Ghosting You

by Alexander C. Eberhart

  “Ditto, dummy. I’ve got to get back to it. Call me tonight.”

  “Done.”

  Our call ends with three short beeps. I open the cryptic message one last time, scanning over the number and hoping something sparks.

  Nothing.

  It’s a wrong number. I’m sure of it. Definitely not some psychopath who’s lurking outside my window right now, waiting for me to go downstairs so that he can sneak in and sniff my underwear before hiding in my closet and stabbing me thirty-seven times in my sleep.

  Wow. Really let that one get away from me.

  I shake the spooks and crawl out of bed. Ma’s already sitting at the dining table when I make it downstairs. She doesn’t even look up from her laptop as I walk into the kitchen. A huge wooden bowl of mixed veggies sits on the counter, just begging to be put out of its misery. I scoop as much as I can stomach onto my plate.

  Ma looks like she’s finally found her groove, so I set my excuse for dinner on the counter and saddle up on a stool.

  Another night of Ma and Me. I wonder how many episodes of Nailed It! I can get through before I pass out.

  Three brussels sprouts and a carrot later, my phone buzzes. I don’t recognize the number, but I’m almost comatose with boredom at this point, so I answer.

  “Yello?”

  “Nicholas?”

  I suck in a breath and choke on a string bean.

  “H-Hey, Dad.” I wipe the tears from my eyes and have a full-blown coughing fit.

  “Catch you at a bad time?”

  “Not at all,” I croak, blinking away any residual moisture. “What’s up?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” he says. I can hear the clinking of glasses in the background. No doubt he’s calling during a dinner meeting. That’s a good thing. He’ll be pressed for time.

  “Not much,” I say, looking over to Ma. She’s too in-the-zone to notice that I was dying a few seconds ago. Her noise-canceling headphones block out distractions, airplane noise, and suffocating teenage sons. “Just enjoying a quiet dinner at the cabin.”

  “Your mother’s cooking?”

  “Can you technically call it cooking if everything is raw?”

  “Yikes. Point taken. Sorry, kid. Tough luck.”

  “Describe your dinner to me,” I say, lowering my voice.

  Dad just chuckles. I much prefer our phone conversations to our face-to-face. At least over the phone, I can still make him laugh.

  “Mom told me that you got a job. What’s that all about?”

  I pepper some hurt in my voice. “I’m offended at your tone.”

  “Make no mistake, I’m thrilled! But let’s just say I’m also dubious. What exactly are you up to in those mountains?”

  “Guess you’ll just have to come join us and find out.”

  A heavy sigh and more glasses clinking in the background.

  “Wish I could, Nick. Not long now, I promise.”

  My pause goes a little longer than I intend. “No rush.”

  The background noise begins to grow. I can pick Dad’s name out of the roar.

  “I have to go in a second. I’m proud of you, Son. We’ll talk again later, yes?”

  “Sure.”

  “Give my love to your mother.”

  “Bye.”

  The line goes silent. I scroll to the number in my caller ID and save it.

  “Dad sends his love,” I say, even though Mom can’t hear a thing. She types on and I return to my bowl of vegetables.

  “Oh, come on!” I whisper-shout at my laptop screen. “You can’t put the fondant on when the cake is hot!”

  The Nailed It! contestant ignores my sage advice. Typical.

  I grab another marshmallow from my secret stash, tossing it in the air and catching it in my mouth. Another contestant slathers their cake with a heap of blood-red icing that kind of looks like ground beef. This episode is stressing me out. I would bake circles around these housewives and gym bros.

  Nicole is about to announce the winner when my phone lights up. My heart skips a beat. It’s the number from before.

  My therapist wants me to text you. 9:12pm

  Huh. Well, that’s not something you see every day. My curiosity—and honestly, boredom—outweighs my better judgment, so I type a response.

  Me: Um… I’m not a licensed professional, but do they often encourage their patients to talk to strangers? 9:13pm

  “The winner is… Nancy!” The host, Nicole, shoots money out of a toy gun and confetti falls from the ceiling.

  “Ah, shit! Come on, her final cake was a puddle of icing!”

  My phone buzzes again.

  I asked her the same question. Look, just tell me now if you’re some creepy middle-aged accountant that lives in his mother’s basement. Then maybe she’ll get off my back. 9:14pm

  I snort a laugh. The next episode of Nailed It! starts up, but I close my laptop before it gets past the intro.

  Me: Ew. No. You tell me that you’re not some perv watching me from the bushes outside my bedroom window. 9:15pm

  Paranoia gets the better of me and I get up and cross over to the window. The surrounding woods are pitch black, and I’m an idiot because I’m on the second floor and besides Slenderman himself, no one else can peep on me up here.

  Oh great. Now I’m thinking about Slenderman. I jump when my phone buzzes again.

  I’m totally in the bushes outside your room. Boo. 9:17pm

  Me: Ha-ha, very funny. But in all seriousness, your first message last night sort of gave me the impression that you’re a murderer. Just FYI. 9:18pm

  Yeah, that wasn’t meant for you. It wasn’t really meant for anyone. Anyone alive, I mean. 9:19pm

  Me: That’s not terrifyingly cryptic at all. 9:21pm

  It’s difficult to explain. 9:21pm

  Me: I’m sure it is. So just to review here, you’re a not-murderer who is not hanging outside my bedroom window and you message people who are not-living. This is officially the second most interesting text conversation I’ve ever had. 9:23pm

  Second? Who the hell beat me out? 9:24pm

  Me: I’m not sure if you’ve earned that intimate information yet, Stranger. 9:24pm

  I guess I should be happy with second place. I’m not that interesting IRL. 9:25pm

  Me: Isn’t that true for everyone? We’re all way more interesting in theory than reality. 9:25pm

  Damn. That was kind of profound. 9:26pm

  Me: Thanks, Stranger. I try. 9:26pm

  Well, this went way different than I was expecting. Thanks, I guess? 9:27pm

  Me: Anytime. I’ll send you a bill. 9:28pm

  lol. Okay, well, I’ve got to get to sleep. Talk more tomorrow? 9:29pm

  Me: I won’t stop you. Later, Stranger. 9:30pm

  I don’t get another response, which I guess means they’re done talking to me. Whoever they are. I kinda miss them already.

  Jesus, am I really that bored?

  I click the spacebar to resume my episode.

  “Two, double tall, iced lattes with half non-fat and half almond milk topped with caramel drizzle.”

  I slide the plastic cups over the bar towards the tall man tapping his foot. He snatches them up, giving each a swirl like he’s some shitty-coffee-beverage sommelier. He huffs his satisfaction but not a shred of thanks.

  “Have a nice day,” I mutter. Once the door has closed behind him, I add, “Dickhead.”

  The afternoons at Claudine’s have started to blur together. Nothing but endless streams of needy Outsiders asking stupid questions and ordering drinks I swear they’ve made up. If I ever find the Italian bastard who invented espresso, I’m going to kick him right in his cannoli.

  June is dragging by in the haze of monotony, but in just a few weeks our senior year begins.

  Shit. I mean my senior year. I’ve got to get better at that. Chase hasn’t talked to me in almost two weeks now. He’s ghosted me.

  I snort at my own joke. Anyways…

&nb
sp; My senior year.

  Then, an open world, sprawled for miles and miles. Endless freedom. I hope that’s what you feel, Chase. If ever I wanted there to be an afterlife, it’s now. If only to know you aren’t totally erased from the universe.

  Work isn’t all annoyances. Rod and Mel have bonded over a common enemy—Nick—which means they don’t rag on me so much.

  They meticulously orchestrate his days for optimal humiliation. In fact, this week Mel dug deep into the storage room out back to discover a dusty mascot costume, complete with white tights. After a quick call to legendary enigma Claudine herself, Mel’s assigned Nick the role of “Lotti the Latte” on the streets of Hester.

  I almost feel sorry for the guy.

  Almost.

  “I’m going to die out there.”

  Nick’s voice is muffled through the layers of padded fabric. The top of his costume is unzipped enough to reveal his sweat-drenched face and clumps of dark, matted hair. Rod is on his lunch break and Mel has left to run one of her endless errands, which means I’m flying solo. Well, unless you count a six-foot-tall sentient latte as help. Which I don’t.

  “Here.” I shove a straw into a cup of ice water.

  He struggles to raise his arms high enough to grab it. Unfortunately, Lotti the Latte isn’t exactly known for his flexibility. So, I do my best to conceal my smirk as I raise the cup to his mouth. Nick isn’t proud enough to deny me at this point and drains the cup in a matter of seconds. His eyes squeeze shut and he makes a pitiful noise.

  “Shit. Brain freeze.”

  The guy is resilient. I’ll give him that. No way I’d let them cram me into a cartoon caricature of a cup of coffee. Jeez. Say that five times fast.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask, walking around the counter to refill his cup.

  Nick does his best to lower himself into a chair without falling over. “What, sweating? I’m pretty sure it’s keeping me alive at the moment.”

  “What Mel says,” I clarify. “Better yet, why are you working here to begin with? Mommy and Daddy must be convinced you’re a responsible adult by now. Isn’t time for you to call it quits?”

  The corners of Nick’s lips deepen. Seeing him scowl is not unlike watching a bear on a unicycle. Shocking, unnatural, and yet strangely endearing. “My parents don’t know about all the bullshit. And I’m not about to tell them. I have to save up enough money to replace my phone. Mine got obliterated from my one-on-one with the asphalt the other night, remember? If I quit now, then I have to explain about the phone. And if I explain about the phone, my Dad will end me. And if my Dad ends me, it puts a bit of a damper on the rest of the summer.”

  Ends him? What? Is his dad Liam Neeson?

  The lid goes back onto the cup with a snap. “What does your dad do?”

  “Nothing useful, I can assure you. He’s usually got some time off over the summer, but they’ve held him over to work on some—” he catches whatever word he’s about to say and replaces it with, “project.”

  “That’s delightfully vague,” I say, raising the newly filled cup to his level. “He’s not in the mafia, is he? I just need to know if I’m going to be whacked by some greasy Guido-type named Vinnie for laughing at you.”

  After he’s drained another cup, Nick smiles. It’s a far more familiar expression.

  “Telling you would just ruin the fun. Vinnie prefers his prey to be completely unsuspecting.”

  “I’ve always wanted to sleep with the fishes. Think I’ll get a new pair of cement shoes too?”

  “That can be arranged.”

  We both laugh. Which feels weird. Now I really am feeling bad for him. What’s up with that?

  The bells above the door jingle and Mel’s presence sucks all the joy out of the air.

  Nick struggles to reach the zipper on his head. “Back to my sunstroke, I suppose.”

  I swat his hand out of the way, pulling the zipper closed with a satisfying sound.

  “Back on the streets, Lotti,” Mel calls over her shoulder before she ducks behind the counter to access the safe. Her muffled voice continues, “It’s the heat of the day so we gotta remind people that they could be drinking a molten-hot cup o’ Joe. Get those sexy latte legs out there and shake what God gave ya.”

  Disgruntled mumbling comes from inside Lotti’s grinning face. I bite my tongue to keep from laughing at the juxtaposition.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “The sooner you pass out, the sooner you get out of that foam fiasco. Just try not to dent it, Mel says damages come out of your paycheck.”

  Nick is back on his feet. I hurry over to grab the door, a blast of heat washing over me as the bloated mascot waddles through the opening. I watch him retrieve the oblong sign from where he propped it against the bricks along the front. He gives it a twirl, but it’s caught by the wind and flutters down the sidewalk.

  “Godspeed, Lotti.” I whisper into the window.

  “Oh, sorry. Did you just get out of the shower?” Reese peeks through clasped fingers.

  “I wish,” I say, then fall back onto the bed. I’m so sweaty, but I can’t stand being upright any longer. “If I drop the phone, just assume that I’ve finally keeled over. Don’t fuck up my eulogy.”

  “What are they doing to you at that place?”

  “I can’t even describe it. You wouldn’t believe me even if I tried.”

  “Honey, you need to get the hell out of there. Either that, or go give that dumb blonde the banging of her life so that she’ll leave you alone.”

  “Seriously?” I manage to lift my head enough to glare through the phone.

  “No, not seriously.” Reese laughs, “Unless you’re into it, then whatevs. Though, I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t be jealous.”

  “It’s not happening. After everything she’s done, I wouldn’t consider that option even if I were the straightest man on earth.”

  “Oh, you mean your dad?”

  “Ha-ha. So funny.”

  Someone calls for Reese off screen. She shouts over her shoulder, “Be right there! Sorry, honey. The shoot’s about to start back up again. Get some rest and maybe give another thought to telling Mel to shove it? Any punishment your dad can dish out isn’t worth this bullshit.”

  That’s what she thinks.

  “I’ll think about it. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Nicky. Ciao.”

  She ends the call and I roll over on my side, arching my back into a stretch. I’ve almost dozed off when my phone buzzes.

  “Look who it is…”

  Can I ask you a question? You have to promise not to laugh. 6:34pm

  Me: I honestly don’t know a way to stop you. Not that I want to, I’m just fairly unintelligent. 6:34pm

  Are you a real person? 6:35pm

  Wow. There’s a lot to unpack there.

  Shit, I feel like such an idiot. I’m not crazy, I swear. You don’t even have to respond. In fact, please don’t. Fuck. 6:36pm

  I look over to the mirror above the dresser and ask myself the same question.

  Me: I’m not really sure how to answer that question, to be honest. However, I want you to know that I just asked my reflection if I was a real person and I’m not really digging the feels that it’s bringing to the surface. Are you secretly some sort of self-help guru? Oh! am I being Saved? 6:38pm

  I’m just going to shut up now. 6:38pm

  Me: Wait, sorry. I don’t mean to tease, it’s just how I react to things that I don’t know how to process. Like when my dog came out as a vegetarian. It took some adjusting, but we’re all in a better place now. 6:40pm

  I can’t decide if you’re making fun of me, or are just an idiot. 6:41pm

  Me: Can’t it be both? 6:42pm

  I suppose it can. 6:42pm

  Me: All jokes aside, did you want to tell me what you really meant with that question? 6:43pm

  Not really, no. 6:43pm

  Me: Come on, Stranger! You have complete anonymity (jeez that word’s impossible t
o spell) here! Who am I going to tell? 6:45pm

  I guess that is true. But I don’t know… 6:45pm

  Me: What if I tell you something about me? A little icebreaker to even the playing field. How’s that sound? 6:46pm

  Me: Stranger? 6:56pm

  “Want to go see a movie tonight?”

  Mom’s nose fits perfectly in the fissure between my door and the frame. She pushes it open enough to stick her face through.

  “I’ve got popcorn cravings. And you know the rules.”

  My phone buzzes again.

  Stranger? 6:56pm

  I let my phone fall flat on my chest so it’s not a barrier between us. I shouldn’t be feeding into this delusion anyways. Real or not, this person isn’t going to help me. Maybe I’ll just go ahead and block the number.

  But it’s still your—Chase’s—number, no matter who’s behind it, and the thought of never seeing it pop up again is too much for me to contemplate.

  A mind-numbing movie sounds like a great idea.

  “I’ve never supported your ridiculous rules,” I say finally. “Who says that popcorn can’t be enjoyed as an anytime snack?”

  Mom cups her palms around her ears. “I won’t hear it. Popcorn is only to be consumed while enjoying a feature film or else you ruin the nostalgia. Once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.”