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On the first day of December, the universe gave to me— A string of bad luck and a . . .ghost, apparently.
This house is a disaster, but . . .festive, I suppose. A festive disaster.
There’s no point in a costume, really, when my appearance out of thin air usually does the trick. I’m not about to start wearing a long white cloak for the drama of it all. Though perhaps I should. It might speed things along. A note for next time.
“And your voice. What’s going on with that?” I arch an eyebrow. “My accent?” She nods. “I died Irish.”
Everyone expected more from the youngest York, a sentiment that has more or less followed me for the duration of my life. I’ve always been better on paper.
“Ah,” he says. “That’s right. You thought I was a fantasy that first night.” His eyes flash with something cocky and knowing. “I’m your dream man.”
Pajamas. Those flimsy shorts with the slit in the side were not pajamas. She was wearing a garment constructed by the devil, designed specifically to bring men to their knees.
I’ve given all of myself to the people around me, broken myself down into minuscule pieces to try to be exactly what everyone else has needed. I’ve tried to shape myself to other people’s expectations, but it’s only ever left me broken in the end.
A dream. It was a dream. For the first time in over a century, I had a dream. And I dreamed of Harriet. “Fuck,” I mutter.
“You can’t buy my forgiveness with overpriced holiday drinks.” That’s a lie. My forgiveness can absolutely be bought with overpriced holiday drinks, especially if he remembered to get whipped cream on top.
I painted my toes bright red last night because it made me feel good. Because I’ve always been able to make my own happiness when the people around me decide I’m not worth the trouble.
He looks imposing. Like he took on some of the sea when he died, and now it roils around inside of him.
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.
Her anger has melted into something softer, more malleable. While it’s what I wanted, I’m not sure it makes me feel better. I think Harriet waters her feelings down to make them easier for others to deal with. If she’s mad, I want her to be mad. If she’s sad, I want her to be sad.
“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.”
“I think you’re bringing me back to life, Harriet.” “That’s a ridiculous statement.” He shrugs his shoulders. Barely half an inch. “Not if it’s true.”
“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.
“I can’t wear this.” I stop trying to count the freckles across the slope of her shoulder. “Says who?” Her nose wrinkles. “My mother. And the previously mentioned dress code.” “Do you always do as she says?” “Yes,” Harriet replies simply. “I do as everyone says. It’s a defining character trait.”
“We can get on the road, or we could grab some lunch first. Whatever you prefer.” “Lunch?” “I’m told that’s a thing people do.” She’s quiet for the stretch of three heartbeats. “It’s a thing people do,” she finally says. I laugh into my fist. “I’d like to be a person with you, Harriet.”
I drowned in the ocean once and I think I could just as easily drown in Harriet. Sink down into her and lose myself for days.
Christ. She looks like something carved out of marble. Like something that deserves to be worshipped.
I’m slowly deteriorating into the worst version of myself. Perhaps this is hell, and my punishment is wanting a woman I cannot possibly have.
“All men are stupid, darling, but teenage boys take the cake.”
She tastes like peppermint. Like peppermint and the first bite of a fresh orange, juice sliding over my chin. I work my mouth against hers, too hungry for the taste of her to take my time.
“Your heart,” he says against my skin. “This foolish, beautiful thing. It’s been bruised, hasn’t it?”
“Do you want—” “Yes,” I cut her off immediately. Her smile tips wider, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “I didn’t finish my sentence.” “I don’t care.” “I could say I want to go ice skating again.” Her eyes shine in amusement. “I could say I want to go cut down a Christmas tree.” “Whatever you want.”
She makes me feel all sorts of things I have no business feeling.
“Is it a hickey?” she continues. “Sasha.” “He has one, too. Did you make out with this hot man?” She pauses, shifting incrementally closer. “He has a mustache,” she says, scandalized. Maybe a little enamored.
“This is better,” he says. “I like it better when you smile.” “Then don’t make me frown.”
“You’ve never read Dickens?” “A Christmas Carol? Aye, I’ve read it.” “And?” “And I thought it was boring when I was alive. My opinion hasn’t changed in death.”
“I always preferred The Muppet Christmas Carol version. There’s something oddly captivating about Miss Piggy.”
Remember who you are, Harriet. And remember you’re not alone.”
Of course I had to fall in love with a ghost. I’ve always loved the broken and forgotten things best.
Sasha hitches her thumb over her shoulder. “I’m going to go catch up on my reading while pretending I’m counting inventory. Yell if you need me.” “At least you’re honest,” I call after her.
“I think Mom struggled to understand you, and it was hard for her when Matilda got it right on the first try. I’m not making excuses for her, but I think she felt she lost you before she ever had you.”
It’s like Nolan’s reached above my head and fixed that busted light bulb in the supply closet. I’m seeing everything from an angle I haven’t before. Light in all my dark corners, discovering the forgotten things.
knife in my side. I was sent to haunt Harriet, but she ended up haunting me.
“I am of the understanding that we have a mutual acquaintance,” Matilda says. Her face softens. “How’s my girl?” I lean forward in my seat, my elbows resting on my knees. “She’s a mess,” I answer, voice breaking. “Color everywhere. A laugh that’s just a shade too loud. Painfully addicted to candy canes.” I pause. “As lovely on the inside as she is on the outside.” I miss her so much.
“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?”
She’s been waiting for you her entire life, and you’ve been searching for her just as long.”
Hope is a wild, fickle thing.
“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.”
I hope you’ll come back for another visit to the Department of Hauntings and Spirits. I heard a rumor there’s a Reaper on the loose.
