the look on his face. I don’t particularly want to. “You can’t buy my forgiveness with overpriced holiday drinks.” That’s a lie. My forgiveness can absolutely be bought with overpriced holiday drinks, especially if he remembered to get whipped cream on top. But I want to try something new where I don’t immediately fold for the comfort of someone
else.
Nolan holds out the cup. “I know.”
I grab it. “And I don’t want to hear a single word about my wardrobe choice,” I warn. I’m afraid if he says anything else belittling to me, I’ll crack right down the middle.
“I think you look nice.” His gaze drops to somewhere around my hips and he takes a long pause. His throat bobs with a heavy swallow. “These are—ah.
Very cute.”
I roll my eyes and take a sip of the coffee. It’s still hot. I wonder if he used the magic he seems to hate so much to keep it warm, or if he just power walked from wherever it is he calls home.
I wouldn’t know because Nolan doesn’t talk to me. I’m just a job.
An item to be crossed off his checklist.
“Would you like to compliment my hair next?” I gesture at the chaos on the top of my head. “Maybe my stunning organizational skills?” I sweep my arm across my living room. The cluttered, overcrowded bookshelves and the mantel over the fireplace, loaded down with enough empty frames and knickknacks, it’s a wonder it’s still level. “What else?”
Nolan frowns. “You don’t think I’m being sincere?”
“I think you’re saying nice things because you were a jerk the other day.” I take another long sip of my drink, buying time and building courage. “But I don’t want you to give me compliments because you feel bad.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” I know well enough when someone is being genuine, and when someone needs me for something. Nolan wants to move forward. He hasn’t
let me forget it. I’m merely a means to an end for him. Our conversation in the closet cemented that fact.
“Listen.” It’s too difficult to keep looking at his face, so I look at my bare feet instead. I painted my toes bright red last night because it made me feel good. Because I’ve always been able to make my own happiness when the people around me decide I’m not worth the trouble. “We can just go about our business. We don’t have to do this part anymore.”
“This part?”
“The part where you pretend you’re my friend.”
Nolan edges closer, his boots on either side of my bare feet. His fingers lightly brush beneath my chin until I’m looking at his face. His eyes are storm clouds, a heavy line between his brows. His expression looks like it’s been chiseled out of stone, all of his features sharp. For probably the first time, I actually believe he’s something … other. He looks imposing. Like he took on some of the sea when he died, and now it roils around inside of him.
“I’m not pretending anything,” he says. “When I say you look lovely, I mean it.” He traces the curve of my chin. For a fleeting moment, I think I can feel him tremble. But then he drops his hand and I tell myself to stop imagining things that aren’t there. “Sometimes I think I’m too honest with you.”
I scoff. “You haven’t given me anything honest.”
“I’ve been more honest with you than anyone else, Harriet.” He rubs his hand against his jaw. He’s still standing so close. “I owe you an apology.”
“Yes,” I agree. “You do.”
His eyes search mine, his mouth set in a firm line. “Harriet, I—” My phone rings from the kitchen, interrupting him. My stomach twists. That ringtone only sounds when a very specific person is calling. It’s my very own tornado siren. When it rains, it pours, I guess.
I start my slow, defeated walk toward the kitchen. Nolan follows closely behind.
“What is that sound?” he asks. “An emergency?”
I don’t know why he thinks I’d categorize an emergency call on my phone with “Misery Business,” but I suppose there’s a technology gap in his knowledge. Probably a pop culture one, too.
“Do you know Paramore?” I ask.
He stumbles behind me, his knee hitting my gingerbread house.
Something rattles. He barely notices. “You have a lover?” he asks.
I swipe my phone off the counter. “What? No. I—” I’ve already let this phone call ring for too long. God help me if it goes to voicemail. Donna York does not leave messages. “I need to answer this call from my mother and then we can finish our conversation.”
Nolan leans back against the counter at my side, making himself
comfortable. “All right.”
“You can wait in the living room.”
He shrugs, interest blazing in his eyes. “Here is fine, too.”
I roll my eyes, hitting the answer button before the call trips over into voicemail and I rain hellfire down upon my existence.
“Hi, Mom.” I try to force my voice into something chipper and enthusiastic, not the bone-deep dread that settles every time I see her name flash on my screen. I’m out of practice, though. “How are you?” There’s a brief pause and I hear the clink of a china cup in the background. She must be having her scheduled 11 a.m. tea. Earl Grey.
One sugar. Served in the same Hermès china cup she’s had since I was a child.
“Harriet,” she says in greeting. “What took you so long to answer?” My eyes slant to the man responsible for the delay, leaning against my sink and observing me with quiet, watchful eyes. I feel like a wombat in an enclosure at the zoo. Maybe a particularly distressing art exhibit at the Baltimore Museum of Art. One of the high schools had a performance of Sweeney Todd a couple of years ago, and everyone in the audience had the same look on their face as Nolan does now.
Trepidation. Concern. A slight hint of entertainment.
I push some of my hair away from my face. “Misplaced my phone,” I lie smoothly. “But I’m here now. What can I do for you?”
“You and that cottage of yours. It’s so cramped. That’s the trouble with surrounding yourself with mess, Harriet. You never can find what you’re looking for.”
My house isn’t a cottage. It’s a historical restoration. And it’s not a mess.
It’s cozy and comfortable, with all the things that make me happy. But my mother is nothing if not predictable, and she has perfected the art of roundabout insults.
It doesn’t matter how many times my mother proves she’s disinterested in the life I’ve made for myself, I always hold on to a kernel of hope that this visit, this phone call, this conversation, might be different.
But it’s not. It never is. And if my hopeful heart could learn that lesson, I’d be better for it.
“That’s a good point,” I tell her, and Nolan shifts in my periphery. His legs are crossed at the ankle, a frown on his face. I have no idea if enhanced hearing is part of his ghostly superpowers, or if he’s just being a Nosey Nelly. I give him my back and pace over to the fridge. “I assume you’re calling about the gala.”
“So she does remember she has family commitments.”
“I was going to call this afternoon,” I lie again. “Time got away from me.”
My time went all the way back to when I was six and she was still rocking shoulder pads. I roll my lips together. “You really need me to RSVP to the gala I attend every year?”
“It’s the polite thing to do,” my mother responds evenly. “Right. Consider me RSVP’d then. I apologize for the delay.” There’s a pause. “You’ll respond in writing, too, of course.”
I stare hard at the envelope attached to my fridge with a dancing strawberry magnet. I never bothered to open it. “Of course,” I answer.
“Wonderful,” my mother says, the word sounding foreign from her mouth.
I can’t remember the last time my mother truly thought anything was wonderful. “Thank you. If you could save me another phone call by responding within the appropriate window, that would be helpful. My schedule is very full.”
Suddenly I’m a little kid again, in an uncomfortable red dress and shiny shoes that pinch at my toes. Why must you make things so difficult for me?
Sixteen and standing outside a banquet hall, trying not to cry. Don’t make a scene, Harriet. Twenty-five and sitting at a fancy table, staring down at my plate. How could you do this to us? How could you be so selfish?
I swallow around the sudden thickness in my throat. I’ve always worn my guilt like an itchy sweater. “I understand,” I manage.
“Good. I’ll see you on the eighteenth.” She hangs up without another word, but I keep the phone to my ear, listening to the dial tone. I’m overly aware of Nolan behind me, still leaning against the sink.
“Bye, Mom,” I say into the silence, hoping I sound convincing. “See you soon.”
I drop the phone from my ear and slowly pack away all my prickly, turbulent feelings until I’m calm waters again.
Calmish. Calmish waters.
“So,” Nolan says. “Your mother sounds like a treat.”
I look at him over my shoulder. “How much of that did you hear?” His face is unreadable. “Enough.”
I turn away again, busying myself with the magnets on my fridge. I arrange them in a smiley face, hoping that maybe if I try hard enough, I might feel it,
too.
“You shouldn’t have listened,” I chide.
“I’ve visited your past, Harriet. Me listening to a phone call should be the least of your privacy concerns.” I turn and he gives me a look. “Why are you upset about it?”
“Because it’s embarrassing,” I whisper, my voice wobbling at the edges.
“Why?”
Because my mom treats me like I’m an inconvenience. Because the universe or the fates or whoever it is that Nolan answers to isn’t the only one who thinks I’m a bad person.
Because not even the people who are supposed to love me can find a way to do it.
Because I’m so fucking tired of trying, only to come up short. All the time.
“I don’t know,” I answer, unwilling to share those pieces with Nolan after what happened at the shop. “It just is.”
Nolan stares at me for a long time, eyes flicking back and forth. “You’re not the one who should be embarrassed,” he finally says.
He cuts his eyes away, glancing at the colander full of figs in the sink. He plucks one up and takes a bite, like that simple sentence isn’t a balm to over two decades of heartache. “She wanted to confirm your attendance at a party?”
I nod. “My family has a winter gala every holiday season. I usually RSVP by now, but I forgot about it with … everything else going on.”
He takes another bite of his fig. Some juice from the fruit runs over his knuckles. “That sounds formal.”
“It is.” It’s my mother’s yearly opportunity to show off for her friends in the name of altruism. To spend far too much money on a grand display of her success. My presence isn’t demanded out of a desire to see me. It’s my role to play. The ornamental daughter that completes the family portrait.
I’m surprised they still want me there, all things considered.
“You don’t seem happy about it,” Nolan says, finishing his snack and reaching for a towel.
“I’m fine,” I answer automatically. Or I will be. The gala is far enough away for me to still have time to stitch my armor together.
I’ll pull it together in time. I always do. “Let me get changed and you can
whisk me away.”
“And where am I whisking you today?”
“I’m sure we’ll find out. I wouldn’t want to delay the haunting agenda.”
I’m still angry and he knows it. Nolan watches me carefully, angled up against my kitchen sink. His stormy eyes crinkle at the corners. “You didn’t let me finish earlier. I’ve changed my mind.”
“About what?”
He tosses my kitchen towel on the countertop, folded just the way I like it.
“We won’t be visiting your past today.”
“We won’t?”
“I still owe you an apology.” His face melts into something solemn.
Honest. Shy. An offering, if I’m brave enough to take it. “I thought today we could take a look at your present.”
