Page 4 of The Most Unusual Haunting of Edgar Lovejoy

Jamie

The server led Jamie to the table where their mother, father, and sister sat and took Jamie’s to-go coffee cup, which they’d drained on the way to the restaurant in an attempt to caffeinate themselves into coherence after only four hours of sleep.

When Jamie had gotten offstage after their performance last night, they’d been so excited to find Edgar in the crowd.

They’d felt a connection with the handsome stranger and couldn’t wait to talk with him more.

But when they’d changed out of their costume and gone to look for him, he was nowhere to be found.

Yeah, because he wasn’t flirting with you; he was just awkward , insisted the voice in Jamie’s head.

What Jamie had found was a voicemail from their mother, requesting Jamie’s presence at breakfast—not brunch, because by then Jamie’s mother would have had to put out a dozen fires—to discuss something important.

Jamie’s mother was a force to be reckoned with.

She’d found politics later in life and approached it with the zeal of a convert.

No resting on laurels or hoping things worked out for Blythe Wendon—nope, she gave a hundred percent effort a hundred percent of the time.

On the plus side, 8 a.m. nearly guaranteed them privacy, so Jamie wouldn’t have to watch their mother grasp awkwardly to introduce them to any friendly constituents.

Jamie’s mother rose to kiss them on the cheek, a glancing peck that was more breath than contact.

“So,” their mother began before Jamie had sat down. “Emma has some news.”

Once, Jamie and their sister had been close.

Only two years younger, Jamie had watched Emma intently, sure they’d follow in her footsteps, and Emma—although she’d sighed huffily and rolled her eyes—had seemed to enjoy the captive audience.

Emma, not their mom, had been the one Jamie watched apply makeup, tweeze her eyebrows, shave her legs.

When Emma had her first crush, Jamie listened to her enumerate the charms of the floppy-haired second clarinet with such ardor that they fell a little in love with him themself.

When the boy broke Emma’s heart three months later by making out with her best friend, Jamie cried with her, raged with her, and held a grudge against this so-called best friend long after Emma had moved on.

When Jamie came to understand they were trans and nonbinary, Emma had been the first person they told, assuming that all those years of being an Emma devotee would be enough to inspire reciprocal support.

It had been a miscalculation.

Emma held out her hand and waggled her fingers.

“Dave proposed,” she said. There was a squeal of delight in her voice that reminded Jamie of sitting curled up on Emma’s bed all those years ago while she gushed about Nathan Jones, the cheating clarinetist.

This wasn’t unexpected, but Jamie had held out hope that Emma would tire of dull Dave before he had the chance.

“Congrats, Emma,” Jamie said automatically. “That’s so great.”

They tried to infuse their voice with sincerity. But it was hard to muster enthusiasm for a lifetime spent with a guy who’d once pulled his phone out to check the status of his crypto while people were singing him “Happy Birthday.”

“The ring was his grandmother’s,” Emma said, her hand still extended in Jamie’s direction.

“It’s a stunning ring,” Jamie’s mother declared before Jamie had a chance to respond.

When the waiter came to take their orders, Jamie asked for a Bloody Mary with their pancakes, suspecting they’d need it to get through what threatened to be a lot of talk about weddings.

When the drink was slid before them, they could’ve sworn the waiter shot them a sympathetic look.

It was confirmed when they took a sip and tasted the amount of vodka.

“Have you and Dave chosen all your uh…?” Jamie grasped for the appropriate terminology. “Wedding-related stuff yet?”

“I have a Pinterest board,” Emma said, phone already in hand.

“That’s a good segue,” Blythe said, cutting off Emma’s Pinterest show-and-tell.

She stacked her used half-and-half containers and brushed something invisible from her husband’s collar.

“This wedding will be…an event for the whole family as well as for your sister. You know how these things are when you’re in the public eye.

No avoiding it. And of course, my family represents me.

So I’d just like to make sure that any…scrutiny… is met with a…”

She seemed to search for the perfect turn of phrase, as if words were a spell that you had to get exactly right to conjure their intended effect.

“Met with a united front,” she concluded.

Jamie gulped Bloody Mary. They’d learned the hard way that when their mother used corporate politspeak, it meant they were about to suffer.

“A united front, yes,” Jamie’s father echoed.

That was mostly what Hank Dale spent his time doing. When it wasn’t his wife he was echoing, it was his bosses, his golf partners, and his favorite news podcast.

“And what precisely is the front that you want me to unite around?” Jamie asked.

“There’s so much to do,” Blythe said, ticking them off on her fingers. “Flowers, catering, music, colors, transportation.” She waved off what Jamie suspected would’ve been another hand’s worth of items she could’ve named.

“Yeah, I’m happy to help,” Jamie said hesitantly. “Whatever you need, Em.”

Their mother’s satisfied smile made Jamie feel good for the first time since showing up.

“Well, that’s great,” Emma said, searching out a bite of kiwi in her fruit salad. “Because I was hoping you would be my maid of honor?”

The words settled in Jamie’s gut like concrete, maid soaking up the vodka they’d drunk, leaving Jamie terribly, recklessly sober. They caught the waiter’s sympathetic eye and signaled for another Bloody Mary.

Recklessness wasn’t something that was received well in the Wendon-Dale family.

Plan, prepare, execute . That was their mother’s motto and had been for as long as Jamie could remember.

Spelling words and multiplication tables?

Memorizable. Two term papers due the same day?

Plan to write one the week before. Not sure you’re in love with your boyfriend anymore?

Make a pros and cons list and proceed accordingly.

No excuses. No room for mess or chaos or indecision.

No room for Jamie.

Do you still think of me that way? After all this time, after everything I’ve explained, do you still look at me and see a girl I’ve never been?

“I, um… Yeah. But can we please not call it the maid of honor? Since, you know, I’m not a maid.”

The second Bloody Mary landed in front of Jamie, and they took a deep gulp to drown the rest of the words that wanted to come out.

“Oh, tell her the best part,” their mother said delightedly. She had cut her eggs Benedict into identical square bites. “Them,” she corrected herself absently, spearing a bite.

The rage simmered in Jamie’s throat and heated their ears.

At least she corrected herself , their peacemaking side nagged.

But Jamie was already checking out. When you realized someone wasn’t really speaking to you but to some fantasy they’ve constructed of you, it was pretty hard to invest in anything they were saying.

It was like this every time: an internal fight between the part of Jamie that cared about their family and wanted to be loved by them and the part that screamed to let their true feelings out, even if that meant alienating their mother and, by extension, their father, who would never stick up for Jamie if it meant disagreeing with his wife.

“We got the sculpture garden at the art museum!” Emma said. “It’s going to be perfect.”

“They had a cancellation, so we snapped it up,” Jamie’s father said.

How long had their family been planning this without mentioning it?

“That’s…that’ll be really pretty, Em.”

“God, I can’t believe we’re trying to plan a wedding in three months,” Emma said, turning to her mom.

The we meant that Emma and Blythe had a shared file of documents, spreadsheets, and to-do lists that they consulted daily.

That was what it meant to plan anything with Blythe, and for just a moment, Jamie was envious.

To be on the receiving end of something their mother planned felt as close to a warm hug as they could get from her.

“You have the date, then?” Jamie asked.

“November first. We lucked out with that cancellation. They didn’t have any availability until next May, and I can’t wait that long,” Emma said, eyes soft.

“Yes, it’ll be all-hands-on-deck until the wedding,” Blythe said with finality.

Jamie stuffed a bite of food in their mouth to buy time.

Are you fucking kidding me? You misgender me, ask for my help, and plan the wedding so all the work needs to be done in my busiest month of the year?

“Yeah, that’s, um. That’s not really going to be a time when I can help with the wedding much,” Jamie said. “Since the haunted house opens to the public in October, I work time and a half. As you know,” they added.

Jamie’s mother waved them away. “You can get time off to help your family with your sister’s wedding, surely.

” It was the same certainty she’d had when Jamie’s schedule interfered with an event during her election campaign.

And they could understand why, since Jamie had gone through the tortures of the damned to get time off as requested.

But that had been two years ago, and Jamie wasn’t as easily cowed anymore.

“Actually,” Jamie said, still trying to keep their voice steady, “I committed to the job, and—”

“I’m sure you’ll work it out,” Blythe said, definitive. “And if not, there are other jobs.”

Creating the premiere haunted house in the New Orleans area was Jamie’s dream job, and their boss would replace them easily and without a second thought if they asked to take time off in the month before Halloween.

But Blythe didn’t care about that. In the Wendon-Dale family, Jamie’s work was an embarrassment.

Dropping out of college to pursue it? Well, Blythe still hadn’t forgiven Jamie for that.

There was no arguing with their mother when she had her mind made up.

She refused to acknowledge any conflicting information or opinions.

They’d simply have to figure the schedule out somehow.

For now though, all they wanted was to get the hell out of here because they didn’t think they could deal with one more instance of being disregarded.

Jamie looked to Emma instead.

“I’m really happy for you, Em. I’ll try to help out however I can, but you’re not going to be able to count on me for a lot during October. If you’d like to ask someone who has more bandwidth to be the, uh, whatever of honor, that’s fine with me.”

Emma frowned, like she couldn’t compute someone turning down a family demand. It certainly wasn’t common, not in their family.

“Well, maybe I can ask Meredith,” she mused. “You know how Meredith is. She was really upset when I said I picked you.”

Jamie didn’t, and they didn’t care. “Sounds good.”

“My roommate. Mer. You remember Meredith.”

Their parents were both looking at Jamie as if they’d said they didn’t remember who the pope was. Jamie was ninety-nine percent sure they’d never even seen a picture of this person, but they gave a noncommittal nod to keep the conversation moving forward.

“She’ll be good with all the planning. She was secretary of our sorority.”

Relief flooded Jamie at being let off the hook. They could just imagine pulling an all-nighter because they had to plan a fucking bachelorette party.

Emma went on, “And I swear I’m not gonna be all bridezilla about this.

Like, I’ll make sure all the bridesmaids will look good in the color I choose.

And I won’t pick any dress you would hate either.

God, remember Shawna Kinkaide’s wedding?

” Emma asked, turning to their mom. “She had me wear that lime mermaid dress? Yikes.” Emma shuddered.

Heat clawed up Jamie’s throat and finally exploded.

“Dude, I’m not wearing a fucking dress!”

Jamie’s mother looked around the restaurant to make sure no one had heard her offspring curse.

The second Bloody Mary metabolized all at once, and Jamie became acutely aware of their heart and how hard it was pounding. There was a strange ringing sound in the restaurant. No, in their ears.

“How about I wear a tux, okay?” Jamie offered weakly.

“It’s not black tie,” Blythe snapped, sounding horrified.

“A suit, then,” Jamie offered. “You tell me the color, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

There was an awkward silence at the table—the kind Jamie had gotten used to after coming out to their family.

“Whatever,” Emma sniffed.

“We’ll figure it out,” their father soothed, placing a placating hand on his wife’s arm.

A familiar shame settled over Jamie, a shame that stiffened their spine, squared their shoulders, and lifted their chin, just like it had when they were a child.

“Yes,” Blythe said. “We certainly will.”

It sounded more like a threat than a reassurance in her mouth.

Jamie took a bite of cold pancake. It stuck in their throat.