Page 4 of Adored by the Grumpy Ghost (Mapletown Monster Mates #1)
Natalie
A breathtaking dark Victorian mansion all to myself, and I can’t seem to enjoy it.
The realization is embarrassing. The first few days here were okay.
I kept myself busy by dusting the many surfaces, taking notes for Lindsay on the appliances that truly are broken, and the areas in need of repair, but then I ran out of things to do, and more so, the energy to do them.
Are there tasks I could be accomplishing? Of course.
I could look for a job in town or apply for remote work.
I could go for a daily walk around the property.
You know, enjoy the sunshine and get my heart rate up or whatever it is emotionally stable people do.
I could take stock of the cleaning supplies, roll up my sleeves, and really get to work on making this place sparkle.
Lindsay didn’t ask me to do it, but I certainly could, especially as a way to pay her back for letting me live here.
I could also pull myself out of bed, shower, maybe shave my legs for the first time in weeks, and yet, here I lay, unable to perform the most basic daily functions.
My hair feels greasy, and I know I stink, but I’m the only one here, so I allow the rot to continue.
When my limbs get stiff, which usually happens around three in the morning, I get up and wander the creaky halls in my nightgown like the ghost of a sad pilgrim.
That’s been my only source of joy this week, and even that isn’t enough for my lips to crack a smile.
It’s like I’m too tired to smile. Too tired to do anything. I’m sleeping a lot, but only for half an hour at a time before I wake up and the memories of Mom hit me. It’s not consistent, restorative sleep.
When I’m awake, I can’t focus on anything. I’ll remember I should do something, which gets me out of bed, but when I enter the room my feet took me to, I forget the reason I’m there.
Food has been an afterthought. I’ve been munching on a few of Lindsay’s gourmet crackers at a time until my stomach stops growling. There are crumbs strewn about between the bedsheets and on the floor. It’s not ideal.
I felt like I had a purpose, taking care of Mom for the last five years. Now that I’m not her caregiver, what am I? Who am I?
Is grief to blame for all of this? Is it perimenopause? Or am I losing my mind?
I know I just need to create a routine, stick to it, and eventually time will dull the pain.
Fake it till you make it. It sounds so simple, but the thought of setting my alarm for a certain time tomorrow morning and hauling myself out of bed is enough to make me burrow deeper beneath the musty quilt that covers my legs and pinch my eyes closed.
Then I feel guilty, because I’m being lazy when I could be productive, and if I had even one box to check at the end of the day, wouldn’t that make me feel better?
Even a tiny, little sprinkle-of-cinnamon-sized feeling of accomplishment would make me less depressed, wouldn’t it?
Plus, Mom would’ve given anything to have more time on Earth, and here I am wasting mine. She wouldn’t want that for me.
I grab my phone and head into the bathroom, pressing play on the last voicemail she left me.
It was a week before she died. I was at the grocery store when she called.
Her oncologist told her to eat like a teenage boy, packing as much fat and calories into each meal as possible, as long as she could keep it down.
It sounded great at first. Ice cream for breakfast, fried food for lunch, and whatever the hell else she wanted for dinner and dessert.
I was jealous as fuck. But each new food she tried was a gamble, and once it made her sick, she didn’t even want to see it in the fridge.
This meant I was going to the grocery store almost daily, trying to find anything that would taste good to her and wouldn’t upset her stomach.
“Hi, honey,” the voicemail begins. “Can you get some of that pineapple orange juice?” I can hear the exhaustion in her voice, and it breaks my heart all over again.
“Maybe some sorbet? I’m craving fruit.” She’d eat half of the sorbet before it made her sick.
It was a good twenty-four hours, though. She was happy. Comfortable.
“Grab some russet potatoes, too. I can make you those hash browns you like.” The potatoes never made it into my cart that day.
I knew she was too sick to cook for me, and yet, she still offered.
Two days before she died, when she was bedridden and sleeping constantly but still able to speak, she asked me if I was thirsty and offered to get me a glass of water from the kitchen.
My needs were always more important to her than her own, even at the end. “Thanks, honey. Love you.”
I read somewhere that when a person dies, their voice fades from your memories before anything else. Listening to her voicemails over and over again feels masochistic, but I can’t let that part of her go. I refuse.
Eventually, I climb into the shower and let the hot stream of water wash away my tears.
It feels good to massage my scalp with shampoo, getting my hair all sudsy and smelling like fruit.
I throw on a pale yellow short-sleeved midi dress made of cotton with a fitted but comfortable bodice and lace trim.
It’s my go-to outfit for when I want to look more put together than I actually am.
Then I dry my hair and braid it into a loose side pony, pulling out a few pieces to frame my face as I summon the courage to do what I’m about to do.
It’s a bad idea, texting Mark. I know it is. But I’m lonely and horny, and my last orgasm with a partner occurred over two months ago. While Mark isn’t the best at making me come, he’s a good distraction, a body that I can rub myself against for twenty minutes or so to get myself out of my head.
He’s not the type of guy I’d ever be in a relationship with.
Truth be told, I can barely hold a conversation with him, but he’s always unattached and game to hook up.
There’s no pressure to put in a lot of effort, either.
I don’t have to bathe or shave or put on makeup.
However, it felt rude to go to Bonetown with my previous level of unwashed stank, so I showered to be polite.
As long as we keep the chitchat to a minimum, I can release some pent-up tension by riding his dick for a bit and then have him out of here by nine o’clock.
We text back and forth a bit as we make plans. He offers to pick up a pizza and drinks on the way, and I give him directions to the house. His current shift as a rideshare driver is ending, and he’s only forty minutes away.
He shows up with a pizza in one hand and a two-liter bottle of soda in the other.
“Hi, Mark. Oh, you brought Pepsi,” I say through a forced smile.
It’s fine. When he said he’d bring “drinks,” I assumed it would be wine.
That was my mistake, I guess. He’s not the type to show up with wine, and it’s not as if this is a date.
It’s not because he’s sober, either. That, I’d be more than fine with.
It’s because he’s cheap, and I matter to him as much as he matters to me.
“Yeah, it was only a dollar more with the pizza,” he explains with pride as he shoves both into my hands. He takes one look around the foyer and tries to hide a judgmental expression. “New place? Or, I guess, not new.”
I bring the pizza into the kitchen, and he follows me. “Um, yeah. It’s just temporary.”
Mark gets the glasses and pours the Pepsi, and I plate our slices before we carry them into the living room. The TV is on, and Judge Judy is yelling at someone for not getting a signed contract for something. It’s the only channel that never cuts out, and it’s a nonstop loop of court shows.
“Are you still on probation?” I ask without thinking. The defendant on TV starts talking about getting into a fistfight, and it reminded me that Mark got arrested for brawling at a bar last year.
He nods while chewing. “For another six months. My lawyer thinks he can get it cut down by three for good behavior.”
I bite into a slice, and the cheese is so gooey and perfect that I have to tear the long string of it in two. “As long as nobody insults Tom Brady in your presence, right?”
Mark scoffs as he reaches for his drink. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are to come into Brady territory and openly talk shit about him.”
I don’t pay attention to football, but I’m pretty sure Brady left the team, and left the state, before retiring. Mark still seems to worship him, though.
“Right,” I reply, realizing I don’t know what else to say to him.
It’s then that I notice the dirt caked beneath his fingernails.
He didn’t wash his hands when he came in, did he?
The stench of menthol cigarettes and sour sweat is wafting off his clothes.
I suppress a shudder and shake the thoughts away before I abandon my plan to get laid.
He clears his throat. “By the way, the pizza was thirty-five bucks. Well,” he pauses, “thirty-six with the Pepsi, and gas to get here was forty. Venmo me? Before I leave, preferably. Cash works too.”
My mouth flops open. Am I really paying for this entire evening?
I could see splitting it, but Mark also knows I’m not working right now, so I wasn’t expecting him to ask me for any money at all.
The only money I currently have, I made from selling pieces of furniture and decor from the apartment I shared with Mom on Facebook Marketplace.
It’s not much, but it should cover my groceries for the next few weeks, at least. Maybe only two weeks, after I pay Mark.
“How’s your mom, by the way?” he asks. “Haven’t seen her in a while. She good?”