“And go where? Will you chase after that Mark fellow? See if you can stay with him for the night?” I ask, seething in disgust at the idea. “He might allow it, but I reckon he’d also ask you to pay a nightly rate for shelter, wouldn’t he?”
I didn’t notice the distance closing between us while it was happening, but now I’m hovering above her, so close that I could take my corporeal form and wipe the tear streaming down her cheek if I wanted to.
When she opens her eyes, they’re glaring at me. Vitriol has her jaw clenching as she takes me in, not flinching or questioning my form.
“What the fuck do you know? You spy on him for an hour, and you think you know him? Or me?”
“I’ve watched you for many hours. Since the day you arrived and unpacked your things inmyhouse.”
“Actually, it’s Lindsay’s house. Does she know? Is she aware there’s a pervy ghost floating through her halls?”
I scoff. “Please. I have no interest in peeping on you during private moments. I’m a gentleman and would never cross such a line. When you engage in sexual acts in the living room, however, and let the carpet catch fire, it’s hard to ignore.”
She throws her head back and lets out a mocking cackle as she gets to her feet. “Oh, like you had nothing to do with that candle falling over.”
Why should I admit the role I played in getting Mark to leave? I don’t owe this woman anything. In fact, she should be thanking me for helping her avoid a decision she was sure to regret in the light of day. Yet, here she stands, with her hands on her wide hips, scolding me like you would a child sneaking a slice of cake before dinner.
Then again, threatening to make Lindsay aware of the situation has me nervous. I decide to ignore the mention of Lindsay and try a softer approach, hoping she forgets she brought it up in the first place. “I was surprised you’d allow someone likehimanywhere near you, and despite the execution, I swear that my intentions were good. I thought I was doing youa favor by getting him out of here. Clearly, I was wrong to get involved.”
“Yes, you were,” she shouts. “It’s none of your business who I allow near me.”
I hold up my hands. “You’re right.”
“Well,” she begins with a huff, “thank you for apologizing.”
“I didn’t apologize,” I correct her. The mere suggestion of that irritates me.
“Yes, you did.”
“I said I was wrong,” I tell her. “That’s not an apology.”
She rolls her eyes. “Are you serious? It’s the same thing.”
“An apology implies regret. I have no regrets about what I said. Mark is a loser. If your mother were still here, I doubt she’d approve of him.” It’s not what I meant to say, or the tone I meant to say it in, but the words are out, and I wish I could take them back.
This is what I should be apologizing for, but Natalie doesn’t let me. She grabs a rock and hurls it toward me. It goes through me, and she lets out a frustrated growl as she stomps back into the house. I don’t follow.
She returns to the driveway moments later with sandals on her feet, her car keys in hand, purse slung over her shoulder, and an old bottle of rum tucked beneath her arm that she must’ve taken from the liquor cabinet. Then she climbs into the backseat, stretching across it and opening the bottle.
“My car’s almost out of gas,” she shouts at me. “But you win, asshole. The house is yours. Tomorrow, I’ll be out of your hair. Just please, let me sleep out here in peace tonight.”
I nod before disappearing into the sticky night air, giving her the space she desires, but it’s a farce. I’m still here, she simply can’t see me. Would she drink and drive? I don’t think she’d be that stupid, but I can’t be sure, so I remain close by, ready to intervene if needed.
Natalie shuts the back passenger door, kicks off her sandals, and leans against the back seat as she takes a long pull of the rum. Fiddling with her phone, she puts on the same music she’s been playing at an absurdly high volume, at all hours of the day and night since she arrived.
Goddamn Taylor Swift.
Chapter 5
Natalie
Iwake up coughing, and my entire body radiates with pain. Even with the windows open, the inside of my car is swampy and gross. I need to get out of here, but I’m too miserable to move. A wave of nausea is what ultimately gets me moving, and I vomit as soon as I open the car door. I stumble outside into the blinding sun, and the loud hum of insects in the surrounding forest rattles my skull. My braid has come mostly undone, the freed strands damp with sweat against the back of my neck.
Rum was a bad idea. Averybad idea. I’m not a hard liquor girl, but I doubt I would’ve been able to sleep without it. Although, given how sore my neck is, the sleep I did get was shit.
I hesitate at the front door, wondering if I imagined the ghost criticizing my taste in men last night, or if that was just my subconscious. “Hello?” I ask once I step inside. “Ghost man?”
Silence.
