Ghosting

by Tash Skilton

  “Uh, sure . . .” He seems unnerved. His gaze flutters over mine and I smile like a madwoman.

  After they leave, Miles lets out a whistle.

  “Too much?” I ask.

  “You told her her life is a Halloween costume.”

  “It is! You dodged a bullet.”

  He rubs the bridge of his nose and I fear I’ve gone too far. After all, there’s a good chance he wanted the bullet. Er, bullets. And even if he didn’t or doesn’t, it still must have stung like hell to see his ex-fiancée and her cheating partner saunter in.

  “You didn’t have to . . .” He trails off.

  I look away, hoping he doesn’t see the blush that’s crept across my cheeks. “It’s nothing. You helped me, I helped you.”

  Neither of us speaks, and then both of us do.

  “Look—what you said about—”

  “Anyway,” I interrupt brightly, “my work here is done, so I’ll leave you to it.” I offer him a gentle smile and stand.

  “Stay.”

  We look at each other.

  “I think Evelynn would be pissed,” he clarifies. “I mean, now that she’s seen the table seat four people, if I pare it down to one, that’d be a serious waste of space.”

  For the next two hours we work side by side. Every once in a while, I look up, only to see him glance away.

  Every time he shifts in his seat, adjusts his notebook or laptop, or gets up for something, my breath halts and my heart pounds. I don’t order any food because I can still taste the powdered sugar from our kiss and I want it to stay that way.

  * * *

  That evening, as I’m unlocking the door to my apartment, a noise within halts me in my tracks. Paralyzed, I can only watch as the knob turns from the other side.

  Fear turns to relief as Mary flings the door open, her smile wide. She wears a Black Keys T-shirt, tartan capelet, and stirrup pants, her fingers clutching the stem of a martini glass. Which is a bit alarming, considering I don’t own any, nor do I own the ingredients for any kind of cocktail; did she . . . walk out of a bar with it?

  Without missing a beat, she asks, “What’s a better title for my one-woman show: Fin and Tonics, or Legless and Loving It?”

  “How about A Good Merman Is Hard to Find?”

  “I’ve missed you, kid.”

  She pulls me into a hug and I sink into her embrace, my throat tightening with the effort to hold in a sob.

  I pull away before I succumb to tears. “What are you doing here?”

  I walk inside, close and lock the door behind me, and set my laptop bag down.

  “Got the greenlight for my one-woman show. But more importantly, Nana asked me to bring you something,” she replies.

  We sit on the couch and Mary riffles through her bag. There’s no luggage anywhere, so clearly she’s not planning to spend the night. From her bag she retrieves an aluminum-foil–wrapped object and offers it to me.

  “Bibingka!” I peel it open and gaze adoringly at it. “Thank you for not eating it. Your restraint is appreciated.” I display no such restraint and shove half the treat in my mouth.

  “Why would I have eaten it?” Mary asks. “She made it for you.”

  “Tell that to my parents,” I say around the mouthful I’m chewing.

  “Huh. That explains why Nana referred to it as ‘the backup.’ ” She drains her glass—I still don’t know where it, or its contents, came from—and regards me over the rim of her spectacles. “Were you alone on the big three-oh?”

  “No, actually, I . . .”

  Her eyes widen and I quickly change the subject. “When did you start wearing glasses?” I ask.

  She used to say she’d rather get hit by a bus than give up her contact lenses.

  “I don’t need them to see,” she assures me, a twinkle in her eye. “It’s a shorthand, alerts people to my intelligence.”

  I grin. “A warning beacon, good idea.”

  “Who’d you spend your birthday with?” she asks. I should’ve known I couldn’t deflect her that easily.

  “No one. Just Miles, from next door.” I flap my hand toward the shared wall.

  She taps her chin. “Miles, right, the new tenant. Decent writer. I approve.”

  “There’s nothing to approve!”

  “Your lips say no but your eyes say oh, yes.”

  “My eyes say nothing of the sort.” My lips were too busy kissing him.

  “I’ve got all night,” Mary threatens, settling into the couch cushions and placing her stolen (?) martini glass on the side table. “You can’t kick me out of my own property so you may as well spill the juicy details.”

  “We go to the same café, that’s all,” I reluctantly acknowledge. “It’s across the street. And he came to dinner with my parents.”

  “Why?”

  “Like I said, he lives next door.”

  “Lives next door, goes to the same café . . . Sounds convenient. Reminds me of Nick, Mr. Fresh Hot Dick delivered straight to your door—”

  “Oh my God!” I’m blushing furiously now. “Nick was not—delivered straight to my door. It was your door.”

  “You didn’t have to go anywhere, get dolled up, or exert any effort whatsoever. You think I didn’t notice you two getting handsy? God forbid you meet someone who doesn’t come to you on command, who’s not willing to fit into your schedule—”

  “I can’t even follow this conversation, so . . .”

  “How’s your broken foot?” she asks, concern etched on her face.

  “My toe? It’s been better, I’ll say that.”

  “What are you taking for it?”

  Without waiting for a response, she moves to the bathroom, her plaid capelet flapping behind her. Next thing I hear is the sound of a medicine cabinet being opened and pillaged.

  “Groan. Is this all you have? Dammital?” she calls out.

  Dammital is her nickname for tramadol, a synthetic painkiller that’s not up to her standards, apparently. “I’ll send you something better once I get back to LA.” She makes a toking motion.

  “Please don’t,” I beg. “I’ll get thrown in jail.”

  She gasps and I follow her gaze to Bree’s Undersea DVD on the bookshelf.

  She picks up the DVD and shakes it at me. “I let you out of my sight for two seconds and this is what you do? You’re tainted now.”

  “I had to watch it for a job,” I answer defensively.

  “Any job that requires this is not a good job.”

  “It’s the only job I could get! Because you fired me!” I burst out.

  “No, I relocated you. For your own good—”

  “I don’t even know what that means! I was happy in LA!”

  She studies me. “Were you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you happy about, specifically?”

  “The beach,” I blurt out.

  “The beach, right. Which one? Venice? Santa Monica? Ventura?”

  “Santa Monica,” I answer, unaware I’ve walked into a trap.

  “Santa Monica, of course! The one closest to you. When’s the last time you went?”

  “Fine,” I grouse. “I miss the Getty.”

  “Oh really? You must have seen the exhibit on medieval beasts. How was it? Tell me everything.”

  “Fine, the Hollywood Bowl!”

  “I know for a fact you haven’t gone there in years. Nick asked you to go, and you could have gone, but you said no, like you said no to everything that wasn’t work. I won’t be your excuse anymore,” she says. “I won’t be the reason you don’t make plans, or put yourself out there, or risk anything with anybody.”

  “I’m so sorry I was a good assistant,” I snap. “I’m so sorry I took my position seriously and worked hard to help you.”

  “You want to talk about work?” she responds calmly. “Okay, let’s talk about the script you’re writing.”

  Shit.

  “I’m still settling in,” I protest.

  She looks
around. “I don’t see any new pictures on the wall. No new shower curtain, no kitchenware, it’s almost like nobody lives here.”

  “Look, I—”

  “You’ve been here over two months. You must have something to show for it?” she prompts.

  “The script’s . . . not really flowing,” I say. “I keep starting and stopping and then changing my mind. Nothing’s coming together.”

  “Get out of the house,” she suggests. “Find a new place to write, it’ll reset your brain.”

  “Yeah, like I said, there’s a café—”

  “Not the place across the street. Not the place Miles goes, not the place you’ve been going every day. A new place.”

  “I can’t,” I whisper.

  Her expression shifts from frustrated to gentle. “Why the fuck not?” she asks kindly. She’s always wielded curses differently from other people, using them to soften her words instead of underline them.

  “I’m not scared of traveling,” I insist, my parents’ condemnation still rattling around in my brain. “I’m not scared of change.”

  “What, then?”

  “The subway. It’s the goddamn subway. It reminds me of Indonesia.”

  The look she gives me is so pitying that I want to turn away, take the words back. Because unlike my parents, she remembers what that means and how it affects me. “I know how stupid it is,” I go on. “I know it doesn’t make sense that I never had this problem in LA, I know it shouldn’t bother me here, but knowing it and feeling it are two different things—I can’t explain. I’m sorry.” I trail off and force back my tears.

  “Different city, same problem,” Mary says to herself. “Aw, kid. Come here.”

  She leans forward and gives me a long hug. The sob I’ve been suppressing since I walked in unleashes itself and tumbles out. I press my head into her shoulder and she pats my back and smooths my hair.

  “I can’t believe your one-woman show is happening and you didn’t tell me,” I tell her soggily, pulling away.

  “I’m telling you now. I’ll be here on and off for the next two months, scouting theaters and rehearsing. Hope that doesn’t cramp your style?”

  I wipe the last of my tears away. “Do you have the play with you? Need a pair of fresh eyes for it?”

  She frowns. “Ones that haven’t been crying, for example? You don’t need to concern yourself with that.”

  “Can I see it?” I crane my neck to look inside her bag.

  She retrieves the script but holds it close to her chest. “I don’t think it’s a good use of your time. I don’t want notes, I don’t want feedback. You’re not on the clock.”

  “I’ll read it for fun. It’ll be my birthday present.”

  “My visit’s not enough of a gift for you?” she teases.

  I hold out my hand.

  She reluctantly hands over the loosely bound pages.

  “Help me decide,” she says, at the door. “Should I spend the night with my first husband or my second one?”

  “They’re the same person,” I remind her, an old bit of ours.

  “Are you sure? They felt like different people. Or maybe I felt like a different person.”

  She married Geoffrey the first time in 1986 and the second time in 2008, specifically November fifth. They were optimistic about Obama. By the time I started working for her, they’d separated—again—but I guess whenever they’re in the same city they forget why.

  We say our good-byes, after making plans to meet up when she has free time later in the week.

  I curl up on the couch to read.

  The first line is begging for a punch-up. I know I told her I wouldn’t make notes, but . . .

  I cross out “A stew of regrets” in her opening monologue and change it to, “Regrets, I’ve had a stew” so she can sing it as a satire of Sinatra’s “My Way,” which I’ve retitled “My Waves.” Mary’s got a killer singing voice few people know about, so why not highlight it? Before I can stop myself, I’ve altered the lyrics of the song so they correspond to Mary’s experiences.

  * * *

  Regrets, I’ve had a stew,

  And most of them were underwater.

  I did what I had to do, even if two films were slaughtered.

  And though, I enraged some nerds, and studio heads along the byway.

  But so what? I punched the doc

  And did it myyyyy waves

  * * *

  Before I look up, it’s one a.m., I’m on my third pass-through, and I have no intention of stopping.

  CHAPTER 23

  MILES

  Zoey and I are still kissing. We’ve never stopped kissing. My hand keeps brushing against her dimple until I can’t take it anymore and I move my lips there to kiss the perfect little well it makes in her cheek. My fingers move into her not-quite-brown, not-quite-blond hair.

  Wait. It’s not Zoey at all. Her hair is now fully blond. Actually, it’s up in an elaborate triangular-shaped hairdo that throws my entire frame into permanent shadow.

  Now I’m not kissing Bree either, but a faceless bridesmaid in a poufy pink dress at Charles and Dylan’s wedding. Except that Charles and Dylan don’t have any bridesmaids. Only groomsmen.

  “Flight attendants. Please prepare for landing.”

  I finally wake up before my brain has tricked me into thinking I’m making out with an air hostess too. My neck feels like it’s been glued around someone else’s for at least two days. Moving it is going to hurt like a bitch, but I have to do it. I let out a groan as I roll it around. The elderly woman sitting on my right purses her lips at me in disapproval. Hopefully, I wasn’t doing anything that made it obvious I was having hot, but also mildly disturbing, kissing dreams. The thirteen-year-old kid to my left has his headphones in and has been playing video games this whole time, so at least I won’t be accused of corrupting any young minds. (Though judging by what little I can see of his game, it looks like it might be dirtier than anything my thirty-one-year-old brain can dream up anyway.)

  I look past the older woman out the window and see the flat landscape, brown faux Tuscan-style architecture, and bright blue backyard pool rectangles of Fort Lauderdale drawing ever closer.

  I purchased my ticket at one a.m. last night, which is how I ended up in the middle seat. I hadn’t been able to sleep. Suddenly, the thought of Zoey and her surprising lips being just a thin wall away from me was too much to bear. It didn’t help that I could hear what sounded like a lot of laughter coming from her apartment—and I didn’t think it was her television. If I let myself think too hard about it, I was sure I’d convince myself that it was tinged with flirtiness too. She was with someone.

  Why should I care?

  It was a disturbing cycle of thought that was never going to end until I went online, purchased the ticket, and decided to remove myself from the situation as quickly as possible.

  I texted my mom at seven thirty this morning with a Surprise! I’m due to land in three hours. She was ecstatic. It made me smile too. After all, I had promised to visit them before the summer was up. I was just fulfilling my prodigal son duties, not running away from . . . whatever.

  I was already at my departure gate when Leanne’s e-mails came through. I had no idea I’d be her emergency contact so I just hoped nothing came up for the two hours I was in the air, especially since I’d neglected to tell my boss that I’d be out of town for a few days. But, then again, isn’t the beauty of working remotely that there is no out-of-town/out-of-office to worry about? I check my inbox as soon as I land and am relieved to see it devoid of anything urgent.

  Mom’s grinning face and four layered paisley scarves are waiting for me when I exit the terminal. She runs over and sweeps me into a hug. My dad grasps me next, his three pens digging into my chest as he proves that smothering is yet another thing they have in common. “You are finally home.” Just like the guilt trips.

  I grin back at them though. I can’t help it. Even though I’ve never personally lived in Florida
, I am finally home. Because despite all the culture and grit and coolness factor New York has going for it . . . it doesn’t hold a candle to the feeling of my mom’s fringed scarf brushing against my shoulder as she keeps her arm around me while they lead me out of the airport.

  * * *

  As always, my parents’ house is set to a frigid forty-seven degrees. I dig through the drawers of the guest room for the Mickey Mouse sweatshirt I dropped off here a few years ago on my stopover from Disney World to see my parents with Gemma (she was a bit of a Disney freak). It’s a little tight in the shoulders. Huh. Guess I wasn’t as into working out when I was with Gemma; that might have been a part of Jordan’s world that I’d gotten sucked into. Though, unlike the fanaticism about the Mouse House, maybe this routine would stick.

  I wonder what habit Zoey is into that I could pick up?

  Wait, what?

  I groan. One damn kiss and rom-com Miles is back and ready to fall in love at the drop of a hat.

  “Love is stupid,” I mutter sulkily as I slip onto the stool at my parents’ breakfast counter.

  My mom visibly perks up. “Are we ready to talk about Jordan now?” she asks as she slides a heaping plate of veggie omelet in front of me.

  “I never liked her,” my dad says as he brings over a tall glass of orange juice and sets it by my plate.

  “Yes, you did,” I respond. “You both did.” I point to one, then the other with my fork accusingly before digging into my late breakfast.

  They look at each other before Mom takes the reins. “Well, maybe. But only because we thought she made you happy. And because she was about to be our daughter-in-law. Retroactively, we can hate her, right?”

  I think it over. “I guess it would be the appropriate parental response.”

  My parents nod triumphantly. “Now, drink up,” Baba says as he points at my glass. “It’s fresh-squeezed.”

  “Of course it is.” I take a sip. “Why else would you live in Florida?”

  I focus on my plate but from my peripheral vision, I can see my parents eyeing each other with the shorthand they’ve honed over forty-six years. I bet it’ll be my mom who speaks . . .