The smell of butter and maple syrup pulls me toward the kitchen, and I find a plate on the counter, with a steel plate cover over it, a single glass of orange juice, with a cloth napkin and utensils beside it.
Clearly, there’s someone here, because I didn’t make this. What confuses me is who this was made for. I creep closer, trying to determine what’s under the plate cover, simply by scent. Pancakes?
Mm, pancakes.
Looking around and finding no one, I lift the cover, and my stomach growls at the sight of French toast, steam rising off the pile, and drenched in syrup.
“Have some,” a deep voice says from behind me, making me jump and squeak in surprise. “I made it for you, Natalie.”
Ghost Man is real. He floats into the room, a fog trailing him and slightly blurring his features. He must’ve been tall when he was alive––over six feet, I’d say––based on the height of his misty presence. Though he doesn’t touch the ground, I can’t even see his feet through the fog, he moves with the kind of grace and purpose I’ve only seen in predatory animals on nature documentaries.
“It’s rude to stare, you know.” His tone is cold, but the way his lips curve on one side tells me he’s teasing.
I realize my mouth is hanging open, and I’m still holding the plate cover in my hand. I must look frozen in shock, and also, in my current state, like absolute trash. “Uh, sorry,” I mutter, dropping onto the stool. “Thank you for breakfast. It looks delicious.”
My mouth is watering, and I want so badly to take a bite, but his kind gesture doesn’t make sense, given how terrifying he was last night. He doesn’t want me here, so what’s the motive? “Did you poison it?”
He chuckles, the gravelly sound lighting up parts inside me that I assumed had gone permanently dark. “You’ve been here for eight days. If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”
A sigh of relief escapes me just before I shove a forkful of French toast in my mouth. I moan as the warmth and sugar andbuttery goodness makes me forget about my splitting headache, and Ghost Man’s eyes darken as he watches me. “S’good,” I mumble. Then, after a sip of orange juice, “What was your name again?”
The darkness fades as amused composure takes its place. “Winston,” he says. “I told you last night, but I knew you weren’t listening.”
“Yeah, I guess I was a little distracted by you slut-shaming me in the driveway.” My tone is cutting, and I have to suppress the urge to apologize. This isn’t how I speak to people, especially if I find them intimidating, and I definitely find Winston intimidating. But he acted like a dick last night, and my hangover and sore neck are entirely his fault.
He rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t slut-shaming you. My comments had nothing to do with you. It was more about your choice of sex partner.”
I chuckle at the furrow in his brow, and the way he says ‘sex partner’ as if the words are laced with acid.
He tilts his head to the side as his body floats closer, his gaze narrowing as it sweeps over my face. Blood rushes to my cheeks. He’s inches from me now, two, maybe three. “You’re not afraid of me anymore, are you? Do you have experience communicating with the dead?”
“I’m notnotafraid,” I say, my mouth suddenly dry. “You’re dead, and somehow, you’re right in front of me. It’s weird. Definitely weird. It freaks me out that I can see through you, but no, I’ve never met another ghost. Though, I figured your kind existed. I hoped so, anyway.” Mom’s smile pops into my head, and I wonder why I’m stuck being haunted by this rando and not her. I clear my throat, bringing my mind back to the present. “Why are you being nice to me? I thought you wanted me to leave. Is this a pity breakfast?”
Winston shakes his head. “I don’t pity you. Do you think you’re the only one who’s lost someone they love? I watched my wife and son die within hours of each other. My father, mother, my brother, and sister––I outlived all of them. Loss is part of life. You,” he pauses, sighing heavily, “you get used to it.”
My stomach sinks like a stone at his words. I want to be mad at him for comparing our levels of grief, but I can’t. He lost his wife and child on the same day? That kind of trauma is unfathomable.
“I’m sorry. That’s awful.” The words are utterly inadequate, given what he’s gone through, but it’s all I have to give.
Is his spirit lingering here so he can process it? I have so many questions about how long he’s been dead, what killed him, and what his wife was like, but they all feel too personal.
Besides, I need to get my first question answered before we start getting to know each other. “Um, so you made me breakfast because…”
“Right,” he says with a jerky nod of his head, as if trying to shove his pain into the back of his mind. I imagine that’s where he’s kept it buried for far too long. “I was hoping you could help me.”
“Help you? With what?”
“I did some thinking last night, and while I may not approve of the men you choose to date–”
“Mark? We’re not dating,” I interject. “Just sex.”
He floats around the kitchen as he continues. “Or the trail of crumbs you leave with your obscene cracker consumption, or the way you leave every cabinet door open without closing them, or how you play the same songs over and over…”
I hold up a hand to stop him. This is the worst possible time to hear a list of my flaws. Maybe if I weren’t so hungover, I could handle a roast, but not now. Not when my tongue feels like it’s wearing a turtleneck. “Is this you asking me for a favor?”
He smiles, and there’s a twinkle in his eye that makes me long to know the color. The spectral fog that’s attached to him steals the color from his eyes, skin, hair, and makes him a tall grayish wall of smoke. I want to see him. The real him. Was he handsome when he was alive? I’m pretty sure he was. Even without color, I can’t tear my eyes away from him.
“Not quite. I think we will be helping each other. You see,” he explains, “if you move out, Lindsay might find someone else to stay here while she decides the fate of my home. That person could be even messier than you are. With even more,” he pauses as he tries to find the right word, “baffling musical tastes.”
