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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.
Homesick, or something like it. A tug beneath my breastbone for something I couldn’t reach. Something I couldn’t even name
Missing her still feels like a heavy stone in the middle of my chest. I’m too sentimental to part with anything that makes me think of her.
He scrubs his hand against the back of his head, then drags his palm down the line of his jaw. I can hear the way his scruff scrapes against his skin. It’s a middle-of-the-night sound, paired best with rustling sheets and bedroom whispers. Wind at the windows and hands tracing over sleep-warm skin. I pinch the inside of my wrist so hard I suck in air through my teeth. This is what happens when I don’t get proper sleep. My brain starts wandering down alleyways it has no business traveling. I start thinking inappropriately about ghosts
I thought I’d drifted away from the little girl in the red dress with the wild hair, but I think I’m the same as I’ve always been. Impulsive. Fanciful. Messy. A disappointment.
I want to make sure she’s okay. I don’t think she has anyone to make sure she’s okay.
but I think I wanted to prove that it was okay to do things by myself. That I could want something and deserve to have it. That even if it ended up being hard, it would be worth it.”
Her laugh is a whisper against my neck. My skin prickles in awareness.
The ferocious, yawning ache in the middle of my chest. There’s no other explanation as to why I reach for her, cupping her face in my hand so I can gather the heavy streak of sugared fig just under her chin. Her skin is warm and the jam is warm, too. Sticky. A complete and total mess. I lift my finger to my mouth and suck it off. The taste is muted, but there. Sweet and tart. A sharp burst that sparks, then fades. It’s the closest I’ve come to experiencing a flavor in decades. I immediately want more.
How much of me has been twisted by the people I’ve been haunting? How much of myself have I lost?
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.
I’m holding on to my frustration with a white-knuckled grip. I’m so tired of people treating me like I’m dispensable, like my feelings don’t matter. That if the reality of me doesn’t line up with their expectations, I’m not worth their time or effort.
“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. But I want to try something new where I don’t immediately fold for the comfort of someone else.
I turn away again, busying myself with the magnets on my fridge. I arrange them in a smiley face, hoping that maybe if I try hard enough, I might feel it, too.
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.
The gala is far enough away for me to still have time to stitch my armor together. I’ll pull it together in time. I always do.
What other things have I forgotten? What else has time taken from me?
“Things are changing. I can feel them changing. It’s like—it’s like the sky, yeah? Right before it snows. When the night is holding its breath and everything feels heavy. When it’s not truly dark, but—something else. A lantern behind the clouds. That’s what I feel like. Like a lantern has been lit. I don’t know how else to describe it.”
“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.
She looks like something carved out of marble. Like something that deserves to be worshipped.
“She just—she meant a lot to me. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her.”
My aunt Matilda laughs and tears immediately burn at the backs of my eyes. Across the bridge of my nose. It’s been so long since I heard that sound and my memory of it is watered down at best. Like looking through a frosted window or trying to see to the bottom of a lake. I have the impression of it, but the reality, the sound of her, here, in this place, it’s— It’s a gift. It’s a gift I thought I’d lost.
It hurts, but it’s the good sort of hurt. There’s so much I’ve forgotten.
It’s so easy, watching like this, to pretend that she’s another person. But that girl is still a part of me. Her hurts are my hurts, buried deep beneath the bandages I’ve made for myself.
We watch my aunt and the teenage version of myself cling to each other in the melting daylight and I let myself feel every inch of the grief I so rarely indulge in. But for the first time in a long time, there’s a light shimmering just beneath it. A reminder that I can remember without it hurting so bad. That I carry pieces of Aunt Matilda around with me everywhere I go. That I stand in the same place she did, every day, and I can still see her in the fingerprints she left on 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
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“You look like a dream,” he murmurs. “You don’t dream.” I laugh. “I do. I dream of you.” His voice is low. “Every time I close my eyes, it’s you I see. You I want.”
“The dress code states tuxedos.” “Lord Jesus and all the saints,” he mutters. “Fine.” “There will be Christmas carols. Socialization. I wanted to spare you.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m already dead, Harriet. One night of socialization is hardly an inconvenience.” “You love the dead jokes.” “Not a joke.” A smile lifts one corner of his mouth. “I’m dead serious.”
“Maybe I was always supposed to find you,” I rasp. Maybe, my heart adds, you were always supposed to be mine.
I didn’t realize I’d already been missing her for more than a hundred years. Now I’m going to miss her for an afterlife more.
I don’t know if I’m furious or amazed that we’ve both managed to be hurt so profoundly by the exact same thing. Maybe a combination of both.
“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.” “Good answer,” Matilda says from her cozy armchair.
“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.”
