Page 47 of The Write Stuff

Time flies when you’re having fun. That’s the tired old saying that still manages to be true. A month later, I reflected on that as I stood outside Colonial Park Cemetery with Wylie and looked dubiously at the gate.

“Seriously?” I challenged. “This is what you want to do?”

Wylie and I had fallen into a routine. We worked at the coffee shop three days a week, almost always together, and then two days a week we went on adventures. Sometimes those adventures were simple, like coffee in one of the million little squares we’d yet to visit. Other times, they were more intense, like when Wylie demanded we get our fortunes read at a store. I’d been reticent about that, but she was so excited I couldn’t stop myself from giving in.

Of course, I didn’t believe the fortune teller — Madame Lenora, because of course — but Wylie had been so bubbly during our walk to lunch after I didn’t regret giving in and going with her. She was so exuberant about life, it made me more excited, a phenomenon I didn’t recognize until we were a full three weeks into our friendship.

That’s what it was, for the record. We were friends who just happened to spend five days a week together. I allowed myself to believe that because nothing romantic ever happened between us. We didn’t hold hands. There was definitely no kissing. Sure, there was physical contact — we brushed against one another constantly, way more frequently than other friends might — but I kept telling myself that was happening because we were really good friends. I basically believed that.

Basically.

“You don’t have to go in with me,” she said as she shifted from one foot to the other. It was hot today, oppressively humid, and she was in shorts that showed off about a mile of leg and flip flops that made noise when she walked. They couldn’t be comfortable for long walks, and yet Wylie wore them constantly. They boasted a Wonder Woman pattern.

Her hair was piled up on top of her head. I’d noticed, when the humidity really climbed into the stratosphere, that she didn’t bother doing anything with it but pull it back. She’d explained that it would become so frizzy and tangled that it would be impossible to get a brush through it if she didn’t go that route. She even used an episode of Friends as a reference because she was Wylie. I liked her hair up, though.

Sure, I had dreams where it was loose and flowing, and I wrapped my fist around it while she leaned over on top of me and —

It was better not to think about the dreams. Friends dreamed about one another, right? It wasn’t out of the ordinary or anything.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going in with you,” I shot back. “I just … it’s a cemetery, Wylie. It’s not a museum.”

“It’s kind of a museum of death,” she countered. If she was bothered by my tone, which was whiny, she didn’t show it. “I’ve always been fascinated by death.”

I sent her a sidelong look. “Because you’re morbid?”

“Because I believe the soul goes on and I want to know how.”

“Like … you believe in ghosts?”

“Don’t you?”

You mean because I’m being haunted by you in my dreams? Thankfully, I didn’t ask that question out loud. It remained locked in my head, where it belonged. “I don’t know what I believe,” I admitted.

“Savannah is supposedly full of ghosts. Like … there’s one in The Olde Pink House bar. We should go there by the way.” She caught herself. “Although we generally don’t go out after three o’clock. Maybe that’s against the rules.”

She had my full attention now. “What rules?”

She shrugged and averted her gaze. “I don’t know. We seem to be following specific rules.”

And here I thought that I was the only one who had noticed that. “What’s The Olde Pink House?” I asked to change the subject. I did not want to risk a serious conversation on “the rules” at this juncture. It was too much of a risk, because if we both acknowledged “the rules” and concluded that there was a risk of crossing the friend line, this all could stop.

And I really needed it not to stop.

“It’s this really cool restaurant.” She rubbed her hands together and did a little dance. “My mom took me when we came to Savannah that first time. It’s in a huge house.”

“Let me guess. It’s pink.”

She grinned. “The food is supposed to be amazing. If you want to go, though, I have to put in weeks in advance to get a reservation.” She paused. “Although you might be sick of me by then.”

It irritated me when she said things like that. I was trying to break her of the self-deprecating thing. She used it as a defense mechanism, and I hated it. She was amazing, just how she was, and she needed to realize that.

“I’ll handle the reservations,” I said. I wasn’t going to wait weeks to get us in there either. If I had to use one, I would use my mother’s agent to cut to the front of the line. “I still don’t understand why you’re so excited about ghosts.”

She shrugged. “Why not?”

“I need something more specific to go on.”

She tilted her head, and the light hit her face in such a way that her freckles popped. I hated how fixated I was on those freckles. “Has anybody ever told you that you’re uptight?” she asked out of the blue.