“Sabby,” says Hanry.
It’s so kind, it takes almost everything I have not to bury my face in my hands. Hanry squeezes my hand with his warm, strong, and distracting fingers.
“Whatever or whoever’s causing all these problems, Sabby, I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“It sounds rough. Though I have to admit, my parents would’ve probably found it funny.”
Ugh, men. Always turning it back to themselves.
“But what doyouthink?” I ask. “Do you think I can rule out Grandma Rose’s ghost?”
Hanry releases my hand—just as I’m starting to really enjoy the touch—and picks up his steaming mug of nettle tea. After a sip, he says, “Yeah. For one, ghost hauntings are uncommon. Ghosts are self-absorbed. Focused on their own unfinished business.”
“I told you!” crows Bulan from across the room.
“Go back to your Regency trash,” I instruct him, which he does.
“You get poltergeists more often than ghosts,” says Hanry. From his offhanded tone, he doesn’t seem to realize he’s pointing me to a paranormal danger I hadn’t realized existed. “I doubt your grandma became one of those. Poltergeists have a hollowed-out sense of self, and they’d be happy to burn the world down if they could. Your grandmother doesn’t seem like she had enough resentment for that. I’m assuming she put those up?”
His gaze indicates the spider stuffies dangling over the front door.
“What, you don’t think I did that? Do I not seem like the plush, cuddly type?”
Hanry laughs. I mean, he’s right, but still. Icouldhave a whole ten-by-ten storage container filled with Beanie Babies and Labubus that I like to jump into and swim around in. How would he know?
“Remind me how you know all this ghoulish stuff,” I feel led to say. “Youdoswear you’re human, don’t you?”
Grinning behind his mug, Hanry says, “Swear it.”
I unsubtly check in with Bulan. Unfortunately, he’s slurping Cheerios from his plastic tray, reverted to Roomba mode again.
All right, I get the message. It’s time to set this aside and return to wedding work. It’s the only thing I can do to earn money right now, and for some reason that doesn’t make me feel sad or remind me of all the dreams I’m missing out on. When I pull out my laptop, Hanry begins to stack his sandpaper sheets and return his tiny chiseling knives into his leather-bound carrying case.
“No, don’t leave. You won’t distract me. I’m not studying.” At his curious expression, I explain, “I’m about to send a survey to my clients about their close relationships.”
“You have more weddings lined up?”
“In two weeks’ time,” I reply. Hanry seems pleased. He smiles into his light beard in that shy, secretive way I’m starting to like too much. “I haven’t heard anything from work, but as long as I’m here, I might as well make cash. It’s the financially responsible thing to do.”
“And what are the surveys for?”
“To help me be as prepared as possible. I don’t want to be caught wrong-footed by family drama again. Or surprise Momzillas.”
Or saboteurs—though I’m less certain about how to plan for those.
“I would happily wear a mech suit to fight Momzillas,” Bulan calls out. His voice and beard are equally thick with Cheerios.
I cast him a grin. “I’ll see what I can arrange.”
I don’t really mean that, same as I don’t really mean to be a wedding planner, wedding florist, or wedding anything. But as I expand my in-process spreadsheet, I can’t help feeling like I’m faking it too well.
Over the course of the week, I continue to be foiled at the train platform by Grandma’s nefarious will, and communication from New York remains eerily silent. This might be the first time in my life that not being sought out has stressed me out. Silence is supposed to be a sign that everything’s okay, that the world is calm and good. But I’m unconvinced a metaphorical piano isn’t about to fall on top of me somehow. That this is the downbeat before a laugh track sets off.
I’ve been in Salem almost a month, and I can’t help getting concerned about my team’s progress on the MicroOrange account, how hard it’ll be to catch up. It’s been ages since I’ve talked, much less texted with Jane, and my CPA exam is looming and dooming on me from a mere two months away. I should be forcing much, much more of my attention toward all of that.
Instead of on Hanry. Or my sham business.
