Page 13 of Ghosted (The Ravenwood #1)

ELEVEN

Later that night, I’m shoving my feet into my favorite pair of Chelsea boots when I hear a honk outside.

I blow out an annoyed breath because Wren is so impatient.

She literally just texted me, “here,” a minute ago.

I grab my small crossbody bag off its hook by the door and head out, locking up behind me.

As soon as Wren sees me reach the bottom of the stairs, she bleats her car horn again, making me jump out of my skin.

Once an annoying little sister, always an annoying little sister.

I dash grumpily through the rain to get to her car.

Her dark maroon lips stretch into a wide grin when I plop myself unceremoniously into her passenger seat.

“Gotcha,” she says, beeping her horn one last time.

I sigh and buckle myself in. I’m doing my best to hold it together, but I’ve only had a few hours since Dean blinked out.

I’m feeling every emotion all at once. Horrible sadness that he’s dead.

Selfish relief that he didn’t ghost me. Confusion and shock that he’s gone.

Determination to help him figure out why he’s still here.

And I’m trying to figure out how to shove all of that in a box so Wren doesn’t sniff it out like the emotional bloodhound she is.

It’s her turn to drive us to Mom and Dad’s for family dinner; I always hate when she drives.

Where I am overly cautious, she is overly daring.

She loves to make a game of on-ramp chicken where she sees how many cars she can get past before finally merging onto the freeway.

I loudly recount how many people I’ve seen who have died in car accidents while she blasts The Ramones and sings along without a care in the world.

Mom and Dad moved a couple of towns over after Wren moved out.

They wanted to downsize and live closer to where Dad works.

Their new place (it’ll always be new to me, even if they moved over five years ago now) is located in a quaint little suburb where everyone has nice grass and large, established trees dominating their front yards.

Wren bumps onto their driveway and cuts the engine of her ancient Prius.

I send a silent thank you to whoever’s listening that we didn’t die on the way here and restrain myself from kissing the ground.

We scurry to the front door to get out of the drizzling rain.

Wren barrels inside, protecting her freshly flat-ironed hair, and begins shedding her outer layers to deposit them on the coat hooks.

I follow her inside and do the same, appreciating the warmth of our parents’ home and the scent of freshly baked bread.

“What is with you tonight? You’re more grumpy than me, and that’s saying something,” Wren says, eyeing me as we make our way down the hallway.

“I’ll tell you later,” I reply quietly before we round the corner into the kitchen.

I didn’t want to tell her about Dean before we got here, because then she wouldn’t stop talking about it, and it would be an inquisition from my whole family.

I’m still trying to process everything, and my well-meaning parents will ask more questions than I know how to answer.

By the end of the night, we’d be trying to find his birth certificate online, and I’m not ready for all that.

“Are those my girls?” our dad asks, broad back turned to us as he oversees the stove. He looks over his shoulder, round cheeks ruddy from the heat of the stove.

“It sure is,” Mom says, rounding the island to give us each a kiss on the cheek and a hug. When she hugs me, I can’t help but squeeze a little harder than normal. I’m in need of some comfort after the week I’ve had. She takes my lead and gives me an extra-tight hug, pressing a kiss to my temple.

I have to steel myself against the tears that want to well up.

Something about a hug from my mom just instantly makes it feel okay to cry.

Being surrounded by her clean laundry and lavender scent takes me back to a time when I’d go running to her for comfort whenever I scraped my knee or failed a test. I get ahold of myself just in time, because when she pulls back, she gives me a questioning glance with eyes that look so much like mine and Wren’s.

The blue eyes, like the Gift, run in the family.

“Just missed you,” I say in answer to her unasked question. Which isn’t a total lie. She and my dad have been super busy, and it’s been hard to find time to get together lately.

“I missed you, too, Bug,” she says, squeezing my shoulder with her warm hand. “Come on, let’s eat. Your dad made this roasted vegetable soup, and it is to die for with his homemade sourdough.”

I immediately perk up because my dad’s cooking is legendary.

He was the one to get creative when Wren declared she was a vegetarian, and he’s come up with some truly delectable dishes over the years.

We don’t always make every meal vegetarian, but my parents try to make sure most of our shared meals are meat-free.

When they’re not, they always cook her something special on the side, so she doesn’t leave hungry.

We gather at their round dining table, and my dad begins ladling out the soup into large bowls while my mom cuts thick slices of bread off the round loaf he must have made earlier today.

Wren and my dad chat idly about the merits of carrots versus sweet potatoes in a vegetable soup, and I work to keep my expression neutral.

Wren will bring up my weird mood to my parents if I make it too obvious that I’m struggling.

Luckily, after living with her for most of my life, I have some defenses I can pull out when I’m in need.

She and I are close, but she doesn’t need to be privy to my every thought and emotion.

The way I protect myself from her prying senses isn’t unlike your average grounding techniques.

I work to be fully in this moment. I concentrate on the sweet and sour combination of the sourdough dipped in soup, the warmth of the air surrounding me, and the ambient sounds of my family enjoying a meal.

As I do this, I feel myself relax, my shoulders coming away from my ears, and my heart rate slowing.

“So Bug, how’s the store doing?” my dad asks, quirking a graying brow over the rim of his glasses.

Well, there goes my calm. I look between my parents and realize they’re oblivious to Aunt Clarissa’s newest plan.

It doesn’t surprise me that she didn’t bother to tell her sister, but it’s frustrating that I have to be the one to tell my mom.

I take a bite of bread to stall for a second. After I wash it down with a sip of water, I realize I can’t push it off any longer. “Um, the store is good, I guess. Mr. Beauhurst is raising rent at the start of the year, so we’ll need to come up with a lot of extra money to cover it.”

My dad’s brows furrow. “How much? Surely he can’t be raising the rent that much, right?” he asks.

I push my soup around with my spoon and say, “No. I mean, yes, he is raising the rent a lot. But, it’s not the only new expense. Aunt Clarissa wants to move into a retirement home.”

“What?” my mom gasps.

“In Florida,” I specify.

“Florida?” my parents ask together.

“What do you mean she’s moving to Florida?

We always made fun of those people,” my mom says, sitting back and crossing her arms. While my mom and Aunt Clarissa have very different personalities, they look incredibly similar.

My aunt has really leaned into the boho, free-spirit look, while my mom is most at home in a nice sweater and khakis.

Their faces, though, are nearly identical, other than the ten years or so that separate them.

My mom always jokes that looking into Aunt Clarissa’s face is like looking into a mirror set a decade in the future.

“Yeah, I guess she’s been having some trouble getting around her house, but was too proud to tell us that she needed help.

Her friend moved down there a while ago and has sold her on it.

I know it’s surprising, but it sounds like it’ll be a good thing for her, especially as she gets older.

Anyway, she’s going to need extra money every month to swing it.

So The Veil has to bring in an extra four grand total.

” I blow out a breath, trying to calm the fresh spike of anxiety.

My mom shakes her head and gripes, “Just like ‘Rissa to decide on something and make it everyone else’s problem.” She pinches the space between her brows and continues, “So is she expecting you to come up with a grand plan to pay for all of this?”

I feel the need to jump in and defend my aunt, who has given me so much, but I hold myself back. For all of Aunt Clarissa’s greatness, she does have a tendency of going after whatever she wants and leaving the finer details to those around her. Even The Veil.

When she first founded the store, she got a business loan; but the payments were way too high for her to afford.

After a couple of months of shirking the payments—in favor of going to festivals with her newly printed business card and wares in tow—my parents stepped in to save it.

They became unofficial investors early on and helped supplement the payments for a good year or two before Aunt Clarissa was able to pay them fully on her own.

This newest development is one of many decisions that affect others just as much as herself.

It’s hard to be upset at her over it, though.

She never means any harm, she just doesn’t have any sort of foresight.

It’s exactly why, according to her, she never wanted a serious relationship or children of her own.

She knows where she falls short and owns it.

At my mom’s raised eyebrow, I realize I haven’t answered her question yet. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s pretty much up to me.” I swallow down the bile that creeps up my throat at the thought.

My mom’s lips thin, and she says, “You know, back when ‘Rissa first opened the Veil, I had a premonition that the store would be good for our family. That’s why your father and I helped her along at first. We knew that our investment would pay off later on. And I think that time is now.”

“Seriously?” I ask with a maniacal giggle.

“That’s what comes to you when you find out that the store is going to be short thousands of dollars a month, and your daughter, who never went to business school, is going to be responsible for bridging that gap?

” I take a sip of water to stop the laugh.

I think I’m cracking from the pressure of it all.

“Yes,” my mom replies calmly. “I know you have a hard time believing in yourself, but I have a good feeling about this.” When my mom says that, it’s not just a pleasantry to make you feel better—she means it.

Her foresight isn’t exactly a clear image of the future, but she gets a general impression of what’s to come.

For example, she can’t tell you the winning lotto numbers, but she can tell you if you’re going to win or not.

“But how am I going to do it?” I ask in a small voice I barely recognize.

“You’re going to figure this shit out because you never back down from a challenge,” Wren interjects, nodding at me across the table.

“You’ve got this, Bug. And we’re here to help if you need it,” My dad says, reaching over to squeeze my shoulder affectionately.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say with a smile.

“Of course. Have you come up with any ideas?” he asks, immediately putting on his business manager hat.

He’s managed a successful local chain of hardware stores for the last fifteen years.

It makes me feel a little bad that I didn’t think to call him because he loves it when I pick his brain for business advice, but I wanted to see if I could figure it out on my own first. Since I hope to buy The Veil from my aunt one day, I feel the need to do things on my own where I can.

I don’t want to rely on my dad for training wheels when I should be able to ride the damn bike myself .

“Well, you know the potion pulls for the mystery boxes online do pretty well. Aunt Clarissa also mentioned using my Gift?—”

“She didn’t,” my mom interrupts. “Damn it, ‘Rissa. She’s always been so envious that she didn’t get a Gift, but I think the universe knows she wouldn’t have used it for good.

Listen to me, Rae. You do not have to use your Gift for profit if you don’t want to.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with doing so, but I know it’s not something you’ve ever wanted to do. Whatever you decide is okay.”

I nod and say, “I know. I don’t mind helping people, but I also don’t want to attach my face to it. Aunt Clarissa suggested a Wizard of Oz situation where I wouldn’t have to be seen. I’m still thinking it through, though.”

“Can you even reach out and contact specific people?” Wren asks, eyebrows drawn. She knows that I’ve never really attempted it because I don’t particularly like being a medium. I usually only help people out of a sense of obligation because I’m the only one around who can.

I shrug a shoulder. “I don’t know. I’ve never really tried.” Dean immediately comes to mind, so I clarify, “I think it’s possible, though.” I don’t want to lie to my family. Especially Wren, because she’ll sense it.

“Well, that should be the first thing you figure out. Because that sort of determines the rest of it, doesn’t it?” my dad says, scrubbing a hand over his salt and pepper hair.

I bounce my shoulders and say, “Yeah, I guess so. I just need a day to process everything. It’s all coming at me too fast, and I feel like I’m barely able to tread water right now.”

He reaches out his hand and sets it lightly on my shoulder. “Sounds like you need a little break. You’ve been burning the candle at both ends for months now. Take tomorrow off. Fully off. No social media, no store, no inventory, no looking for new products, nothing to do with The Veil.”

I open my mouth to argue, but my mom speaks before I can get a word in.

“He’s right. I’d wager you haven’t taken a full day off since you started there after high school.

You’re always doing something for the store.

Take the day off. Sleep in. Allow yourself a chance to rest, and I bet your answer will come to you. ”

I mull it over for a minute before saying, “Fine. Tomorrow is a Sunday anyway. No one ever comes in.”

“That’s the spirit,” Wren chips in. I roll my eyes at her pun and go back to eating my soup.

I’m excited about taking a full day off, even if the thought sort of makes my skin crawl.

It feels counterintuitive to take a break right now, just days before our busiest season.

But Victoria Alderwood, psychic and mother extraordinaire, is very rarely one to be argued with.