Page 9 of Ghosted (The Ravenwood #1)

EIGHT

By Wednesday of the following week, I have to accept it: I’ve been ghosted.

Despite the fact that my date with Dean was the best date I’ve been on in years.

Despite the fact that he made me feel like we had a chance.

Despite that kiss. I have to move on and stop pining over a guy I knew for less than forty-eight hours.

I tell myself all of this while also trying to convince my body to get out of bed.

I need to head downstairs soon so I can open the store, but lying in bed is much more appealing.

I finally sigh and sit up, righting my tatty, old Salem sweatshirt.

It’s time to get back to who I was before I met Dean, no matter how monotonous my days were.

I just have to get over the sting of putting myself out there and getting rejected. Again.

I shuffle out from behind the small partition that separates my bed from the rest of the living space and rub my eyes against the buttery morning sunlight streaming in from the windows. “Hello,” says a voice I don’t recognize .

I suck in a breath, ready to scream. When I open my eyes, the scream turns into a grunt.

I realize it’s the ghost woman I saw when I was on my date with He Who Shall Not Be Thought Of.

She’s wearing the same jeans and light pink sweater that complement her deep skin tone, and her black hair is perfectly slicked back into a high bun, showcasing her delicate bone structure and narrow eyes.

She’s sitting on my couch and observing her surroundings with a blatant look of distaste.

I try to leash my annoyance, happy I’m wearing pants for this ghostly encounter.

Sweats are technically pants, right?

I give her a small wave and shuffle to the kitchen so I can get my coffee going, rubbing my arms to stave off the cold.

Thanks to Wren, I’m a total coffee snob now and will only drink homemade if it’s done through a French press.

I get the water boiling and lean on my island, which acts as a divider for the kitchen and living area.

“Hey. I recognize you from the other night. Thanks for not trying to talk to me while I was with someone,” I say, genuinely.

You’d be surprised how many dead people forget how to be polite, let alone to put themselves in someone else’s shoes and see how talking to “no one” can give you a one-way ticket to a place where you aren’t allowed anything sharper than a plastic spoon.

“I didn’t want you to look like a raving lunatic and be taken away before you can help me,” she says primly.

“Noted,” I say shortly and go about doctoring my coffee the way I like it. I cross the room so I can sit on the opposite side of the couch from her. “What’s your name?” I ask before taking a sip.

“Rebecca,” she says, eyeing my chipped cup.

It’s technically a teacup, but I use it for coffee.

I love the hand-painted flowers that bloom across it.

It was a gift of sorts from one of the first dead people I helped.

Constance was the sweetest woman I had ever met, and helping her and her husband find closure meant everything to me.

Right before Constance passed on, she directed her husband, Ralph, to give me the cup.

She had hand-painted it herself a few months before she passed.

I use it all the time to remind me why I help these people, even if they can be annoying.

I run my hands over the textured surface and think of her, hoping that by now, she and Ralph have found each other again.

“Nice to meet you, Rebecca. I’m Rae. Sorry that there’s not a more delicate way to ask this, but do you know why you’re still here?” I ask. I want to jump right in because she doesn’t seem like the type to waste time on pleasantries.

“Hold on. Before I start answering your questions, I have some of my own. How can you see me, and why can’t anyone else? Why am I able to move things sometimes, but not others? And where the fuck am I?” she finishes, chest heaving.

It’s sort of odd that even after death, the body’s reaction to stress is the same. She doesn’t need to breathe, but she does anyway. I guess there are some things the mind doesn’t want to give up, even if the lungs no longer require air.

I take one more sip before setting it down on my coffee table.

“Okay, let me try to answer those for you.” When I raise my brows at her, she nods and settles further into the couch.

“First, I can see you because I have a Gift. Not everyone does. I don’t have the numbers on it, but it’s safe to say that I’m the only one around here.

You can occasionally move things, but only when you get super worked up.

My guess is you’ve been able to interact with objects when you’ve been in a high emotional state. Is that right?”

She nods her head in agreement, so I explain, “If you were to hang around longer and practice more, you’d get better at it, but since you’re lucky enough to have found me, I’m hoping I can help you move on before that’s necessary.

As for where you are… well, that depends.

If you mean in a metaphysical sense, you’re on another plane of existence.

If you mean geographically, you’re in Ravenwood, Massachusetts. Are you from here?” I ask.

“No, I’m from Ohio. How the hell did I end up in Massachusetts?” she asks, looking around my apartment with new eyes. I can’t even imagine how she views the thrifted pieces and riot of color. She seems like a white walls, white couch kind of gal.

“You were probably drawn to me without even realizing it. Unfortunately for me, I act as a sort of beacon for the dead. I don’t know where you all go when you aren’t ‘here’ with me, but it seems like you can travel vast distances without a conscious thought.

At least, that’s what I’ve gathered over the years.

” I don’t know why some come to me when others don’t.

I have to assume it’s because they don’t want to be helped.

“Oh, no. I don’t want to be stuck here ,” she says, putting her face in her hands.

I take in a breath and count to ten before letting it out again. “Perfect! That’s what I can help you with,” I say with forced cheerfulness.

“How can you help me?” she asks, quirking a dark brow.

“Well, I can sort of help you move on. We’ll figure out why you stuck around, because most people don’t, and then we’ ll try to resolve whatever issue you’re having. After that, you should be able to go on,” I say, gesturing vaguely out the window.

“Go on, where? ” she cries, looking at me with suddenly teary eyes.

I don’t think she’s going to like my answer, but… “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I wish I did, but I can’t see beyond where you are now. I’ve never been there. It’s better than here, though, wherever it is,” I say gently.

“This was not supposed to happen to me. Not yet. I just graduated from college, my boyfriend just proposed, and I was supposed to start med school next semester. I had a five, ten, and twenty-year plan! Dying at the age of twenty-three wasn’t on it.

” She caves in on herself, shoulders drooping forward as she grips her elbows.

My heart cracks for her. “I’m sorry,” I say, hoping she can hear how much I mean it. Even if she has been abrasive, no one deserves to die so early.

After a while, she sniffs and looks at me to explain, “I used to bike everywhere. Heart health, you know? One day, I went to the grocery store to pick up a few essentials, and when I was on my way home … I got hit by a car. They didn’t see me, I guess.

I was wearing a helmet, but it wasn’t enough.

Apparently, I died on impact. I figured it out after I attended my own funeral and heard everyone talking about it.

Just my luck that the thing that was supposed to make me live longer is what killed me.

” She looks more furious than sad, like she’d avenge herself if she could.

“Just please tell me you didn’t die over kale,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. Death isn’t something you can really dance around when someone has already died. I’ve found that it helps sometimes to joke about it. It’s just too horrible otherwise .

She chuckles seemingly against her will and says, “No. But I may or may not have had sprouts on my grocery list.” She groans, “Ugh, what an awful thing to die for. I should have eaten more ice cream.” I laugh a little at that, wishing I could comfort her more.

“So, do you know why you’re still here?” I ask eventually. I want to help her, but I also really need to get to work.

She shrugs. “I’m not sure. I mean, like I said, I had my life all planned out, and now that’s not going to happen. So maybe that’s why?”

“Maybe, but it’s not like you can go to med school like this, so it must be something else. There’s usually some sort of unfinished business, and in my twenty-nine years, I’ve never seen someone stick around for a degree.”

“You can’t tell me why I’m here?” she asks.

“No, sorry. Believe it or not, it’s rare for a spirit to remain here. Sometimes it takes a while for them to fully understand why they’re stuck, and I’m no fortune teller.”

“No offense, but what do you even do? If I have to figure out why I’m here, why do I need you?” she questions with a snotty uptilt of her chin.

“You’re right. I can’t automatically see what has you stuck here.

All I can do is try to help you figure it out.

Sometimes, I can contact family members or friends and help in that way.

Or I’ll pass along physical objects or messages.

But a lot of it is just talking and trying to think through the problem.

And honestly, if you’d rather try to figure it out on your own, that’s fine.

It’s no skin off my nose. I actually need to get ready for work, so if you could just…

Go somewhere else for a bit, that’d be nice.

If you want my help, come back whenever, but preferably during waking hours.

If you don’t show up, I can assume that you’ve go t it handled.

” I’m trying to be patient, but I am over her rudeness and in desperate need of some me time.

“Fine,” she agrees. In a blink, I’m alone again.