Page 78 of Ghosts Don't Cry

I’m in front of his door and knocking before I can talk myself out of it.

“Didn’t think you’d show up.” Tom opens the door, surprise clear in his expression. His eyes drop to the bottle in my hand, and he smiles. “You came prepared.”

“Seemed rude to show up empty-handed.”

He grins and steps back. “Most people bring wine, but I’m definitely not complaining. Come on in.”

The living room holds more people than I expected. Voices mix with the clink of glasses. A woman laughs at something a man in a blue sweater is saying. An older couple sits on the couch, talking quietly. Every instinct screams at me to retreat, to run, and get the fuck out before they see too much.

“Get yourself a glass.” Tom gestures to the bar cart. “Kitchen’s through there if you want ice.”

I pour two fingers neat, hands steadier than they have any right to be. One drink will last me all night. I learned to nurse drinks from construction sites where beers after work were part of the ritual. I can make one last, and be social without being stupid.

“The wiring’s finished,” I say when Tom asks about the house’s progress. My voice comes out normal, showing none of the chaos in my head. “I’m moving onto the plumbing next.”

“Harris would be pleased.” Tom settles into the chair across from me.

The whiskey burns going down, but it doesn’t touch the knot in my chest.

Someone asks about the roof. I answer automatically, explaining the shingles that need replacing, the flashing around the chimney. The words come easily—work talk, safe talk, nothing that requires me to think about anything but the house.

A woman sits on the arm of the couch, her perfume reaching me. It’s floral, close enough to Lily’s that it knocks me off-balance for a second. I take another sip, and let the burn anchor me to this moment, this room, and these people who know nothing about what I just did.

Tom tells a story about Beverly Walsh and the neighborhood association. People laugh. I manage what might pass for a smile, and play the part of a guy who’s got his shit together. The guy who belongs on Cedar Street.

The guy who didn’t just finger-fuck the only woman he’s ever loved in an alley and then tell her she meant nothing.

The glass in my hand is still half-full when Tom offers to refill it. I shake my head.

“Early start tomorrow. Foundation inspection.”

It’s a lie. I don’t have anything planned. But I need to leave before the mask cracks or someone asks the wrong question and I fall apart in a stranger’s living room.

“Of course. Come around anytime. Door’s always open.”

The cold air hits my face when I step outside, and my house looms ahead, dark and empty. I let myself in, locking the door behind me. Moving through the living room, I sink down onto the couch, head in my hands and let the truth I’ve been avoiding since the bar settle over me.

I can scrub my skin raw. I can drink until my hands stop shaking. I can surround myself with strangers and small talk and anything to distract from the memory of her.

But none of it will ever wash away the taste of her, the memory of her, or the knowledge of what kind of monster I really am.

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s exactly what I deserve.

Chapter Thirty

LILY - AGE 18

The private functionroom in Sullivan’s pulses with music and laughter. My entire senior class is here, taking up every inch of space. The DJ Mom hired keeps the music loud, and the dance floor is packed with bodies moving in the strobing lights. Heat rises from the crowd, making the air thick and close. My dress, red silk that cost more than I wanted Mom to spend, clings to my skin.

There’s a stack of gifts piled on a table at one side of the room, and food on the other. People keep wishing me a happy birthday, and talking about what a great party it is. I smile, nod at the right times, but my eyes keep drifting to the entrance.

“He’s not coming.” Cassidy appears beside me with a fresh drink. She doesn’t ask who I’m looking for. “You know he won’t.”

“I left an invitation in his locker.” I take the cup, needing something to do with my hands beside twisting them together. The plastic is cold and slick with condensation. “I wanted him to come. Everyone else is here. He doesn’t have to be left out.”

She squeezes my arm, understanding in her eyes. She’s the only one who knows about the notes we’ve been trading, my visits to him in the old factory, and the fact that I kissed him. Hestill won’t acknowledge me at school, but when we’re alone, his attention is all for me. He makes me feel like the most important person in the world.

“Cake coming through!” Mom’s voice carries over the music seconds before she wheels out a huge creation. Three tiers of red velvet with candles, sugar flowers and sparklers. Everyone crowds around, phones out to capture the moment.