Page 8 of Adored by the Grumpy Ghost (Mapletown Monster Mates #1)
Winston
A ll is peaceful at the manor for the next twenty-four hours. The boundaries Natalie and I have put in place seem to work, for the most part.
It’s a quarter past eleven when I look for the broom to sweep the front steps.
Acorns have begun falling in buckets, and the pinecones won’t be far behind.
I sweep the steps every few days, and I know when I last did it I put the broom back in the pantry next to the kitchen, where it’s always been kept. So why is it missing?
At first, I think Natalie has decided to sweep the floors, and the thought gives me hope that we could divide some of the household chores.
I look everywhere for the broom. Each room of the house has been checked, and nothing.
I’m taking a second lap through the kitchen when music starts pulsating through the floor above, and heavy-gaited steps move back and forth at a frenzied pace.
I find the door to Natalie’s room closed when I reach the second floor, but the music is so loud, I can understand the lyrics. Natalie doesn’t hear me knock the first time, or the second, so I begin pounding with my fist. After knocking the tenth time, I lose my patience and open the door.
My roommate is pacing across the abstract rug, her feet bare, as she hums along with the song playing.
She’s wearing a sleeveless teal dress that lands just above her knees, her golden waves whirling around her shoulders as she spins on her heel to go in the other direction.
The scent of her hair wafts toward me––strawberries––and I breathe it in, holding my breath to keep it in my lungs.
Her right arm, from shoulder to elbow, is covered in a large black tattoo of an elephant surrounded by wildflowers.
It’s incredibly detailed, and I want to know more about it. Why an elephant, of all things?
She still hasn’t noticed me leaning against the door frame, and I don’t announce myself.
Instead, I watch her. Her brows are knitted together as she chews the inside of her cheek, her hands fisted and punching down at her sides.
It’s clear that this is nervous energy she’s trying to work off, and I laugh quietly at how ridiculous she looks.
However, I can’t deny how adorable she is in this frazzled state.
I start to feel guilty about spying, and even more guilty about my level of fascination in this woman, when I’m still a married man.
What is wrong with me? Why am I so captivated by her?
Watching her without her consent is a direct violation of our deal, so I yell, “Why wasn’t I invited to the party? ”
She makes the same squeak that she did yesterday when I entered the kitchen. The one that sounds like the tail end of a sneeze. “Hey!” she replies, gritting her teeth at the sight of me. She looks enraged, but the redness of her cheeks implies she’s mostly embarrassed. “You said you’d knock first.”
“I did. Ten times.”
She grabs her phone off the dresser and turns down the volume.
“Why aren’t you wearing your ear sticks?” I ask. “They could probably hear your music across town. I wouldn’t be surprised if the police arrived with a noise complaint.”
“My ear buds are charging. This isn’t Taylor Swift. It’s Cardi B, to hype me up, because I’m about to go into town to look for a job, and I’m freaking out because I’m not emotionally prepared to get rejected again.”
I have no idea who that is, but it doesn’t matter. “What makes you think you’ll be rejected?”
She huffs a breath and starts pacing again.
“Before I moved here, I went job hunting all over town, and no one wanted to hire me. I didn’t even get a call or email back about an interview.
” The skirt of her dress swishes around her.
“Not that I blame them. My resume makes me look like a flake. Over the last six years, I’ve had a handful of jobs, none I was at for more than a year, and they’re all low-end jobs a teenager could do.
Then there are the gaps in employment. They always give me a side-eye on that one.
Even though it was to care for my mom, it’s like they don’t believe it, or it wasn’t a good enough reason to stop working. ”
Her pacing quickens, the skin on her knuckles going white. “But what was I supposed to do? We couldn’t afford to have a live-in nurse, so I did everything. I gave her her meds.” She stops to look at me. “Do you know how many pills a person with cancer has to take per day? It’s easily two dozen.”
“That is a lot of pills,” I reply, nodding. I want to say more, but the words would be hollow compared to what she endured, so I remain quiet.
“I drove her to all her chemo appointments, I helped her to the bathroom, helped her bathe, tried to find the magic combination of foods that wouldn’t make her sick, and when she was, I made sure I was right there with a vomit bag.
Was I really supposed to sacrifice the three hours of sleep I got each night to work on a side hustle? ”
Letting her talk through her nerves doesn’t seem to be helping. I was sure it would, and when she was finished speaking, she would be calmer, and I could offer some reassurance that someone in town will hire her, but it must be too raw for her to relive being her mother’s caretaker.
What she needs now is a distraction. Something to take her mind off the pain, even if her frustration shifts from the people she’s about to meet in town to me. It has to help at least a little. “You’ll get a job. More importantly, however, I can’t find the broom. Do you know where it is?”
“Uh, I,” she stammers, her brown eyes swirling with confusion.
She looks as if she’d prefer to yell at me about the quick dismissal of her misery, but is stuck on the answer to my question.
“I…Yeah, I used it to sweep the floor in here last night. The dust was making me sneeze. I put it in the closet with the vacuum.”
It’s an honest mistake. I can’t fault her for it. “Splendid. Just so you’re aware, the broom is kept in the pantry in the kitchen.” I go to leave when I hear Natalie scoff.
“Why would you keep it in the kitchen?” she asks.
“Because it’s closer to the front door, which is where I’m going now. To sweep.”
The pacing has stopped, and now she’s looking at me as if I’ve grown two heads. I suppose my distraction worked.
“You’re going to sweep the stuff that lives outside, to another part of the outside, and then you’re going to bring that broom back inside and put it away in the pantry? Where all the food is?”
She doesn’t understand. “The front steps are covered in acorns. It looks sloppy. I won’t tolerate it.”
“Why don’t you just wait for the wind to take care of it? Or the squirrels?”
“Or why don’t I just wait for winter to come and let the snow cover it? Let the elements destroy the wood and the earth wrap its vines and roots over it completely?” I reply, trying to show her how drastically she’s missing the point.
“So wait,” she begins, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re obsessed with the neatness of the exterior of the house, but not the decades of dust covering the entire interior?”
“I wouldn’t say obsessed .” When she says it like that, she makes me sound like a buffoon.
It’s not that I like having dust on every surface, but it doesn’t bother me as much as the acorns do.
Plus, dusting is my least favorite chore.
If it’s not bothering me or getting in my way, I see no need to fixate on it.
I refuse to engage with her question. “Just put it back in the pantry from now on.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” she replies. “The broom belongs in the closet with the vacuum and the other cleaning supplies. Besides, I don’t want to encourage ants or other pests that might cling to the bristles of your ratty old broom to start eating the food in there.
Not unless you plan on cleaning it after you sweep outside. ”
“The broom is a cleaning tool. Why would I clean the cleaning tool? Would you also like me to wash the outside of the washing machine?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll just buy another broom, and we can designate that one as the indoor broom. Leave the other one outside or in the shed.”
“That’s a complete waste of money,” I protest. “No house needs to have more than one broom. I could make one myself by the time you get back from your job search.”
“A broom is probably ten dollars. It’s fine. And if it ends this conversation, it’ll have been worth the cost.” She pulls a pair of white socks from the dresser and sits on the edge of her bed as she puts them on.
“I didn’t realize you were rolling in cash,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “See, I thought you were here because you had no money and no place to go.”
“Oh my god. You know what?” She throws up her hands. “I wasn’t planning on leaving for another half hour, but I might as well start my job search early.”
Grabbing her purse off the dresser, she stomps past me down the stairs toward the front door.
This woman is maddening.
“Bye, weirdo. Hope you’re happy.”
Am I happy? Yes, because Natalie is now marching toward the very task that had her pacing in fear just five minutes ago. Once I hear her car head down the steep drive, I realize how quiet it is without her.
That, I’m not happy about.