Chapter Fifteen
Harriet
rush down the stairs while a mad man pounds at my door, my toothbrushI wedged in my cheek. I wasn’t expecting company, and I certainly wasn’t expecting Nolan. Not so soon after he left.
I fumble with the deadlock while his shadow paces on the other side of my curtains, his hands on his hips and his head tilted down.
“You were right,” he says, breathless, as soon as I get the door open. He spent the entire four minutes it took me to answer alternatively poking at my doorbell and grumbling at it, knocking with the side of his fist when neither of those seemed to work. His hair is all over the place, his jacket is inside out, and his eyes are bright.
He looks like he just consumed an entire vat of espresso. That, or he’s found a new hobby in between time traveling and past exploring and haunting. Like snorting Pixy Stix, maybe. Or base jumping.
I eyeball him, concerned, my toothbrush still hanging out of my mouth.
When he left me at the rink, he was barely holding himself together. Now
he’s practically crackling with energy.
“Yewgood?” I ask.
He stares at me. “Was that English?”
I take my toothbrush out of my mouth. “Are you all right?” I say slowly, trying to enunciate around a mouthful of toothpaste.
He props one hand against the doorframe, squinting at me. “You want to fight?”
I roll my eyes and turn, heading to the small half bathroom at the front of the house. I leave my front door open behind me in silent invitation, confused by the abrupt change in his attitude.
There was a student in one of my law school classes that lost it in the middle of a lecture once. He started laughing uncontrollably while tearing pages out of a book. He put his socks over his ears and said he was an elephant. He had to be escorted out by campus police.
I wonder if Nolan will have his socks over his ears when I join him in the
living room.
I spit out my toothpaste and grab the hand towel, burying my face in the soft material. When I look up again, Nolan is standing right behind me.
“Jesus,” I gasp. “You need a bell.”
“A bell?”
I turn, the small of my back pressed against the sink. There’s not enough room in this space for two adults. There’s barely enough room in this bathroom for one adult. His chest brushes against mine every time I breathe.
“Why are you in my bathroom?”
Nolan frowns and studies the toilet. He looks a combination of confused and surprised, like he didn’t expect me to have indoor plumbing. “Is that what this is? I thought it was a closet.”
“You thought I was spitting my toothpaste out in the closet?”
“Mortal customs elude me.” He waves his hand over his head. “I need to
talk to you.”
“In my bathroom?”
“Location doesn’t matter.”
“All right.” That’s … fine. Doesn’t explain why he’s standing so damn close, looking at me with an intensity that borders on manic. Dark eyes. A clench in his jaw that stretches and pops as he studies me. I turn halfway and drop my toothbrush into one of the spare cups, then bury a yawn against the back of my hand.
“Did your boss have an explanation for you?” I ask, fighting with the tail end of my exhaustion. I suppose I should make peace with never having any idea as to what is going on. I blink away the tired tears collecting in the corners of my eyes. “Did she have any advice?”
“No,” he says, still staring at me. He reaches up and fingers a lock of my hair, tucking it behind my ear. His knuckles graze my cheek. “Your hair.” He sighs. “There’s so much of it.”
“I’m aware.” I gather it in one hand and push it behind my shoulder.
“What’s going on with you? You’re being weird.”
“I’m not being weird.”
“You are absolutely being weird.”
“It’s a matter of perspective. I’d prefer the term energized.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “What’s got you energized?”
He drops one shoulder against the wall. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to my boss.”
“No?”
He shakes his head. “There was an emergency with a Reaper.”
“A Reaper?”
“A Grim Reaper,” he explains, like mentioning the embodiment of death will suffice and not immediately ignite about seventy thousand additional
questions.
“Those exist?” I whisper.
“That’s not the point of this conversation.”
“I wish I knew the point of this conversation.”
I don’t want to be in here with him. I want to be in my bed, halfway to unconsciousness, trying desperately not to think about the way it feels when Nolan gives me his full and undivided attention.
I’ve dreamed of him every night this week, mostly new interpretations of real-life memories. A left turn instead of right. Others are complete fabrications. Fantasies. Nolan at my kitchen table stringing cranberries onto ribbon. Nolan reclined on my couch in just a pair of red reindeer pajama pants. Me in the matching shirt, straddling his lap. My mouth on his neck and his hands in my hair.
Nolan in the antiques shop, reading in the back corner with his ankle crossed over his knee, his face lighting up when he sees me.
It’s becoming a problem. I think I’m developing feelings.
I’m developing feelings for a ghost who will disappear before the end of the month.
But I can’t help it. Nolan doesn’t feel transient when we’re together. He feels like a man. A man with a reluctant smile and a sharp mind and a devastatingly soft heart beneath all that flannel padding. Someone that’s just as lonely as me.
“I couldn’t wait,” he says, resting one hand at the sink by my hip. “That’s the point of this conversation.”
His pinky reaches out, tracing the soft material of my pajamas. I chose a green pair with dancing nutcrackers for tonight’s hibernation. “I didn’t want to wait,” he adds softly, dragging his gaze up from my pajama bottoms to my face.
My stomach performs an Olympic-worthy somersault.
“Our conversation the other day,” he says, still studying me. “When we discussed my unfinished business. I think you were right.”
I flinch, frowning. Discussion is a polite term for what that was. “I’m not
sure we should talk about this again,” I say.
I’m not sure my heart can take another battering. Not after the ice-skating rink, when it felt like we might be creeping closer to something that feels like friendship. Not after he clung to me in front of the fireplace, his face buried in my neck and his body trembling. Not after I’ve acknowledged that I’m starting to like Nolan very, very much. Too much.
“Why not?” he whispers.
“Because you seem a little worked up.” I push past him to the living room and head straight for the cookie jar shaped like a snowman on the mantel. I keep a stash of candy canes in there for emotional support emergencies. This feels like an appropriate time.
Unfortunately for me, there’s a distinct lack of candy canes in the jar. I guess I’ve needed my fair share of emotional support over the last month and a half.
I abandon the empty cookie jar for the gingerbread house under the tree, lifting the lid and peering inside.
Nolan trails dutifully after me, from the gingerbread house to the couch to
the bread box in the kitchen.
Every hiding spot is empty.
“Do I really consume this much sugar?”
Nolan leans against the frame of the door, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Yes,” he states. “You do.”
I blow out a breath through my nose and stare up at the ceiling.
I’m frustrated, but more than that I’m irritated.
In my periphery, I see Nolan move closer.
“Why are you following me?” I snap.
“I go where you go, Harriet,” he replies.
I barely resist rolling my eyes. I never asked for any of this. I certainly never asked for a pity ghost, sticking around because he has to. The constant reminder is a sprinkle of salt in barely healed wounds.
No one has ever stuck around. No one has ever chosen me. I don’t need him to constantly remind me that he’s here only because he has to be.
“Because you’re haunting me,” I say to the ceiling, sharper than I mean to.
Fingertips gently touch my cheek. Nolan holds a candy cane in front of my
nose.
I hesitate, then take it.
“Why are you upset?” he asks as I aggressively chew on the end of the
peppermint stick. It’s the brand I prefer, with the thin red stripes instead of the thick ones. “I thought you’d be excited.”
“You changed your mind fairly quickly. Pardon me if I’m less than enthused.”
“Not as quick as you think, and it’s not just the past that’s changed my
mind.”
“What does that mean?”
“There are other things, too. Things that have … persuaded me that perhaps you can help me. Just as you said.”
I switch my candy cane to the other side of my mouth. “And what are those things?”
A blush colors his cheeks right above the scruff of his beard. It’s blood in
the water for my curiosity.
“Must I share them?”
I nod. There is absolutely no way I’m letting him out of this room without an explanation. After everything, it’s the least he can do.
He sighs and turns his face to the ceiling, his neck and jaw in sharp relief.
He really does look like he’s from another world, another time. Like a faded photograph at the very bottom of a chest, warped at the corners, the edges peeling up. Dark in some spots, light in others.
Something left behind. Something forgotten.
“Things are changing. I can feel them changing. It’s like—it’s like the sky, yeah? Right before it snows. When the night is holding its breath and everything feels heavy. When it’s not truly dark, but— something else. A lantern behind the clouds. That’s what I feel like. Like a lantern has been lit. I don’t know how else to describe it.” His eyes search mine, dipping briefly to trace the contours of my face. I wonder what he’s looking for there, and if he’ll be able to find it. His mouth pulls up on one side, the shadow of his dimples appearing in both cheeks. “You’re the first thing in a hundred years to make me feel anything at all, Harriet York, and I don’t think that’s an accident.”
I blow out a slow breath. It’s hard for me to hear those words and not become attached to the idea of it. I’ve never been special to anyone. I’ve never been of use to anyone. The only feelings I’ve ever managed to inspire in others is vague frustration and opaque disappointment.
Or worse, nothing at all.
It’s tempting to be something different for Nolan.
Still. I need more.
“What’s changed?” I ask.
His half smile sharpens. He reaches for one of my curls, twisting it around his pointer finger and tugging once. “You mean besides ending up in one of
my childhood memories?”
I nod.
He blows out a deep breath, the rest of his hand sifting under my hair. He settles it around the back of my neck, his palm flush against the top of my spine. Steadying himself, maybe, or perhaps steadying me.
“I’m afraid,” he confesses.
I soften. “Of what?”
His eyes flick back and forth between mine. “I’m afraid if I say it aloud,
it’ll no longer be true.”
“You can tell me.”
His fingers flex on the back of my neck. “My coffee was burnt this morning.” He swallows. “It tasted like absolute shite.”
“Um … okay?”
“I could taste it, Harriet. I could taste my coffee this morning and the lemon drop you gave me in the tree field. I burnt my hand in front of the fireplace at the ice-skating rink and I was cold this morning when I left my house. I’m feeling again.” His eyes search mine. “I’m feeling quite a bit.”
An ache pinches in the middle of my chest. “Anything else?”
“Is that not enough?”
“There’s something you haven’t told me about yet. I can tell.”
His mouth pulls into a grim smile, his jaw flexing and releasing. “I had a
dream.” He pauses. “About you.”
“Me?”
“Aye,” he says. “You.”
“I thought you said you didn’t have dreams.”
“I don’t,” he agrees, his voice tripping into something lower.
“Oh.”
I think of the dreams I’ve had about him. The warm, buzzy feeling under my skin. The way I sometimes wake up with my hand low on my belly. Heat floods my cheeks. “Was it—was it a good dream, at least?”
His gaze takes a meandering path across my face. Lower, to the v in my pajama shirt and where I most definitely am not wearing a bra. His tongue appears at the corner of his mouth, and his hand tightens against the back of
my neck. A sigh rattles out of me.
“It was a very good dream,” he rasps.
My stomach bottoms out. I wet my lips and Nolan’s attention shifts there.
He traces another slow circuit across the knob at the top of my spine and I shiver in my matching pajamas.
I bet my pulse feels like a jackhammer right now. Like some sort of heavy machinery, picking up speed the longer I stand here like this, with him.
But I’m not embarrassed. I’m aware of my body and of his. Of the moment that is stretching between us until everything feels languid and slow. Lights from the tree and a horn across the harbor. Wind at the windows and a sticky peppermint stick wedged in my mouth.
“I think you’re bringing me back to life, Harriet.”
“That’s a ridiculous statement.”
He shrugs his shoulders. Barely half an inch. “Not if it’s true.”
I release a slow breath, studying him. He keeps his face open and honest, letting me look.
“I guess that’s a good reason, then,” I whisper, filling the space between us, trying to cut through the tension that’s gripped us both. I want to approach this academically, slot another clue into its proper place, but I also want to lean forward and bury my face in his chest. “That’s—um. That makes sense.
If you’re, uh, experiencing things.
I get it now. I get why you’d have a change of heart.”
Some of the tension eases from the lines by his eyes, his face so earnest I could cry. “You’ll help me then?” He tries to crack a smile. “You’ll end decades of blind desperation and send me off into the afterlife of my dreams?”
I try to see through the bluster. “Is that what you want, Nolan?
Truly?”
The teasing smile slips from his face.
“I need this, Harriet,” he says. “I need to move on. I need something different.”
I try not to let those words sting, but it’s a bucket of cold water over the heat simmering between us. I tug out of his grip.
Of course he wants something different. He’s been here for decades with no hope to hold on to. He’s hated this existence.
I can’t be selfish with this. After all, what future could I possible have with a ghost? I’ve lost myself to a fantasy, and it needs to stop.
I need to bundle it all up and let it go.
“Of course,” I tell him, forcing a smile and ignoring the rubber band of disappointment slowly squeezing at the middle of my chest. I can do this. I can help him without falling further into whatever this is. I’ll help him move on, he’ll disappear, and I’ll return to my ghostfree life. I’ll have fond memories of this … absolutely ridiculous series of events. Like the brass bobbles that hang on my tree in the window. I’ll box them up carefully at the end of the season and store them in the attic. I’ll take them out every now and again to marvel over how pretty and special and unique they are, then I’ll
tuck them away.
It will be fine.
I will be fine.
I always am.
I fix my face into a smile. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
I’ve always been good at being exactly what people need.
