He grinned and clapped his hands. “I love that. But you didn’t hear what I said.”
“You can get an urn for like thirty bucks.”
Swiping away the brochures, he said, “I think my studio is haunted.”
Déjà chewed on her straw. “Of course it is. You live there. Cosmo the Flamboyant Ghost.”
“You don’t believe me.” He thought she of all people, with the ability to see auras, wouldn’t make fun of him for such an idea. “Right, so an urn. Do they come in red?”
“Hang on. You’re serious? What happened?”
A waitress in a car hop dress skated past with a tray of sodas. College students crowded the central counter, and someone at the jukebox started up a rockabilly version of “Walkin’ After Midnight.”
Cosmo slid into the other side of the booth beside Déjà and pulled his milkshake over. “Things have been a little odd for a while now. I thought the voice I keep hearing, always on the phone with customer service or a hotline, was a neighbor. I’ve been playing music to drown him out. But last night, I slipped on my bathmat and grabbed the shower curtain for leverage. The whole thing ripped down, along with the shower caddy.” He scrubbed at the sudden goosebumps on his arms. “When it happened, someone let out the most dreadful shriek from the front room.”
“You sure it wasn’t you shrieking?”
He licked whipped cream from his straw and turned up his nose. “Fine. I suppose I’ll withhold details about the shadow and the footsteps in the hall because you don’t want to hear about my spooky new friend.” The bathroom door had creaked open on its own, then a long silhouette drifted across the wall. Cosmo had almost called Déjà then, but opted for crawling under the sheets and shielding himself with the stuffed alligator from the theme park.
Déjà collected the pamphlets, shuffled them, then slapped them back on the table. “They’re everywhere.”
“What are?”
“Ghosts.” Her teeth pressed into her bottom lip. “They’re in my apartment, they’re in yours. They’re in this soda shop.”
Cosmo stared. “Nowthisis more what I was expecting from you.”
She regarded him uncertainly, looked out the window, then pushed the brochures into a neat stack. “You don’t think it’s weird?”
“It’s very weird. Tell me more. Why would they haunt a soda shop? I mean, they do have incredible milkshakes, but… Do you think someone died in my studio?”
Her hands seemed to have taken on a nervous energy, fussing with the greasy salt and pepper shakers and laminated menus sitting askew in their rack. She rescued one of the maraschinocherries from her milkshake’s wilting cream and bit it off the stem. “They – they go wherever they want. It doesn’t mean they died there. Sometimes they’re rowdy and people can hear and see them.”
“But you see them all the time?”
“No. Just feel them. But I don’t… I don’t really want to talk about this. I’ve never told anyone.”
Déjà looked smaller than Cosmo had ever seen her, her shoulders hunched and fingers nervously picking at the corner of a brochure. They were brochures for a party in his honor. She was here forhim, while struggling with something in secret. Cosmo always garnered attention, but it wasn’t fair for his gravity to be sucking up all the focus of their friendship.
He patted her leg and said, “You are fascinating and lovely. And I’m a shit friend. I’m sorry that I’m not a safe enough space for you to share that kind of thing with me.”
“You’re always safe.” She gave him a squeeze. “And you’re not shit. I just never knew how to bring it up before, I guess.”
“You introduced yourself by telling me what colors my aura is made up of. If that’s not a weird ice breaker, I don’t know what is, and I knew then that we’d get along great. I’m always here if you want to talk about this, and I promise I won’t judge.” He waved a hand. “And even if the studio is haunted, it’s constituent to my upcoming party. I haven’t even died yet, and I’m already hanging out with ghosts.” He tugged on a curl. “I’m thinking of wearing a black veil. Is that gauche?”
Déjà’s pinched features softened. “Not nearly as gauche as painting your face white or wearing a bedsheet with eye holes cut out.”
“Ugh. How vulgar. Can you imagine?”
She stared out at the car-studded parking lot, a hand on her chin, as chatter and rockabilly music filled the space between them. When she turned back, she said, “Do you like Rye?”
“I prefer white to be honest.”
“You racist.”
“Hot and thick. Slathered in butter. I want to really be able to sink my teeth in.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Sounds kinky. Why don’t you invite me to these parties?”
