Good Spirits by B.K. Borison - 9

W hat do you think of ghosts?”

Sasha frowns thoughtfully as she twists her rag around the handle of a large serving fork. She found a stunning silver set at an estate sale in Baltimore and we’ve spent the first hour of the morning trying to shine it back to its former glory. It’s completely intact except for two spoons. I like to think those two spoons are off in a drawer somewhere, nestled together and happy.

“What sort of ghosts?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Just ghosts.”

She considers the question. “My parents took me to see Casper at the Bengies Drive-In Theatre when I was a kid. I thought it was cool.” Sasha lifts her fork into the light, squinting at it. “Not as cool as this fork, though. Doesn’t it sort of look like a trident?” She thrusts it into the air. “Maybe we should put it in the medieval weapons section.”

“We don’t have a medieval weapons section.”

“We could have. If you bought that mace from that creepy guy.”

I grab the fork before she can stab me or herself.

“Would you listen to yourself? I was never going to buy a mace from a creepy guy. I had no way of authenticating it, for one. And two, he had a goatee. Never trust a man with a goatee.” I set the fork back in its designated place in the wooden case. “And tridents have three spokes, not two. Tri means three. Polish the knives next.”

Sasha grumbles something under her breath that sounds like wish we had a mace as I let my mind drift. I haven’t seen Nolan in five days. I’ve been waiting for him to pop up from behind one of the crowded shelves in the antiques store, or maybe knock on my door again, but it’s been complete and total silence since he disappeared with a wave of his magic in the middle of my living room.

Where did he go? What’s he doing? He said there was a deadline on this whole haunting business. Shouldn’t I be seeing him more regularly if there’s a deadline? Will he say goodbye, or will the Ghost of Christmas Present suddenly appear in my bathroom? I have no idea.

Maybe I have seen him, and I don’t remember. He did say ghosts skirt the edges of consciousness. Maybe he’s been in here every day, and I’ve forgotten him every time.

I stop twisting my polish rag.

“Why are you asking me about ghosts?” Sasha asks, picking up a dainty-looking butter knife. She flips it up in her grip, catching it at the handle. “Did you experience something?”

I think of Nolan’s hand around mine. The way he squeezes my fingers every time we visit the past. I think of the way I stumbled in the snow when my hand got stuck in my pocket. How he held me steady with my body tucked against his, my heart thundering in my chest.

He smelled like warm skin and salty air. Something darker.

Cloves, maybe.

I’ve experienced something, all right.

I shrug and reach for another spoon. “Just curious. We work in an antiques shop and we’ve never talked about it before.” I look over the aisles thoughtfully. “I bet some of this stuff is haunted.”

“Probably,” Sasha agrees. “I bet some of the people who owned this stuff met a grisly end.”

“Sasha.”

“What? That’s just, like, basic math,” she quips. “Should I get out a Ouija board? We can try to reach another dimension.”

“Do those things work?”

Maybe I can use one to get in touch with Nolan. Where did you disappear to? Is it because I asked you to show me your magic? Is it because you showed me your magic?

Did you knit those mittens yourself?

He’d probably take a lot of joy in slowly spelling out B-I-T-E M-E. “I don’t know.” Sasha laughs. “My knowledge of the undead is contained to what I learned at preteen sleepovers. And marathon viewings of Unsolved Mysteries on Lifetime. I guess we could go in the bathroom, turn off the lights, and chant ‘Bloody Mary’ three times in a row. See what happens.”

I shiver. “No, thank you.” Now that I know Nolan exists, I imagine there are plenty of other spirits milling about. I don’t want to invite anyone named Bloody Mary over for tea, thank you very much. “Why would someone become a ghost, you think?”

Sasha sets one knife down and picks up another. “As opposed to …”

“I don’t know. Being at peace?” I wasn’t raised in a religious home. My parents were the church-on-Easter-and-Christmas type of people, and only because it provided good networking opportunities. My opinions on the afterlife are purely philosophical, at best. “Why would someone choose to hang out here?”

“Entertainment,” she answers. “Society is doing a fine job of being a shit show lately. Did you see that new reality show? About the people who are in relationships with inanimate objects? I might pass on the afterlife for that.”

“I’m serious, Sasha.”

She sets her polishing rag down and gives me her full attention, blinking at me through her thick glasses. Her nails are bright, sparkly purple today, glittering at me as she adjusts her frames. “Yeah, I can see that.” She frowns and turns back to her knife, expression thoughtful. “Maybe it’s not a choice? I can’t imagine anyone choosing this over, I don’t know, a golden field with a never-ending sunset.” She rubs her lips together, thinking. “All-you-can-eat churros. Nachos that don’t get soggy with salsa. Oh! Bottomless brunches you don’t need reservations for.”

Choice. My brain sticks on that word while Sasha continues to verbally list the amenities in her version of the afterlife, most of them food related. Didn’t Nolan say he thought there would be something else? Something better?

Maybe he didn’t have a choice. He said he’s bound to me for the holiday season, but maybe he’s bound to this place, too. Stuck until he does whatever it is he needs to do.

Until I atone for my supposed sins.

I frown down at the silverware set.

“My mom thought there was a ghost in our kitchen pantry,” Sasha continues. “She said he had unfinished business with a bread recipe he couldn’t perfect, and that’s why he kept spilling flour all over the floor.” She gives me a sly look. “But she didn’t know the flour was from my sister. Elena had a fixation with the lollipops on the top shelf and the flour bag was the best makeshift step stool.”

I laugh. “I’d expect nothing less of Elena. Or your mom.”

Where my parents are straight-laced and uptight, Sasha’s moms are free-spirited and welcoming. They come in every few weeks with fresh-baked organic cookies, delighting over the store’s newest finds. Sasha is always horrifically embarrassed, but I’m deeply envious. I’d love to be loved that loud.

“My mom went through a heavy sixth sense phase. She was convinced every disturbance was someone with unfinished business.”

She finishes the knife and sets it down. Picks up another. “Maybe that’s your answer. Unfinished business.”

“Hmm. Maybe.”

Nolan doesn’t fit in line with my ghostly stereotypes. He doesn’t seem driven by anger or malice. He’s not particularly enthusiastic or impassioned about his role. Or his magic. Or … anything, really. He seems like he’s just existing. Drifting along.

The front door of the shop creaks open. My attention snaps toward the door, but no one appears. A second later, a blur of orange streaks by.

My shoulders relax. I haven’t seen Oliver since the letter incident on my front porch. I was starting to worry.

Sasha snorts. “That cat is a menace.”

“Hush. She’s cute.”

“She’s playing you for your treat stash. And you’re nice enough to give in. Every time.” She reaches for the polish can and frowns at it. “We’re out of polish. I’ll go grab some more from the back.”

“Nuh-uh. I’ll grab it,” I tell her. I don’t need Sasha disappearing for half the day again. The last time I checked, she’d added string lights to her reading nook. It’s a miracle she ever comes out of there. “I’ll be right back.”

I grab the empty can and head toward the storage closet.

Unfinished business. Could that be why Nolan is here? He said he died young, that he never anticipated becoming a ghost, so maybe— Maybe there’s something he needs to help him move forward.

An object, maybe? Something in my shop. Maybe my poor decision making is only part of the reason he’s here. Maybe I can make up for my past transgressions by helping him . I could help him solve his unfinished business—whatever that looks like.

Maybe that’s my path forward.

Oliver weaves between my ankles as I wander to the back of the shop, arching her back and nuzzling her head against the top of my boot while I slap blindly at the light switch in the supply closet. She meows into the sudden burst of light, her small face turned up toward mine.

“Sorry, sweetheart. No treats today.” I bend at the waist to scratch at her head, but my fingers are covered with a sheen of polish. Oliver hisses and darts off when it pulls at her soft fur, knocking over a small mermaid figurine in her hasty departure. I sigh and try to wipe the cat hair/polish combination off on my skirt.

The light bulb in the center of the storage closet flickers and then blows out with a soft pop , cloaking the room in darkness.

“Of course,” I mutter, fumbling for the shelf with the polish. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and Bloody Mary will decide she’s bound to me for the holiday season, too.”

“I doubt it,” comes a voice close to my ear. Sea salt and spice. Coffee and cloves. “Mary isn’t exactly social, and she hates the holiday season.”

My hand shoots out and the box of silver polish goes tumbling to the ground. The cans hit the hardwood like raindrops on a window while my heart does its best to beat out of my chest.

Nolan stands behind me, his hands shoved in his pockets. In the dark, he’s mostly silhouette, but I’d recognize that low laugh anywhere.

“Hello, Harriet.”

I smack his shoulder. I don’t care about getting polish or cat hair on him. He deserves both. “I thought we talked about you scaring me!”

He shrugs and angles himself away, bending down to collect the cans that are still rolling around the floor. “Couldn’t help myself,” he says. “And you were thinking so loud, I doubt you would have heard me anyway.”

“Well, try next time,” I grumble. He reaches around my leg for a wayward container and his forearm brushes against my calf. Goose bumps pebble my skin. “Where have you been?”

Nolan stands to his full height, my box against his chest. He scans the shelf briefly then slides it back to its proper spot, keeping his hand propped up against the post afterward like he needs the support. The inside of his biceps is half an inch from my face.

“I’ve been around,” he says evasively.

“Around.”

“Yep.” His mouth pops around the edge of the word.

“It’s been five days.” I pause, embarrassment lighting me up like a solar flare. “Not that I’ve been—not that I’ve been keeping track.”

Nolan, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice my misstep. He reaches for his scruff with his free hand, dragging his palm along his jaw. “Apologies. I had a bit of a … situation.”

The way he says the word situation sounds like I disposed of a body in an alleyway and then feasted on its soul to sustain my life force . I lean back against the shelves and try to read his face in the dark.

“What sort of a situation?” I ask.

He sighs, his warm breath brushing across the top of my forehead. “Nothing nearly as dramatic as what you’re thinking, I’m sure.”

“Did you kidnap someone?” I whisper.

“No,” he says slowly. “I did not kidnap anyone.”

“Eat any souls?”

“What? No. Harriet, I—” He shakes his head. “That mind of yours,” he says, with fond exasperation.

“What were you up to, then?”

He grumbles again, something deep and nonsensical. I can almost feel the vibration of it against my chest. What would he do, I wonder, if I leaned into him. Would he curl around me like he did in the tree field? Would he spread his fingers wide, like he’s trying to touch as much of me as possible? Or would he push me away? Cut me down with another sharp remark?

“My cat hurt her paw,” he finally says.

I blink into the darkness. “What?”

“My cat,” he says again, slower this time. “Builín. She hurt her paw.”

“You have a cat?”

“Yes.” He nods. “I told you I take care of the strays.”

“ Taking care of the strays is different from I have a cat. ”

“Not to me.” He pauses. “They’re the only company I can keep. I want to make sure they’re doing well.”

Well, that’s … cute.

“Was it bad? Five days is a long time.”

The metal shelf creaks ominously behind me. I try to picture Nolan nursing a kitten back to health. His big hands. Tiny pink toe beans. A hurt little paw. A fuzzy body cradled close to his bare chest.

In this mental pathway, Nolan is apparently shirtless.

I banish the thought.

“She’s fine now,” he says. “But she was being dramatic about it. I didn’t feel right leaving her.”

“That’s sweet.”

I keep getting flashes of softness from Nolan. Glimpses of the man he might have been before, maybe. It makes me greedy for more.

I shift and brush against the front of him. He’s standing so close, practically caging me up against the metal shelf.

After not seeing him for a few of days, his sudden presence in this tiny space is jarring.

I’m a tactile person by nature. I like hugs. Holding hands. Cuddling on the couch. Samantha used to fill that need for me when we were younger—my aunt Matilda, too—but I’ve been horribly bereft as an adult. I wonder what Nolan would do if I just wrapped my arms around him and squeezed. He looks like he could use a good hug.

“I’m glad she’s okay now. Your cat.” I pause, sawing my teeth across my bottom lip. “Her name is Builín?”

“Aye,” he says. “It means loaf of bread. She looks a bit like one.”

I wait for him to say something else—to explain why he’s here, to give me the usual speech about my soul hanging in the balance—but he doesn’t. He just … stands there, the two of us tucked together in the darkness.

I imagine the two missing spoons from the display case in the front. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be back,” I try, testing the waters. His face tilts toward mine, though I can’t make out any of his features. Warm air puffs against my forehead. Coffee, again.

“We haven’t figured out what you’ve done yet,” he replies. “I’m—”

“Bound to me.” I sigh. “Yes, I know.”

Something in my chest squeezes. I hate the way he says it, equal parts derision and resignation. I can’t tell if he doesn’t like being a ghost, or if he doesn’t like being paired with me. Neither option sits particularly well, but I firm myself up with an internal pep talk. I’ve dealt with more difficult things than a surly ghost who plays fast and loose with his haunting commitments.

“I was about to buy a Ouija board,” I say lightly.

His laugh rumbles between us. The thrill of turning his mood around surges like electricity through my veins. He pushes off the shelf at my side, the metal rattling behind me. “So that’s why my ears were burning.”

My eyes widen to saucers. “Wait. Really?”

He shakes his head. “No, Harriet.” I can hear his smile in the dark, the way it works around the edges of my name. I bet his dimples are doing something obscene right now. “Those don’t work.”

“How should I get in contact with you, then? If I need you?”

His boots scuff against the floor and in the dark, I feel something lightly touch my wrist.

“Been needing me?”

“You said you’re on a deadline,” I tell him, trying to sound like I’m not affected by the way he’s brushing his fingertips along the inside of my wrist. He’s trying to rattle me on purpose. I’m sure of it. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“Helpful.” He hums. “Helpful Harriet.”

“Yes,” I agree, wary. There’s something about the way he says it, like it’s not something I should be proud of. Like I should try harder to be something different, when helpful is all I’ve wanted to be. Helpful, easy, accommodating. I’ve given all of myself to the people around me, broken myself down into minuscule pieces to try to be exactly what everyone else has needed. I’ve tried to shape myself to other people’s expectations, but it’s only ever left me broken in the end.

And for what? The universe decided it’s not enough, anyway. I’ve been deemed a bad person. Right up there with men who catcall women on the street, apparently.

I swallow around the balloon in my throat. “I try to be helpful. I try to be good.”

“I know,” Nolan says softly. A rare concession. His hand catches the cuff of my sweater.

Soft , I think I hear him mutter, except I don’t think I was supposed to hear it at all. He lets go and I rub at my wrist.

“There won’t be any more interruptions,” he says. “I intend to see the rest of this haunting through. I’ll be around if you need me. Just … think happy thoughts, and I’ll appear.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, Tinker Bell.”

He’s silent for the stretch of three heartbeats. “Who is Tinker Bell?” he finally asks.

“Never mind.” I hold my hand out to him, palm up, wiggling my fingers. “I’m ready to go now. Let’s go watch me ruin the third-grade musical performance of ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ by tripping into one of the elves and tearing down the entire backdrop.”

He sighs, wistful. “I’ve never wished more for the ability to select a memory.”

“Think happy thoughts, and maybe it’ll happen.” I nudge his chest. “C’mon. Let’s seize the day.”

I’m emboldened by my new theory, energized by the idea that maybe I can be the one to help him. It’s a balm to the sharp burn of my bad person designation. An alternative solution to this whole, ridiculous situation. He hasn’t been assigned to me because I’m bad . Maybe he’s been assigned to me because I’m good .

Because I’m the only one who can help.

“Easy.” He grips my wrist, holding my palm away from his. “I’m not grabbing your hand while it looks like that.”

“What’s wrong with my hand?”

“It’s covered in grime.” He pauses. “Also, you could use some lotion.”

I gasp, offended. “Excuse you, I use very expensive hand lotion.” I buy it at the same sale I get all my fancy, matching pajamas. “I think you just hate Nordstrom.”

“I still don’t know who this Nord Storm is and why he peddles in ridiculous scraps of clothing.”

“Nordstrom,” I say. “Nord-strom. It’s a— You know, what? Never mind.” I reach for the polish rag I tossed in blind fear when he made his sudden appearance, tap-tapping my way blindly across the shelf with my palm. “I apply twice a day,” I tell him. “After my shower and before I go to bed at night. Maybe your feeble ghost hands are—oh. What are you doing?”

Nolan has my hand in his, his grip gentle around my wrist. He carefully turns my palm up, cradling it with his.

“Feeble hands,” Nolan says, reaching somewhere over my shoulder for the rag I couldn’t find. His chest brushes against mine as he leans forward. “That’s not what you said the other night,” he whispers close to my ear.

My breath hiccups at the innuendo. A flash of heat starts at my temples and spreads down until I feel like I could melt into the floor. Like maybe I could be poured into one of those polish containers.

“What did I say the other night?” I breathe.

“You called me rugged, I think.” He pulls my hand closer. He starts with my pinky, wrapping it in the rag and working the polish off with firm strokes. I’ve never had such an innocent touch feel so illicit before. I feel like my clothes could disintegrate right off my body. “I was high on expired peppermint tea,” I explain, surprised to find myself breathless.

“You can’t keep using that excuse.”

He moves to my ring finger and I shiver. I want him to stop. I want him to never stop.

“Okay?” he asks.

I make a garbled, gibberish sound in response and Nolan chuckles. He bends his head between us as he moves to my middle finger, watching his work. I examine his face in the light that filters through the crack in the door.

The thin scar above his eyebrow. The sharp line of his jaw. The dark, messy hair that falls over his forehead and the set line of his mouth as he concentrates.

By the time he gets to my thumb, my breath is a rattle in my chest, my body weight resting fully against the shelf at my back. If Nolan notices my semi-liquid state, he has the decency not to say anything about it.

“There,” he says, bringing my hand closer to his face to inspect his handiwork. My belly decides to jump toward my throat. I never knew I had so many sensory receptors in my palm, but I swear I can feel the stroke of his touch everywhere. “All tidied up.”

I don’t move out of his grip. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” His fingers flex around mine. “Ready to take my feeble hand and be on our way?”

“I haven’t let go of your feeble hand.”

“Right.” He adjusts his grip until we’re palm to palm. The butterflies in my belly turn into an avalanche. I blame the world that’s starting to fall away beneath my feet, and the sharp tug of magic at the base of my spine. I close my eyes and brace myself, relieved when Nolan holds my hand tighter.

“Away we go, then,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper in the growing roar around us. “Hold on tight, Harriet.”