Page 18 of The Most Unusual Haunting of Edgar Lovejoy

“I don’t. Can’t it call me Edgar?”

“Sure.” She squeezed his hand again. “Can we just take a little nap?”

“Yeah, sounds good. You’ll be the second person I shared a bed with in twenty-four hours…”

Allie jerked upright. “You what ?!”

Edgar smiled tranquilly.

“Tell me every fucking detail, or I’ll tell my kid to call you Uncle Eddie.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“No. But you’ll tell me anyway, won’t you?”

And settling back into the soft pillows that smelled like his sister—rosemary and eucalyptus and the rich scent of old leather—he told her about Jamie.

***

When Edgar got to Helen and Veronica’s house to start his delivery run the next day, Helen narrowed their eyes at him.

“What’s wrong with you?”

It was a verbalization of what he assumed everyone was always thinking about him, but it was startling to hear it spoken aloud.

“Um. Nothing?”

“Exactly. Usually, you look like you’re about to cry, dissociate, or have a panic attack. But right now, you look strangely neutral, which I’m assuming is your version of glowing.”

“Have I mentioned lately that I enjoy the particular way in which you’re rude?”

“You have. Well, not lately. But really, someone only has to say it once, and I extrapolate it to every encounter I have with them.”

Edgar smiled.

“Holy crap, a real smile. Are you on drugs?”

Edgar shook his head, and they leaned in.

“Do you wanna be? Cuz V and Greta started growing weed in the backyard, and they’re, like, super good at it.”

“I’m okay, thanks.”

“Oh, right. You’re about to go deliver our product, packaged in glass, on a bike, to our important customers. Of course you can’t have weed.”

They said it loudly, and Edgar turned around. His hunch was correct. Veronica stood in the doorway, one eyebrow raised.

“Quit telling literally everyone that we’re growing weed, bro,” she said. “Edgar doesn’t even smoke.”

“I’m impressed,” Helen insisted.

Meanwhile, Veronica was looking at Edgar with her brow furrowed. “Did you win the lottery or something?” she asked finally. “You look all…” She gestured in the air toward him.

“Right?” Helen exclaimed. “That’s what I was saying. He doesn’t look like he’s about to cry or puke or run away!”

Veronica snickered. “You’re an asshole, but you’re not wrong.”

“Is that really what I look like?” Edgar asked.

“Yes,” Helen said immediately.

“Kinda,” Veronica concluded.

Edgar hoped he didn’t look as mortified as he felt. “Okay. Well. I’m gonna grab the stuff and get going. Have a good one.”

“See ya!” they chorused.

Edgar took the bike around to the back entrance where they stored the boxes of Lagniappe Lemonade and checked the clipboard for the printed delivery route. As he loaded boxes onto the bike, he could hear Veronica and Helen talking in the kitchen.

“—our employee,” Veronica was saying. “He could sue us!”

“Aw, Ronnie, he’s not gonna sue us.”

“Not the point. We all like him, but he hasn’t returned our overtures of friendship. You can’t force someone to be your friend.”

“I know,” Helen grumbled. “I just feel like…he seems so fucking lonely and sad all the time. And I don’t want anyone to feel like that. Especially another queer person.”

“I know, boo,” Veronica said. “But think about it from his perspective. Maybe to him, we’re being the creepy bosses who make personal comments about him and try to get him to do drugs.”

“Ugh. Yeah, from that perspective, we suck. Okay. I’ll be the picture of professionalism henceforth.”

“I hope you and Henceforth will be happy together. Pass me that pipe. Wait ’til you try the new strain Greta and I…”

Veronica’s voice trailed off, and Edgar figured they’d gone into the living room. He sighed. Was that really how he seemed to people?

Isn’t that how you feel? Why wouldn’t people be able to see it?

Usually, that would be the point at which Edgar went on his delivery run and never spoke about their interaction ever again.

But Jamie had taken his nod in the hotel room as a complete rejection of their night together until he’d explained.

He genuinely liked Helen and Veronica. He didn’t want them to think otherwise.

Edgar leaned the bike against the house and went back into the kitchen, then through to the living room. Helen and Veronica were passing the pipe back and forth and looking at a spreadsheet projected onto the large television.

He knocked on the doorframe, not wanting to startle them.

“Hey!” Helen said, a bit too chipper. “Everything okay with the bike? And the lemonade? Just all the professionally relevant things…”

Veronica snorted and shook her head.

“I like you both,” Edgar blurted. “I heard you talking in there, and I just want you to know that. I don’t think you’re creepy. I don’t feel pressured to do drugs. I’m not gonna sue you. And I—actually, I am in a good mood today. So. Thanks. For noticing.”

Helen’s grin was wide and sunny, an instant reward. Veronica’s smile was softer, more knowing.

“Yes, I knew it!” Helen crowed, punching the air. “I knew you liked us, and I knew something was different today.” They elbowed Veronica in the ribs. “I’m always fucking right about this shit.” Then, to Edgar, “Spill!”

“Huh? Oh. Um.”

“What my dear business partner meant to say,” Veronica drawled, “is that we’d love to celebrate any happiness or good fortune with you, should you choose to entrust us with the information.”

Helen snorted. “Yup. That’s exactly what I meant to say.”

They patted the couch next to them.

“I… The lemonade…?”

“Omigod, it’s fine, you can take ten minutes and tell us what’s changed your whole personality.”

“But no drugs for you,” Veronica said and blew the smoke away from him.

“I don’t like weed,” Edgar said. “It makes me paranoid.”

That was an extreme understatement. The one and only time he’d tried smoking pot, he’d seen a ghost and been convinced that it was going to slide inside his skin and puppetize his body.

Then for the rest of his life, he’d be trapped in there, conscious but unable to tell anyone because the ghost would have control.

He had sworn a solemn oath on that day—the next morning anyway—never to touch another mind-altering substance.

And like most of the rules that Edgar made for himself, he followed it scrupulously, out of fear of the alternative.

“Great, more for us. Now spill.”

Edgar was unsure whether Jamie would want him to say anything yet. Unsure of what he would say. Where did they stand? What even were they?

“I… Maybe I’ll keep it to myself for now,” Edgar said. “But thanks. And sorry. For making you worry that I didn’t like you. Because I do.”

Helen had their arms wrapped around their torso like they were hugging themself in lieu of hugging him. They shivered with joy and leaned against Veronica. “Yay, he likes us!”

Veronica patted them on the head.

“Double yay: something to speculate about as soon as he leaves!”

Veronica raised an eyebrow and nodded.

Edgar turned to leave, then hesitated. “What is it exactly that makes me look like I’m about to cry? Or, um, puke?”

Veronica grimaced and said nothing.

“Just your face, basically. And your whole expression. Expressions. All of them. And your bearing and demeanor. Also your voice. And there’s a real funk around you like, if I could read auras, I bet yours would be whatever color funky auras are.”

Veronica closed her eyes slowly, but she didn’t seem irritated with Helen; she seemed to agree on such a deep level she didn’t want to admit it.

“Great. So everything about me.”

Helen made a finger gun at him. “Bingo. Ooh!” They turned to Veronica. “Should we do a bingo night?”

“Yes, absolutely. Queer bingo. Disco ball, queer shit as the boxes on the cards. Perfect idea.”

Edgar decided to take this opportunity to slink away.

“Come to bingo night!” Helen and Veronica both yelled at him as he walked back through the kitchen, eager to start his route and distract himself from how people perceived him.