Page 75

There’s a growing smile on my lips when his eyes find mine and a frown pinches between his brows. ‘What?’

‘Ready?’

He motions with an outstretched hand for me to lead the way.

I know what you’re thinking. I’m not impressed. Not in the slightest. The way I’m grinning has absolutely nothing to do with the suited-up phantom that follows behind me. It’s certainly nothing related to when I turn and catch his eyes on my ass. Nothing whatsoever.

I take us mostly down the empty aisles with frames hanging. I know most people who already know me think I’m somewhat insane, but I think seeing me outright talking to myself might promote me to state-ward-level crazy.

We stroll lazily and fall into an easy pattern. I’ll read and tell him about the authors. Sometimes, if I know it, I’ll share the backstory to the piece. He nods. The twin frown lines between his brows begin to lessen the longer we walk together.

He’d have been a good student, I think. He’s genuine in his pursuit of knowledge. He stands straight, fists clasped behind his back as if even his hands are a distraction he won’t risk interfering. He listens well. Asks questions that aren’t really questions – just confirmation of his perception.

In fact, the only thing he ever says that does end in a question mark is:

‘What one do you like best?’

It doesn’t take long for me choose. I lead him down another aisle and show him Aggy’s piece on grief. I don’t read this one to him. His eyes are already skating over the text. An inscrutable expression passes over his features. And he nods. Again. He seems… unimpressed. I don’t know why that burns a bit. He’s always unimpressed. Particularly when it comes to any sort of human emotion.

‘You can go if you have to,’ I say, a half-suggestion. It’s obvious he’s not a fan of the writing. ‘I don’t mind. You have that work thing, you said.’

‘I’m not going,’ he says, distracted.

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t want to,’ he says absently. The smile that had gone missing makes a reappearance. When he sees it, he huffs. ‘Don’t look at me like that. It’s got nothing to do with you.’ He waves me off.

‘Walker! You’re being nice,’ I tease. And an utterly pathetic feeling fills my chest. The optimist in me strikes again and I begin to believe he’s actually here because… well because it means something to me. It’s really no good to anyone for me to think this way. After all, where can things lead with a phantom? But I can’t help it. I look at how he’s avoiding making eye contact and how his fingers tap. And to know he’s nervous does something to my brain chemistry. Makes me all dizzy and stupid and get notions I really shouldn’t. Right here, are feelings I have no sense to feel for a dead man walking through my showcase.

‘It’s charity,’ he says finally.

‘Charity is nice.’

I grin. He scowls.

‘You can cease speaking now,’ he growls, but there’s no bite.

He begins to wander, finger tracing down the wooden shelves as he goes until he comes to the next.

‘You haven’t shown me this one,’ he says.

Myna Omissions is scrawled across the top of the page in messy cursive. We ran out of ink.

This one is multiple pages. So rather than being actually framed, this one is just stuck onto the glass by the back of the pamphlet, so you can flick through the pages.

Walker begins reading.

‘It’s…about a bird.’

‘I’d gathered, from the title.’ He continues reading.

‘His bird-wife dies after being hit by a car and⁠—’

‘Are you going to let me read it or just tell me about it.’

I bite my lip. It’s a longer piece. A short story.

I try not to watch him as he reads. I try not to decipher every twitch, every muscle movement of his face. I try not to smile in turn, when his lips curve into a quick grin, before they fall again on the next line. A sucker punch, indeed.