Good Spirits (Ghosted, #1)

by B.K. Borison

My aunt Matilda used to tell me there are few things that can’t be solved with a shift in perspective and some shiny new trinkets.

I’ve wondered if I worked hard enough at my bruised and broken bits, if I could be shiny again, too. I’ve wondered if anyone might ever see me as something precious.

On the first day of December, the universe gave to me— A string of bad luck and a . . .ghost, apparently.

“I don’t know. This is the location I’ve been assigned.” I scratch at my jaw. “Probably because you Americans need more haunting than most.”

A lifetime of letting people down and not being the right thing cracked me right open, and all my hurt spilled out.

“Are you referring to your undergarments masquerading as pajamas or the tiny, malevolent spirit residing in your doorbell?”

Her thick eyelashes are a fan across the tops of her cheeks and the tip of her nose is pink from the cold. Her coat is pink, too. She looks like cotton candy over there. But, fuck, she’s pretty.

I want to make sure she’s okay. I don’t think she has anyone to make sure she’s okay.

“My cat hurt her paw,” he finally says. I blink into the darkness. “What?” “My cat,” he says again, slower this time. “Builín. She hurt her paw.” “You have a cat?” “Yes.” He nods. “I told you I take care of the strays.” “Taking care of the strays is different from I have a cat.” “Not to me.” He pauses. “They’re the only company I can keep. I want to make sure they’re doing well.” Well, that’s . . .cute.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to help. That’s not the reason I’m alone.” She pauses. Swallows. Her eyes turn glassy and wet. “You don’t have to be cruel,” she finishes with a whisper. “I don’t want your help. I never asked for it. You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I explain.

“I’m going to go,” she says, once she’s collected all her supplies. When she turns, she barely makes eye contact. I’m so used to her expressive face watching my every move, that the sudden absence of her attention feels like a tether that’s been cut. A light that’s been snuffed out. She forces a tight smile, her gaze stuck somewhere around my neck. “I’m sure I’ll see you in a day or two.” She doesn’t wait for a response. She shuffles past me to the entrance of the closet, then pauses for a moment, her head turned halfway. “I’m glad your cat is okay,” she whispers. She leaves without another word, keeping the door to the storage closet open. I stay behind in the dark, staring hard at the place she just was. Even when I’ve lashed out and done my best to hurt her the way I’ve been hurting, she rises above it to be the better person. Muffled voices drift from the front of the shop. Low conversation and then a burst of laughter. I yank on my magic as soon as I hear Harriet’s low, raspy chuckle spinning its way through the shelves to the tiny closet at the back. I don’t want to hear it. I’m not sure I deserve to.

Because not even the people who are supposed to love me can find a way to do it. Because I’m so fucking tired of trying, only to come up short. All the time.

This is familiar territory. I know how to hold myself up against disappointment. I’ve been left behind by every person who has ever mattered. A forgotten thing, just like the treasures I keep stocked on my shelves.

“Why are you following me?” I snap. “I go where you go, Harriet,” he replies.

“You’re the first thing in a hundred years to make me feel anything at all, Harriet York, and I don’t think that’s an accident.”

“You haven’t let me see a single dress,” I say. “No one said you’d get to see the dresses.” “It was implied.” “By who?” By me, I think wistfully, and this ache in my chest. This . . .longing I can’t seem to get rid of. I haven’t wanted anything in decades, but I think I want you.

“You used your magic,” I whisper, delighted. He nods, his nose brushing against mine. “I did.” “Why?” “Because I wanted an excuse.” I barely dare to breathe. “For what?” “For this,” he says. And then he ducks his head and kisses me.

“I could spend an eternity studying you and still not know what you might do next. You give so much of yourself, so freely. You’re . . .wild with your attentions. Miraculous. I’ve seen so many lives, Harriet, but I’ve never seen someone live like you.”

“What a gift that is. To still wish and dream and want. To find the good. To wear it on your sleeve.”

“Is there a word for what this is?” he says. His eyes hold mine. “Because if there is, I’m not familiar with it. I think about you all day long. I fall into a sleep I don’t need and I dream of you. Of your smile, and your laugh, and the way your mouth tastes. The sounds you make. I wake up wondering where you are, how you’re feeling, and I hope—” His eyes search mine. “I hope you’re thinking of me. You make me hope, Harriet. You make me want. I am haunted by you.” He slips his hand around my neck, his palm squeezing at my nape. “Do not mistake me for a good man. I am not here out of some misplaced sense of honor or duty. I demand your attention and I desire your affection.”

“The compass was never your unfinished business.” Matilda plucks her mug back up from the table. Builín hops from my lap and returns to her, winding between her legs. “Harriet was,” she says.

“Have you ever wondered why you remain a ghost, despite fulfilling every request I’ve ever asked of you?” I remain quiet. “You’ve been waiting, Nolan.” Something uncharacteristically tender and soft transforms Isabella’s harsh features. “You’ve been waiting for Harriet. To exist in the same time as her. Your souls were together in the beginning, and so they shall be in the end.”

“You’re telling me I was forced to exist in another time without the woman I—” I swallow down the word, not willing to say it to anyone who isn’t Harriet first. My hands clench into fists and I try again. “I’ve lived lifetimes, waiting, without reason or warning. I’ve been miserable. And you call me lucky?” Isabella fixes me with an impenetrable look. “And now that you know, how many lifetimes more would you wait? For your Harriet?” My frustration leaves me in a rush. I’m suddenly exhausted. Tired to my very bones. “As many as it took,” I answer. “However long.”

“Hello, Harriet.” I drop the box. He swallows, looking nervous. His hand pushes through his hair in a move so achingly familiar I could cry. “You might not remember, but we’ve met before. I—” I don’t wait for him to finish the rest of his sentence. I launch myself at him, my arms around his neck and my knees hugging at his hips. His arms snap around me immediately, tugging me higher against his chest, one hand fisting in my hair. “I remember,” I say, my voice too high, my mouth busy pressing frantic kisses to his chin, his jaw, the little hollow beneath his ear. “Of course, I remember.” “Fuck,” he whispers, emphatic, his face somewhere in my hair. “Harriet. God, Harriet. I’ve missed you.”

through my hair, a laugh rumbling in his chest as he rubs at my back. “I don’t think we need to understand.” He rocks us back and forth. “It was you, Harriet. You are the one I’ve been waiting for. You were never supposed to move me forward, you were supposed to hold me here. Keep me tethered.” He presses his forehead to mine. “It was always supposed to be you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Harriet.” He brushes a kiss to my bottom lip, the dip in my chin, the hollow of my throat. His hand finds my jaw and he holds me steady. “I’ll see you the tomorrow after that, and the one after that, and the one after that.”

“I’ll be with you for every tomorrow you allow, and I suspect a time after that, too.” I curl my hands around his wrists, holding on. “Are you sure?” He nods. “The unfinished business I have is with you, Harriet York. You better get used to having me around.” I sniffle. “Haunting me?” “No.” He smiles. “Loving you.”