Page 9

Chapter 9

Alex

S tepping into A Likely Story felt like coming home.

Aunt Lizzie had carefully planned every inch of the shop out and even now, almost seven years after her passing, her touches could be seen everywhere I looked. I’d updated a few things and rearranged some furniture, but the heart of the place remained.

When I’d first taken over, walking through the doors had sent me to my knees, the grief stabbing through me like a knife. Coming inside now brought me more comfort than just about anything else. Even now, weighed down by everything on my mind, a sense of soft comfort settled over me when I unlocked the doors.

Saturday had passed with no word from Donovan. Sundays were a short day for me at the shop, but I’d left my house at my usual Sunday time, which meant I still had an hour to kill before I officially opened. I almost always used that time to linger over a late breakfast at Buns ‘n’ Roses, but going there meant admitting to Raina I hadn’t talked to Donovan, so I’d skipped it today. She’d probably be by at some point asking questions, but I’d deal with that if and when it happened. Eventually I’d have to cave, though, because I wanted to talk to Camille and see if she’d go visit Ori with me again sometime. I clearly needed more advice, but going alone was intimidating.

I left the main lights off and made my way into my small office. The skylights overhead let in more than enough morning light for me to see, not that I needed it. I knew this place better than I knew my own home.

Last week had been a surprisingly decent sales week, so ordering new inventory took up a decent chunk of time. I wanted to feature more independent authors and added just as many books to my to-read pile as I did to the shop’s inventory. I kept a newsletter for the store and spent the last few minutes before opening preparing an email with tentative dates for Drag Story Hour. Hopefully, I’d get some decent interest from it.

After one final walk-through of the store, I flipped over the sign and unlocked the door. Sunday mornings weren’t exactly bustling, so I usually spent the time taking care of the plants scattered all over the shop. I could count on one hand the number of customers I’d had on Sunday morning for the past month and have fingers left over.

So hearing the bell over the door jingle as I made my way over to my monstera came as a bit of a surprise. Naturally, a customer would walk in while I had a heavy watering can in my hands that I now had to find a spot for. It ended up tucked between two shelves, out of the way, so I could hurry to the front.

Instead of my usual weekend clientele, I found Ori Castellos standing at my front counter, looking completely at ease. If I believed in that kind of thing, I’d almost think I’d summoned them by thinking about them earlier.

“Good morning,” I stammered, quickly burying my surprise and pulling on years of customer service experience. “How’re you?”

“I’m doing well. And you?” They smiled, but I couldn’t tell if they were being friendly or amused at my reaction.

“Good. I’m good. Um… did you need help finding a book?”

They shook their head. Ori had bound their hair up today in a messy bun, long strands of dark hair framing their face. Despite the freezing temperatures outside, Ori’s jeans were artfully ripped, and they’d opted for a lightweight coat that definitely wasn’t suited for Colorado winters. Or Colorado springs, which were basically Colorado winters, the sequel. My weather app called for snow before the end of the day.

“I actually stopped by to check in with you,” they continued, pulling me back to the conversation at hand. “We went over a lot of information when you stopped by and I had a feeling I should come visit. I just wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help?”

I made a mental note to revisit that whole ‘summoning’ idea later.

“Actually, I was thinking about stopping by to see you sometime this week,” I admitted. “Turns out I suck at meditation.”

“Most people do, don’t feel bad,” they assured me. “If you have some time to talk, maybe I could help?”

“I have nothing but time at the moment.”

“Mornings are slow for me, too. That’s why I changed to later hours,” Ori laughed. “Alright. Can I ask why you decided to start with meditation?”

“Well, it seemed like the easiest option. I don’t really understand how to use those crystals you showed me and some of the other stuff is a little out there, even for me.” I’d admitted my skepticism the first time we’d talked, but it still felt weird to say it to someone who made their living around this stuff. “Sitting on the floor relaxing should be easy, right?”

“We’ll come back to that second part some other time, but as for meditation being easy…” Ori shook their head. “It’s one of the hardest practices to master.”

“So, I’m guessing that means it’s more than just relaxing?” I leaned against the counter beside them, trying not to slump in defeat. Why was this all so hard?

“Kind of the opposite, actually. Meditation is about learning to be comfortable within your mind without trying to control every thought. That’s extremely difficult for most people, myself included. Letting go of your thoughts can also send your mind wandering to places you’d rather not go.”

“But if the point is to not try to control my mind, that means if I start thinking about some bad memories, I’m supposed to just let it happen?” That sounded like literal Hell to me.

“Some people do, but I don’t recommend it, especially if it’s a memory associated with something traumatic. Lingering on it will make it pretty much impossible to focus on meditating and it would likely lead to not wanting to do it at all.” Ori’s dark eyes went distant for a moment and I couldn’t help but wonder what dark memories they avoided thinking about.

“So what should I do?” I asked quietly.

They blinked their eyes back into focus and gave me a small smile. “I can’t speak for everyone, but I’ve found that if I take a moment to acknowledge the memory, then turn my focus away, it helps. Many people use their breathing as a focus. I have a mantra and I pull myself back to that. The person who taught me to meditate recommended writing down any unpleasant memories that came up during meditation and journal about it to help resolve them.”

Again, that sounded terrible. “Do you?”

Ori laughed again. “Absolutely not. I pay a therapist to help me resolve my shit.”

That startled a laugh out of me before I could stop it, easing the tension between us.

“Do you want to sit?” I asked, nodding towards the reading nook nearest the front door. “Am I keeping you from your work?”

“I don’t open until noon, usually. Micah can handle it alone if we run over,” they shrugged, following me over and settling in one of the plush armchairs.

I thought I knew just about everyone in town, but clearly not. First Ori, now whoever Micah was? I needed to get out more.

“So, what would you recommend for a novice like me?” I asked once we were comfortable. “I really want to try to master this. Once a ghost finds me, I have no choice but to help. I want to, of course, but I hate that I have to put my entire life on hold to deal with it. Maybe if I can control it, the shock won’t be quite so bad, either?”

I’d never liked my ability, but it wasn’t until Andre that I’d truly feared it. If I hadn’t managed to call 911 in time, I could have died out there with him. I’d researched hypothermia afterward and between the shock and the amount of energy Andre drained from me, I’d been dangerously close to freezing to death. I’d absolutely not told Donovan about that. He could easily find out on his own, of course, but no need to add fuel to the fire of his protectiveness.

“That’s a very real possibility,” Ori agreed. “By accessing your power purposefully, you’ll be more mentally prepared. I think having a support system will make the biggest difference, though, and you seem to have that in place already.”

“Yeah. I’ve been threatened with decaf for the rest of my life if I ever attempt to go out with a ghost alone ever again.”

Donovan’s face flashed into my mind, the hurt and shock when I’d told him to leave. With it came a fresh rush of guilt, followed closely by pain as I remembered his words. It took a real effort to bundle it all up and shove it to the back of my mind so I could focus on what Ori was saying.

“Having someone there with you should provide the emotional support you need for what you do.” They shifted, getting more comfortable in the chair. “Honestly, I don’t envy you your power.”

“I wouldn’t wish it on anyone else. If I could get rid of it, I would in a heartbeat. No hesitation.”

“For your sake, I wish it worked like that, but since that’s not an option, the best we can do is learn to control it. I’d like to do more research, but it sounds like one of the main goals, aside from consciously using your ability, is to figure out a way to limit the amount of energy the ghost can draw from you.”

“I’d like that,” I agreed immediately. Just because I lived here in the mountains, didn’t mean I enjoyed being cold. It’d gotten better without Charlie constantly drawing energy from me, combined with basically living with a man who loved to snuggle. “It kind of feels like once I can control it, I’ll be able to manage the drain. It just feels connected in my head, if that makes any sense?”

Ori shrugged. “It’s your power, so I’ll trust you on that. For now, if you have the time, perhaps we can work on mindfulness? It’s slightly easier than meditation, though the two complement each other. It will help you focus on the present without judgment and is just a daily quality, where meditation is a focused exercise.”

“Okay, and what do I have to do?” I asked, hoping it didn’t come out too skeptical. I’d heard one too many online influencers talking about ‘practicing mindfulness and gratitude’ to take it as seriously as I should be. Ori’s little smile said I wasn’t entirely successful at reining in my tone, but they didn’t comment on it.

“As simple as it sounds, the first thing is to just pay attention. Take in the moment around you, paying attention to your body and your thoughts. Don’t judge yourself for whatever thoughts come to mind, but pay attention to them and when you notice your mind wandering, consciously pull yourself back to the present and focus on your breathing.”

“That sounds way easier than it probably is. I’m game to try, though. I guess the worst that can happen is a repeat of yesterday.”

“We’ll start short. Five minutes,” Ori said. “Also, it might not be the same for you as it was for me, but the first time I tried this with someone sitting with me, I spent the entire time worrying I was wasting her time and I should be entertaining her or something. If that’s the case, just know that I’m going to be focusing on myself, so it’s perfectly fine to ignore me. Just keep your breath steady and choose to keep your attention on that rhythm. I’ve found that counting helps, at first.”

That must be all the tutorial I was getting, because Ori closed their eyes, going still in a way that I envied immediately. They’d obviously been doing this for a long time, to the point that it was nearly effortless. I didn’t have to be psychic to know it wasn’t going to be nearly as simple for me, but I had to try. I had nothing left to lose and everything to gain at this point.

Closing my eyes, I got as comfortable as possible in the plush chair. Focus on my breathing. Easy enough, right? I pulled on the breathing exercises I’d learned as a kid again. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Holding the number in my head and feeling each breath as it moved through my body turned out to be more helpful than expected.

Maybe with Ori’s help, I could get a firm grip on this and not have to worry Donovan anymore. When we’d gone to visit his family back in January, he’d been willing to cancel the whole trip for fear of me running into whatever ghosts haunted Chicago. How many people would back out of a trip to visit the family they hadn’t seen in months for the comfort of their new boyfriend?

Oh. This must be what Ori had meant about wandering thoughts.

Focus, Alex. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Pull your attention back. No judging, just counting.

I repeated the instructions over and over, focusing on each breath, holding the numbers in my head. To my surprise, it actually did get a little easier, and I was able to bring my wandering mind back fairly quickly. It felt like no time at all before Ori spoke, breaking the quiet.

“How was that?” they asked.

“Surprisingly, not bad.” I blinked, looking around the shop out of habit before turning back to Ori. “My mind kind of wandered at first, but I pulled it back. I feel more relaxed, too.”

“That’s great progress, Alex. The more you practice, the more you’ll be able to do it without even thinking about it. Did noticing your breathing help?”

“Yep. I counted out the seconds and it helped to give my brain something to hold on to. Guess all those panic attacks as a kid had to be good for something,” I joked, then immediately winced. Ori wasn’t used to my weird sense of humor like my friends were. Luckily, they just laughed.

“I get it. I’ve had anxiety almost as long as I’ve been able to understand what it was. A lot of the practices at managing it line up pretty well with mindfulness and meditation. It’s not a great trade-off, but sometimes, any win is better than nothing.”

“Completely agreed. So, how often should I do this?”

“As often as you feel comfortable doing it,” they said with a shrug. “You can start working on some of the crystals you picked out whenever you feel comfortable. The clear quartz would be a good one for when you’re focusing on mindfulness. You can put it in the room with you or hold it in your hand as a focus.”

“I was wondering about a few of them. That black one… I forget what it’s called?”

“The black tourmaline?”

I nodded. “That one. Someone used it to completely bar spirits from entering my house. If I kept it with me all the time, would that keep ghosts from being able to approach me?” I hated to ask, hated that a little part of me wished I could keep them away forever and not have to deal with this anymore, but I had to know.

“That depends,” Ori said slowly. “If you push those intentions toward the stone, it’ll likely do just that. I’ve seen others use it as a way to focus their abilities because it has a strong psychic connection. It really depends on what you want to do with it.”

“You keep mentioning all these ‘others’. Are there more people with abilities like me out in the world?”

Ori smiled. “Alex, there’s so much more out there than you can likely imagine. Their stories aren’t mine to share, though.”

“You are the most helpfully unhelpful person I’ve ever met,” I grumbled. I respected them for it and it was good to know Ori wouldn’t be telling the whole world about me, but it left my curiosity unsatisfied and that freaking sucked.

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” they laughed. “I think we’ve covered quite a bit today. I’m going to head over and relieve Micah of opening duties and let you get back to work. If you have any questions, stop by any time. You can text me if the shop is closed and it’s urgent.” They fished a battered business card out of their pocket and handed it to me.

“Thanks, Ori. I really appreciate all your help. I promise I’ll try to be more open-minded about all of this.”

“It’s a lot for anyone to take in. I’m happy to help however I can. That’s what friends do, right?”

They headed out into the cold with that, leaving me with a phone number, a mess of thoughts, and apparently a new friend.

Sundays were fucking weird.

***

By evening, a jittery anxiety had settled beneath my skin, leaving me on edge but also oddly despondent. My phone remained silent and every time I opened it to text Donovan, my brain shut down, leaving me staring at the blinking cursor until the screen went dark again. Since Donovan and I started dating, Sunday nights had become one of my favorite nights of the week. We would take turns cooking dinner, then settle in for a relaxed evening together. With us fighting and Charlie gone, this would be my first Sunday night alone in this house.

“Well, Louis, I guess it’s you and me tonight,” I said to the cat. Since Charlie passed on, I’d picked up the habit of talking to him when I was alone. He judged me pretty heavily for it, but tolerated it in exchange for extra treats that he certainly didn’t need.

“It’ll be fine. We’ll eat, then go to bed.” It would hardly be the end of the world. I’d eaten alone before, obviously. It’d just been a long time. From the first day I’d set foot in this house, I’d had Charlie and his nonstop running commentary on the world, life, and reality TV. Donovan filled the void when I lost Charlie, giving my thoughts no time to linger on the quiet.

It filled the house now, the silence nearly deafening. This place had never been meant for just one person. The open layout suited a busy family, not one man standing alone in the kitchen. When I’d been a teenager, the kitchen had been the heart of the place. My uncle David loved to cook and Lizzie loved to keep him company, so Brock and I usually spread out our homework on the kitchen table while David made dinner. My aunt would sit with us, ask about our days and listen to our problems, then distract her husband with hugs and silly stories. She loved music and, more than once, she’d dragged him away from the stove to dance around the tile floor. He’d just smile at her, spinning her around the room while her laughter filled the air.

Watching the two of them together made me believe that soulmates were real. The love they’d shared shone bright and proud and it fully encompassed me and my cousin. As a scared, traumatized twelve-year-old, I’d soaked up that love like a withered flower, slowly coming back to life under its warmth.

Years had passed now since anyone had danced in this kitchen. The scarred up old table sat empty most days, cluttered with old mail and the detritus of the day. Donovan and I usually ate in the living room now, or occasionally at the small island in the kitchen. We never sat at the table and for the life of me, I didn’t know why. Had part of me been avoiding it? Come to think of it, I hadn’t used it since I’d moved in. It seemed silly for one person to sit there, so I just didn’t. I’d never consciously meant for it to become a junk table, but that’s what happened, anyway.

Dinner forgotten, I focused on the table, suddenly anxious at the sight of old mail and bags of cat treats scattered across it. Years of memories, of laughter and dancing and light, buried under junk. I’d clean it up and then Donovan and I could start using it again. Besides, we’d need the space if his family came to visit this summer like we were planning. Surely we’d move past this by then, right?

I got to work on the pile of junk mail, filled with more drive than I’d had in a long time. As I sorted it, most of it going straight into the recycling, I focused on logistics. This house wasn’t huge, but we should be able to accommodate everyone. Donovan’s mother, Rose, could have my aunt and uncle’s old bedroom. Even though it was the biggest room in the house, I’d kept my childhood bedroom. It didn’t feel right to sleep in their old bed. David had taken everything when he’d moved, so it was just me being sentimental, but still.

Brock’s old room was the second largest and if I moved a futon or something in, that would be fine for two of his brothers. Aunt Lizzie had insisted on a tiny guest bedroom and that would fit whichever brother won the battle for his own room, if all three of them came.

Thinking of that little bedroom stopped me in my tracks, a few envelopes still in my hands.

“Louis?” I murmured. He’d perched on the kitchen island, out of the way of my sudden cleaning spree. He tilted his head when I spoke, which was good enough for me. “Charlie said Aunt Lizzie let him stay in the little apartment over the bookshop, but do you think he ever stayed in the guest room, too? I’ll bet she let him sleep there until he was back on his feet, then moved him over there.”

Abandoning the rest of the old mail on the table, I went to the guest room. Once upon a time, when the house was built, it’d probably been a workroom or office of some kind. It sat tucked off to the side, near the main bathroom. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone in, now that I thought about it. I had my routine and with the door shut, the room was out of sight, out of mind.

There was an old, musty scent when I opened the door now. Not an unpleasant smell, just stale air and neglect. It was as tiny as I remembered, with barely enough room for a full-size bed and a dresser. I recognized the quilt on the bed, the wild array of colors clearly marking it as one of Miss Penny’s creations. Penny Featherworth had been old when I moved here as a kid and yet didn’t seem to have aged a day since then. She made quilts out of whatever fabric she got her hands on and sold them at the farmer’s market and at every town event. On the rare occasion someone new moved to town, she gifted them one. New baby? Graduation? Death in the family? New quilt. I don’t think there was a house in town that didn’t have at least one of her blankets somewhere.

The dresser was empty when I checked the drawers and the minuscule closet held nothing but hangers and dust. An old shelf secured to the wall displayed a few books, likely overflow from the stuffed bookcases in the living room, but nothing personal. The only other furniture in the room was a small nightstand, tucked in the corner beside the bed, with an old glass lamp on it, one I remembered sitting on the living room end table years ago. I’d assumed David had taken it with him. Had it been in here the whole time?

My fingers left a trail in the thin coating of dust on the nightstand when I touched it, but the drawer slid open soundlessly. The drawer itself was shallow, barely deep enough to fit a book. It was, however, the perfect size to hold a tattered spiral-bound notebook. Cracks and creases marred the faded green cover, one corner completely torn off while the others were dog-eared and worn. Whoever this belonged to, they’d handled it extensively.

“It’s probably Brock’s.” Even saying it out loud didn’t make me believe it. There was absolutely no reason anything of my cousin’s would be in the guest bedroom. There might be a slight chance it belonged to my aunt, but that felt even more unbelievable. As far as I knew, this room had sat untouched for almost a decade now.

I couldn’t explain the shake in my hands when I carefully drew the notebook out or the pain in my chest when I touched the cover. It was just paper bound by cheap cardboard, but I knew it was more than that. I could almost feel the desperate longing and aching loneliness of whoever the notebook belonged to. It didn’t make sense, and I’d never felt anything like it before, but the feelings wouldn’t go away.

Steeling myself, I opened the front cover. The first page was nearly blank, but the sight of my aunt’s messy cursive at the top stole the breath from my lungs. Tears stung my eyes before I even read the words, and I had to blink them away before I could continue.

I lasted exactly one word.

‘Charlie.’

“Fuck,” I breathed, staring up at the ceiling and battling the urge to cry. I’d been prepared to see bits and pieces of Charlie’s life, but not my aunt’s. Stupid, really, since she’d clearly been an important part of his life. It took a few slow breaths to battle back the grief enough for me to continue.

‘Charlie, I know you’re dealing with a lot right now. I won’t push you to talk about it if you’re not ready, but maybe writing it down will help? Sometimes, just seeing the problem laid out on paper helps me figure out what to do. This notebook is yours and yours alone. If you decide to use it, you could leave it on the kitchen table surrounded by flashing neon signs and I’ll never open it. The last few days have been a lot to take in and I hope this can help even a little bit. If nothing else, it’ll make some killer paper airplanes! ~Lizzie Rowencourt.’

I choked on a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Aunt Lizzie’s sincerity shone in every word, and I knew she meant every bit of it, including the paper airplanes. At some point, she’d taken Charlie into her home just like she’d taken me in. What I didn’t understand was why she’d never told me. Sure, I hadn’t visited as often as I would have liked once I moved out and went to college, but we talked on the phone at least four times a week, usually more, and never once had she mentioned anyone staying there with them.

The next page held another short paragraph, written in shaky printing. Charlie never told me exactly what happened and why he died, only that he’d made bad choices, but from the way his letters sometimes ran together and the lines shook, I had a feeling I knew. What he wrote only confirmed it.

‘I don’t know why I’m bothering to write in this. She says it will help, but I doubt it. Nothing will. At least no one can find me while I’m here, not that they’d bother to look. Everything is such a mess. I don’t know why I keep screwing everything up like this. I don’t want to, but I can’t seem to stop. I thought it would be easier with Vanessa helping, but she couldn’t stay clean, so what hope do I have of getting through this?

This is the worst. The stuff they gave me at the hospital helped, but it’s all worn off and now I just feel sick. I can’t stop shaking. Will Lizzie let me stay here if I puke all over the bed? I’m only doing this for her sake. She literally saved my life, so now I have to at least try, right? Even when I mess up, at least I can say that I tried.’

The entry ended there, the last few words so faint I could barely read them. Those hopeless, beaten-down words weren’t the Charlie Taggert I knew. I’d spent six years with him and his snarky sarcasm and biting wit. How had someone so vibrant ended up so defeated? Which was the real Charlie?

There were more entries. I could make out writing through the thin paper, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn the page. The anxiety that had kept me on edge all night deserted me, leaving behind only exhaustion and a dull apathy. I was done with this day. Completely and utterly done.

I hesitated a moment before sliding the journal back into the nightstand. Taking it out of the room just didn’t feel right.

Food forgotten, my phone still sitting on the coffee table, I stumbled to bed. Screw this day. Screw this whole week, actually. I’d deal with everything tomorrow.