Ghosting You

by Alexander C. Eberhart

  Me: Not on fire yet. Send help. 7:02pm

  It takes ten seconds for my phone to buzz again.

  Hang in there, Stranger. 7:03pm

  For just a second, I think about telling them my name. But then common-sense kicks back in and that’s totally not happening. So instead, I grab the musty old mop from the hook on the wall, douse it in the pine-scented bucket of water, and make my way back into the café.

  Nick hums tunelessly behind the counter, Old Bertha—the espresso machine—hissing away as he purges the water lines. Another day, another plaid shirt. He’s yet to repeat one. Does he just throw them away when he’s done?

  “Something on my face?” he asks.

  Shit. I drop my eyes to the floor, grabbing the mop handle. “No. Just spacey. My bad.”

  Nick shrugs. Heat finds its way to my face and I sling water across the floor. The tile shines as I scrub away the muddy tracks left behind by impetuous customers.

  “You going to apologize, or nah?”

  I throw a quick glance at Nick. He’s obscured by a cloud of steam Bertha has belched out.

  “We’ve been over this. I’m not apologizing.” I mutter, dipping my mop into the gray stained water. “Why do you care so much about this anyways?”

  “Because you don’t have any friends. Well, besides Caroline, but I don’t think you’d want me to count your mother.”

  The stream of steam ceases and Nick rattles around a bucket full of dishes. Still, I keep my voice low.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Come on, man. You can’t keep this up forever. Sooner or later you’re going to have to replace me. I can’t keep haunting you. I’ve got better shit to do. Plus, having a dead best friend isn’t exactly the healthiest relationship.”

  “Just shut up.”

  He doesn’t understand. It’s not just a best friend that I lost. He was so much more than that. And the fact he wants me to replace him with some outsider who’s had everything in life handed to him? No. No freaking way. This whole crazy thing has to stop before it starts.

  “I’m almost finished back here,” Nick says, leaning over the counter to check my progress. “How about I grab the trash for you?”

  “Be nice.”

  “That’s fine,” I say through gritted teeth. There. Now maybe Chase will leave me the hell alone for a second.

  “Awesome.”

  Nick grins as he ducks under the latched counter. His foot skids on the wet floor, but he recovers his balance before he busts his ass.

  “So, what are you up to this weekend?” he asks, twisting the top of a trash bag into a knot.

  “Nothing.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that’s not far from the usual for you?”

  “Because you’re a condescending jerk?”

  “What did I say, Tommy?!”

  Nick laughs, heaving the trash bag from the can. “I’ve been called worse. But seriously, do you really do nothing every weekend? I can’t even imagine. Back home, I have to book stuff a month in advance. And that’s just working around my parents’ schedule. Then there’s Reese’s house parties which are like, every other week, and she always has me do a cake for those… It’s so much.”

  “Sounds exhausting.” I catch myself staring again and drop my eyes to the floor.

  “It is!” Nick slings the bag of trash on his back like some dumpster diving Santa Claus— “But it’s a life. Better than sitting at home with my mom and watching history documentaries. Or worse, putting together a dumb puzzle.”

  My ears singe with heat.

  “I’m sure I’ll find something to do,” he continues, grabbing the second bag of trash. “Bound to be some trouble I can get into somewhere, right?”

  “Good luck with that.”

  Nick laughs and I sling another mop full of water on across the floor.

  I plop the stick of softened butter into my mixing bowl, then cover it in a heap of sugar. A sweet cloud wafts up from the mixer making me cough. With a flip of the switch the blades of the beater whip the ingredients together into a light and fluffy pale yellow.

  Next comes the eggs, the flour, and baking powder. A little vanilla extract, some chopped pecans, some caramel bits, and of course, dark chocolate chunks.

  My cookie dough is ready in a matter of moments. Pinching perfect portions, I roll each into a ball and place them on a lined cookie sheet.

  I’m shaping the last bit when my phone lights up on the counter. A quick wash and I minimize my recipe and swipe to open the message:

  I did it again. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me? 8:32pm

  I give a cautious glance over to Ma, but she’s currently staring blankly into the void of her laptop screen, fingers hovering just above the keys. Bless her, she’s been stuck like that for an hour now.

  I slide the tray of almost-cookies into the oven, set the timer and sneak into the living room. Once I’m settled into the cushy leather recliner, I type my response.

  Me: Well, flattered as I may be, I’m not Jesus. What did you do? 8:34pm

  I was a dick to him. Again. 8:34pm

  Me: Work guy? Oh no… Well, how’d he react? Did he give you the finger? Did he offer a blood sacrifice to curse your household for three generations? 8:35pm

  That escalated quickly. 8:36pm

  Me: Sorry. Keep talking details. 8:37pm

  He made a joke and I took it too personally and I called him a condescending jerk. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t true. 8:37pm

  Wait a second.

  My heartbeat batters against my eardrums. My face feels like I stuck it in the oven. I type my next message with trembling fingers.

  Me: What did you say to him, exactly? 8:38pm

  I told you. I called him a condescending jerk. 8:38pm

  This has to be a coincidence. Surely people get called condescending jerks every day. That doesn’t mean—

  He asked me what I was doing this weekend. It was the perfect lead-up to spending time with him AWAY from work, where maybe I can sort through some of this crazy filling up my brain. 8:39pm

  Nope. No way. This isn’t a thing. I mean, I would know if I was talking to—

  Sorry to dump all this on you. I’m just mad at myself. 8:39pm

  I need to ask him something else. Something that only he would know. But how do I do that without giving away who I am?

  You still there, Stranger? 8:41pm

  Me: Yeah! Sorry, I was just digesting all that. Sounds like you’re in a bit of a pickle. Have you maybe tried, I dunno, not being a dick? 8:42pm

  Oh my god, you sound just like my friend. He kept telling me to apologize. But I just can’t make myself do it. 8:43pm

  Me: There’s other ways to smooth things over. Start small. Maybe try with saying thank you when he offers to do something nice for you. 8:45pm

  The timer sounds from the kitchen and I hurry to pull the tray of perfectly browned cookies out of the oven. Once they’ve been set on the cooling rack, I grab my phone again.

  Ugh. That’s going to be tough. But I guess I can give it a shot. Maybe it’ll never happen. It’s not like he just goes around handing out fresh baked cookies. Lol 8:47pm

  “Are they done already?” Ma asks, having broken from her writer’s trance to lurk over the cooling cookies.

  “Choose wisely,” I tell her, already formulating the plan in my head. “Because the rest are going to work with me in the morning.”

  I tap out my perfect deflection.

  Me: Yeah, I mean. Who does that? 8:49pm

  Each step I take on the cracked sidewalk echoes down Main Street, bouncing off brick and stone to return to me. I like to think of them as your footsteps, Chase. That you’re walking alongside me, keeping me company on even the loneliest of mornings. Like today.

  “Are you going to be nice today?”

  “Maybe.” I answer, because there’s no one to hear me talk to myself. “Guess we’ll find out.”

  “I’ll take it.”


  At least this whole Nick thing has brought Chase back to me. I was starting to worry that I’d never hear his voice again.

  “Why am I here, Tommy?”

  My feet stick in their place.

  “What?” He’s never asked me that before.

  “I know I’m dead. But why am I still hanging around?”

  “What kind of question is that? Aren’t you glad to be with me?”

  “Of course, I am. But I can’t help wondering what I’m doing here. What’s holding me?”

  “That’s not important. You’re here because you need me. And I need you. Isn’t that enough?”

  “I guess so.”

  I exhale the tension from my stomach, my eyes dropping to the sidewalk as I resume my commute into work.

  Why would he ask me that, now of all times? More importantly, why does he think that I have the answers? His voice has been with me since that first week after he died. Since the first time I texted him after he literally ghosted me.

  After I let him die.

  “Thomas?”

  A man stops ahead on the sidewalk. He’s familiar, but it doesn’t click right away. Golden hair sticks out in tufts from the sides of his ball cap, his khaki shorts and vibrant polo shine with an off-the-rack luster. It’s not till I get a good look at his face that the puzzle pieces fall into place.

  Your dad looks good, Chase. All things considered.

  “I thought that was you,” he says, approaching me because my shoes are suddenly filled with lead. “Long time no see. How’s your mom? Darla and I have kept her in our prayers.”

  “She’s good,” I say, my own voice sounding a thousand miles away. I haven’t spoken to your dad, not since the funeral. Not since I yelled at him in front of your entire extended family.

  “That’s wonderful to hear,” he says, looking down at me with your eyes. “Getting excited for your senior year? Are you still planning on going to North Georgia? Forgive me, that’s all I remember from when Shelby—”

  I flinch. The name deafens my ears, pressing against them until it blocks all other sound. His lips continue moving, but nothing your dad says makes it through.

  “Chase.”

  Your dad stops, mid-sentence. “What?”

  “His name is Chase,” I say, raising my gaze to lock with his. “Please, don’t call him anything else.”

  The forced smile on your dad’s face fades, his expression darkening. “I will call my daughter by the name her mother and I gave her after she was born.” The words hurt him; I can tell. But he doesn’t stop there. “And by the name that I had engraved on her headstone. I’ll only ask you once to respect that.”

  His crystal blue eyes are hazy now, the end of his nose turning red the longer he speaks.

  “I can’t,” I say, steeling the trembling in my hands by clutching them tight to my side. “But it’s not out of disrespect for you, Mr. Hiram. It’s out of respect for your son.”

  He blinks a few times, broad shoulders sinking inward.

  “I’m sorry I let it happen,” I add, dropping my gaze to the cracked pavement. “And I’m sorry that you didn’t get to see him the way I did.”

  I sidestep around your dad, pressing myself against the brick to pass. I don’t hear any footsteps following me, but I duck around the corner beside the bakery to try to exhale the stitch in my side.

  A year. I’d managed to avoid your family for an entire year. It shouldn’t be an easy thing to do in Hester. Then again, your little brother is still in middle school for another year. Your mom started her job back at the bank after you died. And your dad travels more than ever for work, so it’s not as difficult as I’d originally thought it would be.

  But seeing him…

  Shit! I’m going to be late! I check my phone and sure enough, I’ve got two minutes to make it to Claudine’s before Mel crucifies me. I take a few seconds to collect myself, then take off at a jog down the sidewalk, careful not to look back.

  “Hey, Tom-Tom.” Mel greets me as I burst through the doors of Claudine’s.

  “Sorry,” I huff, leaning forward to brace my hands on my knees.

  “It’s chill, dude.” Mel leans over the counter and props herself up on her elbows. “We don’t open for another five minutes.”

  Did she just say it’s chill?

  “Um.” I wipe the sweat from my forehead, shuffling my way to the bar. “You feeling okay, Mel?”

  She actually smiles at me. “Feeling great, Tom-Tom. Thanks for asking.”

  “Sure. Sure. Completely unrelated question, who the hell are you and what did you do with Mel?”

  Mel laughs as Rod pushes his way through the swinging door. We catch each other’s gaze and he jerks his head to the side, motioning for me to come closer.

  “What on earth—”

  “I know,” he interrupts me, keeping his voice low. “She’s been like that since I got here. I was hoping you might know what’s going on?”

  “What? Why me? I make it my goal in life to not get into her business.”

  “Maybe it’s just her time of the month?” Rod whispers.

  “You two know that I’m standing right here, right?” Mel tosses us a lazy glance.

  “We’re just concerned,” Rod says, looking over like he expects me to back him up. I just shrug. “You don’t seem your usual… charismatic self.”

  “You mean I haven’t been a heinous bitch to you in the ten minutes that you’ve been here?”

  Rod squirms. Obviously, that’s not how he wants to phrase it, but I’d say Mel’s hit the nail on the head.

  Mel just laughs, sliding the cash till in place. “Believe it or not, I’m not so one-dimensional. Maybe today, I’m tired of being the cranky bitch. Maybe today, I just want to say good morning to people without the two of you thinking, ‘Oh god, she must be menstruating! What do we do?’ My dudes, it is the twenty-first century. Let me wo-mansplain something to you.” She folds her arms and turns to us, an eerie smile spreading her lips. “My reproductive system is a beautiful and private thing that I personally believe makes me a goddess among the likes of you Neanderthals. That being said, I want to point out one important little note.” She steps closer, Rod drawing in like he’s mesmerized by every word.

  I take a step back. I have a sinking feeling that Mel’s winding up.

  Mel places a hand on Rod’s shoulder, holding onto one of the lapels of today’s Hawaiian shirt. “Whether or not my body is currently shredding the lining of my uterus is NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS.” Her grip tightens on Rod’s shirt as he pulls him in so they’re nose-to-nose. “Understood?”

  He nods, his fedora tilting to the side like even it is trying to get away from this awkward conversation.

  “Wonderful.” Mel’s smile returns and she smooths out the wrinkles of Rod’s collar. “Well, now that’s done, we can go ahead and open up. Tom-Tom, would you be a dear and flip the sign please?”

  “You got it,” I say, hurrying to the door. It opens before I can reach it and Nick walks in, carrying a plastic container and a goofy smile.

  “Hey,” he greets me, hovering in the doorway. His arm is covered in fresh white bandages, the wasp stings must still be bothering him.

  “Hi,” I reply. Warm air from outside seeps in around him, mixing the smell of sunshine and fresh air with his already woodsy scent.

  He’s staring at me, I realize after a second, his smile unwavering. A thrill shoots from the base of my spine, pushing blood through my veins at a breakneck pace. My cheeks feel hot.

  “Are you coming inside?” I ask, then clear my throat as my gaze drops to the floor.

  “Yeah, of course.” Nick passes me, his shoulder brushing against mine. I try not to dwell on that fact as I flip the sign on the window from “closed” to “open.”

  Mel waves from behind the register. “Good morning, Nick.”

  “Well, good morning to you too,” Nick says, setting the plastic container onto the bar. “I love that color on you, i
t’s gorgeous.”

  “Thank you for noticing. It’s why I wore it.” She laughs and Nick joins in, which brings this weird surrealistic sense to the morning. Mel pats the top of the container, “What’s in here?”

  Rod is pulling chairs off tables, his proverbial tail tucked between his legs. I do the same, starting on the opposite side of the dining room. But I’m still close enough to hear Nick say, “I baked everyone cookies.”

  My hand slips off the back of the chair and it clatters to the ground. Rod yelps and Nick and Mel just turn to look at me.

  “What did you say?” I ask Nick, too dialed into him to be embarrassed about the chair.

  The corner of Nick’s mouth twitches, and he says, “I baked cookies. Do you want one? Made ‘em from scratch.”

  Cookies. He brought—no baked—fucking cookies. Just what the hell is going on here? I can practically hear the universe laughing at me.

  “That’s a hilarious coincidence.”

  “Oh my god, Nick.” Mel takes another bite of her cookie, her eyes rolling back a bit. “These are crazy. So gooey. Tom-Tom, you gotta come get one of these.”

  Nick grabs the container and holds it out to me, eyebrow cocked with invitation.

  “This is your chance.”

  He holds my gaze, staring me down as I move toward him. I break our connection, looking down to select a cookie. It bends when I pick it up but doesn’t break. He doesn’t move, like he’s holding his breath, waiting for me to say it.

  I swallow, then give him a slight nod. “Thank you.”