The crease in his brows deepens, and he looks like he’s genuinely considering it. “I don’t know.”
“No, you’re right. It’s still way too morbid. How about if I drop the ‘rim’ and just call you G?” His nose crinkles. “Ghost boy?” He shakes his head, a smile toying with the corner of his lips. “Gumdrop?”
“Goodnight, Lou.” His dimple flashes, head still shaking as he fades.
It’s quicker this time, the way it starts, a translucent shimmer of color until there’s nothing at all, and his sudden absence hurts me in a way I’ve never experienced before. I feel the light in my eyes die down, the pounding strum in my chest quiets, the air around me returns to its natural cool chill, and I just want him to come back.
I want him to stay.
It’s not until the bathroom door clicks and Claire steps out that it hits me: Tonight, he had a choice. He was able to leave at will. He wasn’t here because he had to be.
A rush of air pours out of me at the realization, like my lungs are being released from a hold I didn’t even know they were trapped in.
He was here, with me, because he wanted to be.
Chapter 27
Sometimes all ittakes are the little details to make us step back for a second, look around, and realize . . .Hey, I’m okay. For me, it started with the way I dressed this morning. Not what I wore, but how I went about selecting the outfit. While I’d usually just throw something together based on the weather or practicality, today I took my time flipping through my jeans and tops, even stopping to check their fit in the mirror. Next was my hair. Instead of just a quick brush and dash, I did a full blow dry. I glossed my lips and added mascara, just for the hell of it. It didn’t matter that it’s a cleaning day, I did it for me, and damn if it didn’t feel good.
The nightly visits with my Death might have a little something to do with it. Or a lot.Wait, what?Whoa there, Lou—notmyDeath. Just Death. The Death of the people. Nothing to see but equal Death opportunity rights here.
I’m smiling as I stroll up Main Street, unable to push him out of my mind, and not wanting to either. I haven’t commented on the fact that he’s coming over on his own accord now, but he has to know I’ve figured it out. It’s not as though he’s trying to hide it. It’s Wednesday and he hasn’t missed a single night.
There are a lot of things we haven’t discussed yet, and I realize I should use his visits to ask important questions; I even plan on doing that very thing every day before he shows up.
But then . . . well, he shows up. With those smoky eyes fixed on me, and that elusive dimple making an appearance here and there.
I can’t suppress another smile when I think of the few laughs I’ve pulled out of him, each one mentally recorded as the clearest and most addictive reel in my mind. I’m still the more talkative one, but I don’t mind. Not when I see the way he hangs onto every little thing I say. His expression reveals more these days than it ever has before. The way one corner of his lips slowly curves up when he quietly watches me, or the way he presses them together when he’s trying not to laugh at something ridiculous I’ve said.
But sometimes, at random intervals when we’re talking, I see these fleeting moments where his expression goes serious. He’ll get quiet, face falling and eyes darkening, and I know he’s thinking about the stark reality of our situation.
I know this because it hits me in spurts like that, too. The fact this shouldn’t be possible. That we both know nothing good can come of it. That we come from entirely different universes and shouldn’t fit together as well as we do. And that something must be terribly wrong in order for any of this to even be occurring. My throat thickens at the thought, a wave of nerves rolling through me.
But just when I think he’s going to be the first one between us to voice these thoughts aloud, he seems to do the same thing I do—shove it away into the furthest corner of his mind.
Just until tomorrow.
It’s always just until tomorrow.
Mr. Blackwood isn’t home when I arrive at his place, which seems to be a bit of a theme for him lately. The moment I step past the front door, I notice he’s actually organized his papers for once. There are still a few scattered notes here and there, but there’s also a new accordion filing system tucked right beneath his coffee table.
I get right to work, and it takes extra effort today for me to avoid the guest room. I decide to skip that room again and instead focus my time on cleaning the main living areas. It’s not because I don’t want to dig around that particular bedroom some more, but because I do. I want to yank that manila folder from the bedsprings, pour out all of its contents, and find out what the rest of the messages say. Then I want to unclasp the accordion filing system sitting not ten feet away from me and flip through every piece of paper tucked inside. But, I won’t. I won’t because I need to give Mr. Blackwood a chance to clear this up with me himself. I won’t because I don’t want to put a dent in our already paper-thin relationship.
But he better get back soon because the curiosity is scratching at my back and I can’t take much more.
Just then, the sound of keys jingling pulls my attention to the front of the room, the door swings open, and in walks Mr. Blackwood. Well, not so muchwalksasstumbles. And I’m not talking about his usual limp either; this is a full on drunken stupor type of stumble. A loud clank fills my ears as he tumbles right into the coffee table, grunts, and wobbles in place for a second as he tries to get his bearings. I’ve dropped the rag and spray bottle and am already rushing his way, reaching him just in time to pull his arm over my shoulders for support before he loses his balance completely.
“You stink,” I mutter, carefully setting him onto the sofa. I’m used to the faint scent of whiskey lingering on him, but today he smells like he dumped a full bottle over his head and then rolled around in the dirt.
“Good morning to you, too,” he slurs, “you ray of sunshine, you.”
I snort and place a hand on my hip. “What would you know about rays of sunshine, Mr. Doom and Gloom?”
“I know more . . . I know more than . . . hey, where’s my drink?” He shoves his right hand inside his coat, digging around the inner pockets, but I beat him to it and snag his hidden flask before he even knows what’s happening. His white brows furrow, his thin body swaying as he takes a moment to center his eyes on me. “Give it back,” he grumbles. “I’m thirsty.”
“Oh? Would you like me to get you a glass of water?”
He scoffs. It’s loud and exaggerated, and I’ve never seen him in quite this state. Not only is he far more inebriated than usual, but his brows seem glued downward, his eyes distant and bitter. I go into the kitchen and pour a glass of water anyway, setting it in front of him when I return.
