Page 50 of Ghost Business (Boneyard Key #2)

Thirty-Five

It was a fight.

It was just a stupid fight.

Tristan regretted walking out of Sophie’s place the moment the door closed behind him. But he was still pissed off—talking to his dad always had that effect. And now he’d managed to piss off Sophie in the process. Taking the night to cool down was probably the best course of action.

His father’s condo reeked of paint, and even though he slept with the windows open, he woke up with a headache. But he also awoke with new resolve. He would talk to Sophie. Apologize. They could make amends. They could…

He opened his front door to find his green backpack on the welcome mat.

The one he used to bring things to and from Sophie’s place.

He picked it up with a sinking feeling and retreated to the kitchen.

While the coffee brewed, he unzipped the backpack, almost certain what he would find.

Yep. Toothbrush, the one that had lived on Sophie’s sink for the past few weeks.

Comb, razor, aftershave. All his toiletries on top of a handful of wadded-up T-shirts and shorts and, inexplicably, one lone sock.

She’d done a sweep of her place and returned what was his.

Maybe it had been more than a stupid fight.

He needed fresh air. This place still smelled like paint, and he needed to think.

After a shower he headed outside, lingering for a minute by Sophie’s door.

He raised a hand to knock, but slowly lowered it again.

She’d sent a clear message with the backpack.

She was done with him. He was on his own.

There was a smattering of tourists downtown, but Tristan avoided the usual places. The last thing he wanted was to confront Nick at Hallowed Grounds. News traveled fast in this town, so it was likely Tristan was persona non grata all over again.

The ice cream and coffee carts were open at the vacant lot near The Haunt, and as far as he knew, those guys didn’t hate him yet. Ice cream was basically milk, and the cone was basically bread. That counted as breakfast.

He studied the coffee cart menu while he paid for his chocolate chocolate chip in a waffle cone. (Waffles were breakfast food; he was killing it here.) “You sell a lot of hot coffee? In this heat?”

The coffee cart guy laughed. He was older, maybe a little older than Tristan’s dad, the white cast of his sunscreen doing little to hide the pink in his cheeks.

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” He lowered his voice as though imparting a secret.

“Tourists, you know. Never can predict what they’re gonna do. ”

“True.” Tristan nodded gravely while raising his eyebrows— tourists, amirite?— and the two men laughed back. He felt like an insider, like a local. He loved that feeling. He hated that it was about to end.

He’d intended to take a walk downtown, but everywhere downtown reminded him of Sophie.

Even the picnic area by the beach, where he found himself with his rapidly melting breakfast. He sat on one of the tables, his feet on the bench seat, finishing his ice cream while the waves slid in and out over the shoreline in a meditative rhythm.

He’d always liked this spot, but had never figured out a way to feature it on the tour.

Sophie had. Like it was yesterday, he remembered the night they’d met, when he’d lurked in the dark, spying on her tour, absolutely dismayed that he’d met a cute girl and learned that she was his business rival, all in one night.

If you’re out here at night—especially after a night out at The Haunt and you’ve had a drink or two—chances are you’ll have company. Footsteps in the sand…Some people like to leave him a beer, opened on one of the picnic tables. That’s how you win him over…

It was a simple story, all the more impactful for its lack of embellishment. Like the way she told all the stories on her tour. He could learn from her.

Then he remembered: he didn’t need to. He had one foot out of the ghost tour business. Almost over now.

He hopped down from the picnic table, tossing his sticky napkin into the trash. How had everything become such a mess?

When he got back to the condo, he stopped short in the breezeway. Sophie was coming out of her place, locking her door. She turned and froze when she saw him.

“Hi.” Hope surged through him as he took a step in her direction.

But hope died a little as she took a step away, her back practically pressed to her door. “Hi.” She barely tossed the word between them, her lips pressed together, her expression pinched.

Tristan powered through. “Listen, I think we need to talk. I’m so sorry about—”

“No,” she said quickly. “It’s okay. We don’t need to talk.”

“We don’t?” He didn’t understand. Because of course they needed to talk. He was good at talking. He’d smoothed over worse fights in his life. If they could just—

But she shook her head, her face stony. “We don’t,” she repeated, and her tone would brook no argument. “You’re leaving soon. You were always leaving soon. And your future doesn’t involve me. You made that perfectly clear last night. Maybe we should just leave it at that.”

All Tristan could do was stand there, poleaxed, as Sophie walked by him, down the breezeway, and down the stairs.

They were done? Just like that? He didn’t know what to say.

And even if he did, he didn’t have anyone to say it to.

For all the inroads he’d made here over the last few months, it was clear that Boneyard Key was Sophie’s town.

His friends were her friends first. He was alone here.

Which was why he brought two beers with him to the picnic area that night.

He felt a little silly, opening both of them when he was only intending to drink one.

He felt even sillier leaving one on the edge of the picnic table.

He held his breath as he did so, but nothing happened.

The longer he waited, the more nothing happened, until he blew out a sigh and took a swig from his own beer.

“I don’t know what I expected.” A flash of light? A ghostly hand to take the bottle? He shook his head and took another sip.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” He was talking out loud to no one, but as he cast a glance at the bottle on the edge of the table, he thought maybe someone was listening. “I’ve been fighting for this business, fighting against my dad for so long, and I don’t even know why. I’m not a businessman.”

Still nothing. The waves continued to whisper their way to the shore; the streetlight above him blazed merrily, keeping the darkness at bay. The beer bottle hadn’t moved from its place on the edge of the table.

This was stupid. Just sitting here, talking to nobody. He needed to move. He hopped off the picnic table and started walking parallel to the ocean, keeping well away from the water as it crept onshore, sipping at his beer.

“Eric’s the businessman,” he mused aloud.

“He’s the spreadsheet guy, the wizard behind the scenes who knows how to advertise, how to make the budget work.

I’ve been drafting off him since college, and I’ve picked up some stuff.

But it’s in his blood, the way performing is in mine.

That’s why we’ve been such a good team all these years.

“I thought I had a good thing going, these tours. Even if the stories are a little silly, tourists love them. But Sophie’s…Sophie’s are better. Because they’re not stories. She loves this town so much. And I love…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. He wanted to. It was written, there on his heart. I love Sophie . But what good would saying that out loud do? He’d already lost her.

Tristan drowned his emotion with another swig of beer. “Maybe that’s it. She tells her stories, she runs her business, with love. Me, it’s all about spite.” Another sigh gusted out of him, joining the breeze sighing through the nearby palm trees.

That was when he heard it. Footsteps. Someone was following him.

Tristan glanced over his shoulder, but it was a dark night. The moon was a thin crescent in the sky, and even the sparkles off the water didn’t give off much light. He couldn’t see anyone behind him, but he could hear those footsteps, walking when he walked, stopping when he stopped.

Slowly, he looked at the almost-empty bottle in his hand. Awareness prickled the back of his neck, and there was that familiar swimmy feeling in his head, the one he’d gotten the night he’d been served by a poltergeist, and the night he’d apologized to Sarah Hawkins via a refrigerator.

The Beach Bum.

He’d shown up to take a walk with Tristan on the beach.

Well, that was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? He forced himself to keep walking. Keep talking.

“Spite,” he repeated. “All this time, I’ve been doing this to spite my dad. But I can’t build an entire career—hell, an entire life—on spite.

“What do I want?” He looked to his left as though the Beach Bum had spoken.

“Good question. I mean, there’s no denying that the tours are fun.

My favorite part is putting on that costume and pretending to be someone different for a little while.

Making people laugh, taking them on a little journey. ”

He chuckled. “I guess the hat was right. I do miss singing. Performing. I knew the minute I stepped out onstage for the first time that I was doing what I loved. Those lights hit you, and they’re so bright.

They burn your eyes. You can barely see the people in the audience, but you can hear them.

When they laugh, when they applaud…there’s nothing in the world like it. ”

Tristan had never walked this far up the beach.

He’d passed Cassie’s house a few minutes ago, and now he was coming up on the curve in the coastline that led to the fishing pier.

Ahead he could barely make out the ragged stilts of the Starter Home, jutting out into the water.

More of it had fallen away since the hurricane.

He didn’t want to think about it being gone.

“So that’s what I want, I guess,” he said.

“Perform. Entertain. Make people smile.” But that wasn’t quite right.

Right now, all he wanted was to make Sophie smile.

He’d been good at that for a little while.

He rubbed absently at the center of his chest. Was heartache a literal thing?

Because right now, his heart ached for her, and all he could see in his mind’s eye was her stony, pinched expression from earlier today. She had no more smiles for him.

“Anyway,” he said to the Beach Bum. “I should probably head back. Thanks for the talk. You’re a great listener.”

The footsteps didn’t follow him as he turned to head back to the picnic area. Tristan glanced over his shoulder, at the remains of the Starter Home. He had the unsettling feeling that he’d just walked the Beach Bum home.

He took his time heading back down the beach. All that waited for him was a stark white, vaguely paint-scented condo. Maybe he should stop at The Haunt first. Oysters and beer and steel-drum karaoke might help clear his head. As long as the coast was clear and Tony was still speaking to him.

As he got back to the picnic area, he picked up the beer bottle he’d set out earlier; littering was something that assholes did.

The bottle was empty.