Page 9

Ghost

B y the time I pull back into my driveway, it’s in the early hours of the morning.

I coast my motorcycle into place, trying not to wake Heather.

I don’t know exactly what’s going on with her, but I know she needs to sleep.

I’ve been thinking of her all night—something about her didn’t seem right today.

She was off her food and has been looking pale.

The overhead lights inside the garage are still on. That’s nothing unusual. Heather works late sometimes, especially when she’s working on a cool idea. She’ll sketch and rework the same idea six different ways until it’s perfect.

But tonight, it feels different. I turn off the engine, kill the lights. The air is cool and dry. Crickets chirp somewhere in the brush. There is no music playing from her Bluetooth speaker like usual.

I have to know if she’s okay, so I walk across the lot quietly, boots thudding softly on the pavement.

The garage door is cracked open a few inches with light spilling out into the dark night.

I push it open slowly and see she is curled on her cot, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting across an open notebook.

The pages are half-full of sketches. One line is trailing off like she’d fallen asleep in the middle of drawing.

The little desk lamp next to her is still on, casting a soft glow over her sleeping form.

I want to go in and turn off her light, but I don’t.

Not until I realize she fell asleep without covering herself up.

I slip through the door and tug her notebook away.

She doesn’t move or even notice. Setting it on the table, I drape a warm blanket over her body and back away.

Standing there watching her breathe, something dark and possessive blooms in my chest for the first time.

Not wanting to think too long and hard about what that something is, I reach over, switch off the light, and leave her to her rest. When I slip back out into the chill night air, I can’t shake the image of her lying there defenseless and beautiful.

She’s sweet, innocent, and needs someone to protect her. Someone like me, to be exact.

Something is wrong with her. She looks tired, but not the kind of tired that comes from too many hours on her feet.

This is deeper. Maybe I’m working her too hard, working her to the bone.

Her brow is creased even in sleep. Her hoodie is pulled tight around her, like she’s trying to hide herself in it, like she’s trying to disappear.

I don’t like that. Not one damn bit. I ease the door shut and head back to the house, but I don’t go straight to bed.

Instead, I grab a water bottle from the fridge, unscrew the cap, and lean against the kitchen counter, staring out the window that faces the garage.

The lamp I’d turned off still leaves a soft glow in the space behind my eyes, like I can still see her there, curled in on herself like a girl half her age.

Heather isn’t the fragile type. I’ve seen her carry heavy lumber and argue with city officials over permit timelines without flinching. She doesn’t scare easy. Hell, most days, I forget how young she really is. She carries herself like someone who’s lived a couple of lifetimes already.

But tonight? Tonight, she looks like someone who’s tired of life, tired of holding it all together on her own.

And yeah, maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe she really has just crashed after a long day. But that knot in my gut—the one that tells me when something is off—is alerting me that something is off. And it hasn’t steered me wrong yet.

I take a slow drink of water and rub my hand over my face, as I remembered what it felt like to be a kid watching my mom come home from a ten-hour shift at the diner, her hands raw from scrubbing tables and her eyes dull with exhaustion.

I remembered standing in the hallway, too young to help but old enough to feel useless.

I promised myself back then that when I got older, I’d be the kind of man who did something when someone needed help.

And right now, that woman sleeping in my garage? She needs something. Even if she doesn’t know how to ask for it.

I don’t go straight to bed after locking up. Don’t even try.

Instead, I find myself standing in the kitchen, back against the counter, bottle of water in hand, lights off. Just staring out the window that faces the garage.

There’s nothing to see. The place is dark, but I’m still thinking about her.

The way she looked curled up on that cot, wrapped in her hoodie, with that notebook fallen open beside her like she’d passed out mid-thought.

She’s always in motion when I’m around, always working, building, measuring, scribbling.

But tonight, she looks fragile and exhausted.

Like something has been drained from her.

Not just physically, but maybe mentally too.

It’s clear that she works hard, maybe too hard. I’ve seen people push through worse. But I don’t want that for her.

This is the second morning in a row where she looks drained. Her face is paler than usual. Why the hell am I keeping count of the days she doesn’t look healthy?

I shift my legs and take a long drink of water, as I stare at my reflection in the blackened window glass.

It’s not like me to fixate on people. Sure, I look out for fellow human beings.

I always have. But this is different. This woman has me transfixed.

She has a way of drawing me in without even trying.

The way she brushes her hair back when she’s concentrating.

The way she talks with her hands when she gets excited about a design tweak.

The way she always smells faintly like sawdust and cherries from her lip balm.

I shouldn’t know that. I shouldn’t care about all the trivial details of this new employee of mine. Yet, I do. I can’t seem to clear my head of everything to do with her.

She’s here to do a job. And yeah, we work well together. We get into a rhythm fast. But something in me has started tracking her. Subtle things. Small shifts. Like I need to know how she’s doing in order to get on with my own life.

This budding obsession is full-on stupid. And if I’m honest, it’s getting worse.

I exhale slowly, then rub the back of my neck. I’m reading too much into it. She’s just tired. But that knot in my gut—the one that flares when something is wrong? It’s been sending me twinges since she moved in. And now? It’s twisting tighter.

***

She’s already up when I get to the garage the next morning.

The side door is unlocked, the lights are on, and the smell of sawdust hangs heavy in the air.

But the usual sound of her boots moving across concrete, the faint music playing off her speaker, or the steady tap of a pencil hitting paper is absent. Instead, there is just silence.

I see her crouching near the far wall, quietly measuring spacing between the joists for the new paneling. Hood up. Head low. Like she doesn’t want to be seen.

I stand in the doorway a few seconds longer than usual before speaking. “Morning,” I say, in a quiet tone, not wanting to disturb her.

She startles. Just barely, but I catch it.

“Hey,” she says without looking up. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

I cross the space, setting her coffee down on the table. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she responds. “Just tired.”

It’s the same damn answer I’ve been getting for a week, but this morning it sounds less truthful than ever before.

I lean against the worktable, watching her mark lines on the frame with a carpenter’s pencil. Her hand is shaking. Barely. Just enough to make the graphite skip.

“Did you eat yet, Heather?” I ask, trying to control my tone.

She shrugs, still not looking at me. “I’m not really hungry.”

“This is the third day in a row. You’ve got to eat to keep your strength up, especially for this kind of work. Tell me you understand that.”

She stands up a little too fast and has to catch her hand on the wall to keep her balance. “I didn’t know you were keeping track of my intake, boss.”

She winces and closes her eyes for a brief second before the words even finish coming out of her mouth. She’s annoyed with herself, not me.

I don’t react. Just let the silence stretch until she looks up and finally meets my eyes.

She looks like hell.

Not in a way I’d say out loud, but in a way that claws at something inside me. Her eyes are rimmed with shadows. Her lips are pale. Shoulders hunched like she’s carrying something a hell of a lot heavier than framing plans.

I keep my voice even. “You sure it’s just tired?”

She hesitates. That pause speaks volumes about how she’s not okay. Why does she insist upon lying to me when all I want to do is help?

I don’t press her because she seems fragile enough to break. But my mind is already running away with wild ideas. Is she sick? Terminally ill? Hurt? Scared of someone? Scared of me? I have a million questions and no answers.

“If you want, I can pick something up from the store for you,” I suggest. “Maybe crackers? Ginger ale?”

She blinks. “Why ginger ale?”

I lift a brow. “Because you’ve been pale all week and have been eating like a bird. Both of those things would go easy on your stomach.”

When she doesn’t answer, that’s fine. I decide right then and there to do a store run for her. “I’ll get some anyway,” I say. “It doesn’t hurt to have it around.”

She turns away and grabs her notebook like the conversation hasn’t just happened. Like I haven’t just peeled the edge off whatever she’s trying to hide.

But what I just saw, I can’t unsee. It isn’t just stress. And whatever it is, I’m going to do my level best to figure it out.