Good Spirits by B.K. Borison - 7

I stare out the window behind my couch with my chin resting on my folded arms, watching as heavy clouds gather over the harbor. I’ve been trying to occupy myself with my favorite things—a fresh (see: nonexpired) box of peppermint tea, a coordinating pair of cotton pajamas, a blanket warm from the dryer, and a bowl of popcorn the size of my head—but my brain keeps drifting back to a train garden with two little girls at the edge of the tracks.

I don’t remember the last time I thought about the gaudy lobby of my parents’ law firm. Not because of some long-buried trauma. It just never felt like a place I should remember. For all its grandeur and commitment to Greek-inspired architecture, it never awed me as a child. It felt like walking into a showroom. Someplace cold and devoid of life, where everyone talked in hushed whispers.

But that’s the memory Nolan decided to take me to. Or follow me to, I guess, since he says he doesn’t control where we go. It all seems a little convenient to me, but I’ve never been haunted before. I don’t know the rules.

I frown at my wavy reflection in the window. Experiencing that memory as an outsider had been disorienting. 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.

Watching from the sidelines, I could almost feel the scratch of that horrible velvet between my shoulder blades. My mother always made us wear matching dresses for the annual holiday gala. She still dictates what I wear for it, unable to release her iron grip on control. I’m sure there’s a tiny piece of premium cardstock in the envelope I haven’t bothered to open yet with my orders detailed in crisp handwriting.

Floor length. Navy blue. Pearl earrings.

My mom does enjoy her pretty pictures.

I turn the memory over from every angle, examining it. What was significant about it? Why did we visit that time? That place? Did I need to see my mother’s disapproval? That was hardly something novel as a child, and it only got worse as I grew into adulthood. Did I need a front-row seat to my father’s ambivalence? Same story.

I heard my mother mention Aunt Matilda. Their relationship was always fraught with tension, but it deteriorated as I got older. By the time I was a teenager, they weren’t on speaking terms. And by the time Aunt Matilda died suddenly of a heart attack, they hadn’t seen each other in years.

I trace my fingers along the edge of the window, feeling the press of cold air from the other side. Somewhere in the harbor, a boat drifts by, Christmas lights wrapped around the mast.

Maybe it was Samantha. Samantha, who I haven’t seen in six months. How did we go from little girls holding hands to sisters who barely acknowledge each other? It feels like the second act of my mother and Aunt Matilda, but with less ferocity. We’ve traded the heated arguments for stony silence. In a lot of ways, that feels worse. We argued when I took over the Crow’s Nest, though anyone who had been observing us probably wouldn’t have noticed. We were calm. We never raised our voices. But that didn’t make the barbs we lobbed at each other any less painful. She thought I was being childish and I thought she was being cold-hearted. I wanted to hold on to my aunt’s legacy with two hands and she was ready to throw it away. I remember the way her face fell when my frustration got the best of me, angry, spiteful words spilling out of my mouth. Why can’t you care about this? Why can’t you care about me? Clipped questions, delivered beneath stained glass lights.

A lifetime of letting people down and not being the right thing cracked me right open, and all my hurt spilled out.

Why didn’t we go back to that memory? The one where I said things I didn’t mean and made my sister cry? If I’m the villain Nolan thinks I am, maybe we should start there.

I pick up my phone from beneath my nest of blankets and scroll to Samantha’s number. I hesitate, then grit my teeth and tap out a quick message.

Thinking about you , I finally settle on. I hope you’re doing well.

It sounds like something my mom would write and I wince as I hit send. I debate for another minute, then rapidly tap out another message.

Miss you, Sammy.

There. That’s a step toward reconciliation or … something. Nolan should be proud of himself. One little haunting and I’m already making behavioral changes.

Not that he’s been particularly helpful since we got back. As soon as we stopped rolling through the ghost version of a spin cycle, we were exactly where we’d started, just as he’d said. Sasha called a question from the back, I yelled an answer, and when I turned around, Nolan was gone. The only trace of him was his discarded coffee cup in the bin beneath the counter and the goose bumps on my arms.

You feel it, even if you don’t understand it.

Well, he was right about that. I understand exactly nothing. Magic and memories and stoic men without a sense of humor.

“Stupid ghosts,” I mutter, flopping back on the couch and staring at my ceiling. “Coming and going as they please. Not explaining a single thing. Being infuriatingly vague and mysterious.”

“I’m hardly mysterious.”

I shriek and roll to the side, landing in a heap on my living room floor. My dryer-warm blanket tightens like a noose around my legs. Nolan watches calmly as I struggle to free myself, two mugs of steaming tea in his hands.

He lifts them in silent explanation.

“You left tea on the counter,” he says, watching me battle my quilt. “I made us a cuppa. Hope you don’t mind.”

If I were feeling calmer, I’d be delighted by the way he says cuppa . As it is, I’m trying to convince myself I’m not about to be murdered.

Again.

“I do mind.” I wheeze. “I mind very much.”

He frowns at me. “You don’t want tea?”

“No, I want the tea. I just don’t want an intruder to make it for me.”

“Intruder,” he says, heaving a weary sigh. “This again.”

“Yes, Nolan. This again.”

“If you didn’t want the tea, you shouldn’t have left the mug out,” he says. He peers over his shoulder at my kitchen. “Though you do seem to take issue with putting things away properly.”

“Nolan.” God. How long has he silently been lurking in my home?

Poking through my things?

“What?” His face twists in agitation, his eyebrows a heavy slash over his dark eyes. “You’re that upset about the tea?”

“I don’t have a problem with the tea. I have a problem with you materializing out of thin air. Again!”

“I didn’t materialize ,” he says, offended. “I called hello. I started the kettle. You didn’t hear me? I made enough noise to wake the dead.”

I narrow my eyes. I can’t tell if that’s a joke or not. “Are you trying to be funny?”

“Funny is not something I’m often accused of, Harriet.”

I believe it. “Listen. I’d like for you to knock at the door like a reasonable—” I almost say human being . “Like a reasonable ghost,” I finish. I finally manage to untangle my legs from my blanket nest, kicking it away. “How long have you been in my house?”

“Ten minutes or so,” he answers, his gaze fixed on my bare legs. His eyes narrow, the line between his brows deepening. He gestures at my legs with one of the mugs. “What the hell are those?”

“What?” I quickly look down, expecting to see an angry horde of fire ants marching over my kneecaps by the severity of his expression. Instead, I just see my pale skin and my oversize socks, one slightly higher than the other thanks to my cartwheel off the couch.

“Those.” He nods toward my midsection.

I pinch my camisole. It has tiny candy canes printed all over it. I love it. “These? My pajamas?”

He scoffs. “Those aren’t pajamas.” His eyes don’t move from the fabric around my middle.

“I got them in the pajamas section,” I defend. They’re buttery soft and deliciously comfortable. Matching pajama sets have always been a guilty pleasure of mine. Something about the silky smooth materials and the utter departure from practicality. It feels indulgent when I wear them. Something just for me.

I climb up from the floor, adjusting the matching shorts that hit mid-thigh. Nolan makes a choking sound.

“I got them on sale at Nordstrom,” I offer.

“What the hell is a Nordstrom?” he asks, sounding dazed. His gaze drifts back to my legs. His jaw clenches tight, the faintest brush of pink appearing at the top of his scruff. I didn’t realize someone could hate coordinating sets so much.

“It’s a store.” I shuffle my socked feet and debate wrapping myself in my blanket, then immediately discard the thought. It’s his problem, not mine. I don’t need to be ashamed of my festivity.

I prop my hands on my hips and try to find the often-elusive assertive part of myself. “If you had knocked at the door as requested, maybe I would have had time to put on something more reasonable.”

He drags his attention back to my face with reluctance. His expression is thunderous. “What?”

“The door,” I repeat. “I want you to use it when you visit. You’ve scared me twice now. You can use the door.”

“You’re serious?”

I nod, resisting the urge to take it back. To tell him it’s okay. To make it easy and comfortable and fine. I’ve always been good at accommodating the needs of others, but I guess something about yesterday’s memory sparked a long-buried desire for rebellion. I’ve been inspired by a tiny wooden boat, clenched in the fist of my six-year-old self.

I wish I were still as brave as that little girl. As hopeful, too. I lift my chin.

“I don’t think it’s too much to ask for.”

His gaze holds mine, his mouth tilted down at the corners. A lock of dark hair flops over his forehead, shadowing his eyes.

“Please,” I add.

He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, turns on his heel, and stomps back to my kitchen with the tea. I hear the clang of the mugs in the sink, a muffled oath whispered under his breath, and then—nothing.

Not a single thing.

I take a hesitant step toward the kitchen, regret sinking like a stone in my stomach. I pushed too hard. I was needlessly rude. He’s a ghost . He’s been dead forever. He’s seen only the worst of humanity. Of course he’s a bit of an overbearing asshole. It’s the only thing he’s known for over a hundred years.

“Nolan?”

An impatient knock rattles my door at the same moment my phone pings with a notification. The pressure in my chest pops like a balloon, replaced with something light and fuzzy.

He didn’t leave. I didn’t chase him away. I stood my ground and followed through and nothing bad happened.

There’s another knock, shorter this time, and I swipe at the alert from my Ring camera while grinning like a maniac. I laugh out loud when I see Nolan’s grumpy face appear on the screen, glaring at my door.

I tap the speaker button. “So you do use your magic.”

How else could he have gotten from my kitchen to my front porch? I doubt he wedged his big body through the tiny window above my sink.

He startles at the sound of my voice. “Of course I use my magic.

Was the trip through time not indication enough?”

“For other stuff besides that, I mean. I still want a demonstration.”

“That was the demonstration.”

“Still,” I insist, getting a buzz from teasing him through the door. Is this what it feels like to hold your ground? I’m drunk with power. He makes a rude gesture at my camera and another peal of laughter bubbles out of me. He must have magical powers. It’s the only explanation as to how he looks so damn good on this camera. No one looks good with this camera. Sometimes I get alerts when I’m rolling the trash bins out to the curb and I have three seconds of pure, unadulterated fear. Then I remember that the harpy on the screen is actually just me before I’ve brushed my hair.

Nolan, meanwhile, looks like someone plucked him from a Patagonia centerfold and dropped him on my front porch. He pushes his hair out of his eyes as he studies the door, searching for where my voice materialized from.

It’s adorable how irritated he looks.

“You almost got it,” I singsong. “Keep looking.”

He finally bends at the waist to inspect my doorbell, his nose comically large in the fish lens. I’m delighted I’ll get to go back and watch these twenty seconds whenever I want.

“Apparently I’m not the only one with magic,” his voice says over the speaker, sounding watered down and far away.

I stride across the room and open the door. Nolan straightens, his eyes taking only a brief detour of my outfit before centering back on me.

“You’ve really never seen one of those before?” I ask.

“Are you referring to your undergarments masquerading as pajamas or the tiny, malevolent spirit residing in your doorbell?”

I laugh. “It’s called a Ring.”

“It’s insufferable.” He drags his hand along his jaw and fixes me with a beseeching look. “May I come inside now, or do you have more hoops you wish for me to jump through?”

I tap my fingers over my lips and pretend to consider the question. I’m cold with the door open like this, but it’s worth the discomfort to watch him squirm. Something about Nolan makes me braver than usual. He makes me want to push. To see how much I can get away with. “No more questions, but I do have a request.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and leans his shoulder against the doorframe. “I should have known. Proceed.”

“I want to see you use your magic,” I blurt out excitedly. I’ve felt it. I’ve existed within it. But I haven’t seen it. If I’m going to be haunted, I’d like to reap the benefits. I’d like a little show with my eternal damnation.

What else can he do? Is it holiday related? Can he make sugarplums dance?

Nolan’s eyebrows crash together, all traces of playfulness leaving his features. My gold-medal feeling plummets to the very bottom of my stomach.

“No,” he says.

“What? Why not?”

He pushes off the door, his hands hanging loose by his sides. His fingers squeeze into a fist, then relax again. “I told you,” he says, his voice sharp. His accent is stronger now. Rougher. “It’s not a party trick.”

“I know it’s not, I’m just—”

“Can I come inside now? Have I sufficiently fulfilled your need for mindless chatter?”

I snap my mouth shut, properly chastised. I debate shutting the door in his face, but knowing Nolan, he’d probably just appear in my fireplace. I step back from the door and he slips past me, his arm brushing against mine.

“I’m going to make us some tea,” he says, like he means to argue about it, heading straight for my kitchen. “Again,” he adds, somehow managing to infuse that single word with enough venom to have my shoulders inching up toward my ears.

I close the door behind him, shivering in the icy wind that slips through the cracks. My hair lifts and then settles across my shoulders, a wild tangle. Right now, it’s the physical embodiment of how I feel inside.

“Help yourself,” I call. “Again.”

He waves a hand over his head and disappears behind a floralwallpapered wall. A second later, I hear the clang of ceramic mugs and the kettle on the stove. I settle back into my place on the couch, collecting my blanket and draping it over my lap, while he bumbles around my kitchen.

I wait.

And then wait. And wait some more.

Guilt pricks at me the longer I sit, plucking at the loose threads from a small tear in the blanket. In my attempt to be playful, I think I pressed on an old hurt. I have no idea the circumstances under which Nolan became a ghost. I have no idea the things he’s seen, or what he’s had to do. I might not have asked to be haunted for the holiday season, but I don’t think Nolan asked to do the haunting. He’s made it very clear he wants to do his job and move on. I’ve been making that difficult for him.

Maybe something hangs in the balance for him here. I shouldn’t take that lightly.

By the time he returns with two new steaming mugs of peppermint tea, I’ve sufficiently worked myself into an anxiety spiral. The hole in my blanket looks like a gaping wound.

Nolan sets my mug on the coffee table in front of me and then claims the cozy armchair closest to the tree. He stretches his long body out, his ankle over his knee, his spoon clanking noisily around the rim of his mug. He pauses his methodical stirring when he sees the hole I’ve transformed into a cavity roughly the size of my fist, loose threads draping over the back of my hand like survivors of a yarn disaster.

He rearranges the spoon and traps it with his finger, lifting the mug to his mouth. “What did the blanket do to you?” he asks.

I clench the material in my fist, hiding the massive hole. I’ll fix it later.

“Nothing,” I say, feeling clumsy and out of my depth. I hate feeling like this. Like I’ve done something wrong. Like I need to fill in the empty space between me and someone else until the wobbly feeling in my chest disappears. “I’m— I shouldn’t have— I’m sorry.”

Nolan’s eyebrows rise behind his mug.

“I shouldn’t have pressed you about the—” I swallow. “About the thing I wanted you to show me,” I finish awkwardly. I couldn’t sound more suspicious if I tried.

Nolan lowers his mug slowly. His tongue appears briefly at the corner of his mouth. “The thing you wanted me to show you,” he repeats. Maybe it’s because of the slow way he says the words or maybe it’s the way he’s sitting—his knees spread wide, taking up every inch of that chair like he owns it. My embarrassment flares into something else. Something liquid hot that sinks in my belly.

“Don’t say it like that,” I whisper.

“Like what?”

“You know. Like it’s—like I’ve propositioned you.”

“Are you propositioning me, Harriet?”

I groan and tug my blanket up, attempting to hide behind it. Through the gap in the material, I see the self-satisfied smile transform Nolan’s face.

“Not so fun to be teased, is it?” He settles farther in the chair.

“No, I guess not.”

He laughs. My throat feels too tight. My mouth, too dry. Maybe this is his magic. Rendering me speechless.

“That came out wrong.” I wet my lips. Nolan takes another sip of his tea, amused. “I wanted to see your magic, but I recognize now that it’s not something you want to discuss. I won’t ask again.”

“You’re right,” he says slowly. “It’s not something I like to discuss, but—” His mouth twists as he tries to untangle his own thoughts, his eyes drifting over my shoulder to the window behind me. “That’s not something you need to apologize for.”

I reach for my tea and take a sip of it, just for something to do with my hands. Nolan must have put honey in it. It’s exactly the way I like it. “You’re allowed to feel how you feel,” I say quietly.

“And you’re allowed to ask me things,” Nolan says back, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. He heaves a deep breath, a sigh rattling out of him. “I don’t— I don’t often talk with people outside of my haunting commitments. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m abrupt. I’m out of practice.”

“Forgiven,” I say easily, meaning it. His forehead creases in confusion. I laugh. “Look at us. We just survived our first argument.”

One eyebrow pops up. “First?”

“Okay. Maybe second. Or third,” I amend. I wiggle in my seat, beaming at him. “It’s almost like we’re friends.”

He grunts.

“Can I ask another question?”

He closes his eyes before giving me a short nod. “You really haven’t talked to anyone? For a while?”

“I’m a ghost, Harriet.” He opens his eyes and a small, sad smile shadows his mouth. “I can’t talk to people who don’t see me. And the only people who see me are my assignments.”

I frown. “That sounds lonely.”

“I’m not one for conversation.” He takes a long pull from his tea. “Obviously.”

“Not just that part,” I say. I try to imagine it. Living in this town but not talking to a single person. Seen, but not remembered. Standing at the very edge of things. For decades. “Nolan,” I breathe. “I’m so sorry.”

He picks at the knee of his jeans, one of his long legs kicked straight out. “I was always a solitary man, and books make good company. I don’t remember much of my mortal life, but I do—I remember that. Being alone.” The easy look on his face falters and I see the crack beneath. A flash of sharp, intense pain. “I’ve found ways to occupy myself in the afterlife.”

“How?” I ask.

A smile hooks one corner of his mouth. “I’ve become very good at caring for stray cats over the years. For some reason, they seem particularly enamored with the library I’ve amassed at my home. They’re good company.”

“Did you think it would be like this?” I ask, curiosity burning a hole through me. “Your afterlife?”

He shakes his head slowly. “I thought there would be something more. Something that isn’t—”

“Hanging out in a stranger’s living room and making her tea while trying to uncover her life’s greatest transgressions?”

“Aye,” he says, his accent stronger in that single word than anything else he’s said. A sound dragged up from the very back of his throat. “Something like that.”

I didn’t realize we’re both struggling to find our footing. The thought is oddly reassuring, a delicate thread stitching us together.

I give him a small smile and he returns it. Some of the heaviness disappears, twisting into comfortable silence. He’s given me a crumb, and I want to know more.

“What is it?” he asks, tipping his head back against the chair, getting comfortable. “You’re buzzing over there.”

He did say I could ask him things.

“What did you do? Before? What was your job?”

“I was a fisherman.” His head dips to the side, resting almost against his shoulder. One eye squints. “Why do you ask?”

I take in the subtle strength of his body. The sleeves of his shirt pushed up over his forearms and his large hand wrapped around his mug. The scar I can just barely make out above his eyebrow and the scruff along his jaw. He looks indecent, sitting there like that with the top two buttons of his shirt undone, exposing the strong line of his neck. I can see exactly what he must have looked like on the deck of some vessel. Sun on his skin. Wind in his hair.

“You look like you’d be a fisherman.”

Something about that statement amuses him. “How so?”

“You look … capable,” I decide, staring at his hands again. “Rugged.”

“Is that a good thing?”

I blow across the top of my mug, watching the steam dance over the edge. “Not for me,” I mutter.

Nolan chuckles—a low, rough, rumbling thing—and goose bumps erupt along my arms.

“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.”

I snort. “Let’s not get carried away.”

He laughs again and I tuck my answering smile into the lip of my mug. I bring my knees to my chest, my blanket in my lap.

“So,” I say, eager to chase this easy, warm feeling between us. “What now?”

I love figuring out what people need from me. Sasha would have something to say about my desire for external validation, I’m sure, but it makes me feel good to dig to the bottom of something and slot the pieces together until they make a complete picture. To understand the people around me. To have them understand me.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I know you didn’t appear in my house to make me tea. What are you doing here? Tonight?”

“Ah. Harriet. Best you get used to seeing me. I’ll be occupying all your nights.”

I swallow hard.

“I’m bound to you for the holiday season,” he continues. “I am to study your past, then hand you to your present.” Nolan arches an insolent eyebrow. He really does look like my mind cooked him right up and dropped him beneath my tree. He lifts his mug in a silent toast. “We have work to do, Harriet York.”