Ghosted, p.12
Ghosted, page 12
Then I ask all the questions on the list that Daniel and I came up with this morning—how to prolong orgasm, five ways to please your lover, how to communicate during sex—standard, boring questions. Safe questions.
And after a few minutes Daniel looks up again, loosens his shoulders, and shrugs off his internal debate. He gives me a casual, nonchalant smile and spends the rest of the interview making irreverent, self-deprecating comments about sexathons and sexcapades.
But I can’t help but wonder, when I asked about making love without making love, was he thinking the same thing I was?
And if so, is that bad or is that good?
18
Whatever Daniel felt at the interview, whatever conclusion he came to after his internal debate, I never imagined it’d be this.
The chill of the evening stings my nose and bites my cheeks, buffeting me with its cold winds. I pull my trench coat tighter and wish that I’d worn pants instead of a dress. Even my toes, pinched in an old pair of high heels, are complaining about the lingering cold.
But I dressed up because when we left Dr. Brown’s office, Daniel said that tonight we were going out. I thought he meant he and I, but he actually meant me and another man. One that I had to find myself.
“All you have to do,” Daniel says, pointing like a general directing his troops to the interior of the coffee shop, “is go in, order a coffee, sit down on the couch, and smile at the guy.”
I peer through the large window at the interior of the cozy coffee shop. It’s one of those indie, we-take-coffee-more-seriously-than-life, comfy-couch, thick-wood, dim-lighting places that has open mic nights and weekly poetry readings.
On the couch there’s a man in his early thirties, with spiky black hair, sun-browned skin, and a trace of stubble. He’s wearing a black t-shirt, jeans, and motorcycle boots, and has that effortlessly cool vibe. He’s reading a thick hardcover book, leisurely thumbing through the pages.
“That’s all?” I ask, skeptical.
“Trust me,” Daniel says, giving me a distracted look. “That’s all it’ll take.”
“A smile?” No offense, but I’ve smiled at plenty of people and I’ve never been asked out because of it. Thank goodness. That’d get awkward really fast.
“A smile,” Daniel confirms.
I don’t believe him, and he realizes it. He waves his hand in a give-it-a-try gesture. “Try it on me.”
I stretch my mouth and give him a bright, big smile.
Daniel blinks. Rubs his hand over his mouth as if he’s hiding a grin. Clears his throat.
I drop the smile. “See?”
He brushes his hand through his hair, his chest flexing, and nods. “I get your point. I didn’t mean smile like you’re a ninety-year-old lady showing off your new dentures, I meant, smile like…” He pauses, and then his lips curl at the edges, hinting at secrets and connection and pleasure and vice, and holy crap my heart flips, my stomach bottoms out, and a glowing fiery warmth pools inside me and spreads like wanton heat licking over my limbs. I sink into the warmth of his smile and take an involuntary step toward him. His eyes darken to a burning flame blue and drag me under, singeing me from the inside out. I take a shuddering, aching breath, and the air burns my lungs. He’s right…that’s a smile.
But then Daniel blinks, wipes the smile from his face, like a fire doused, and takes a careful step back.
“Like that,” he says, clearing his throat. “That’s how you smile.”
No way. If I smiled like that at someone, I’d be on my back with my legs thrown over my head in a millisecond. The only person I’ll ever give a smile like that to is the man I love.
“Do you smile at everyone that way?” I ask, curling my cold hands into my coat pockets.
Daniel shrugs, his shoulders lifting. “The only person who can see me is you.”
He sounds matter-of-fact, but my chest pinches at his words all the same.
“I’m sorry,” I say, regretful I asked him and reminded him that he’s in this ghostly limbo.
“Don’t be,” Daniel says, avoiding my eyes, looking out towards the street, where scaffolding and graffitied plywood wrap a building under construction, and taxis and buses sweep noisily past.
I nod, then put my hand to the concrete window ledge of the coffee shop. I fiddle with my ring for a second. It’s a large amethyst held in place with silver prongs.
“You’re sure about this?” I finally ask.
Daniel looks back to me, the overhead streetlight glowing through him, the outline of his golden skin fading like an old photograph.
“It’s why I’m here, right? I’m supposed to help you. Which means—” he gestures at the man he decided I should hit on after fading in and out of half a dozen coffee shops looking for a decent guy.
“And if he asks me a question? If he wants to engage in conversation?” I ask, frustrated because it makes me cranky that Daniel’s so determined to foist me off on another man.
“Conversations are what I’m here for,” Daniel says, waving my concern away. “It’ll be good.”
Then, without waiting to see if I’m following, he confidently strides through the front door.
“What’s the hurry?” I ask the streetlamp, which obviously doesn’t answer.
However, a bearded homeless man I hadn’t noticed sitting on the stoop of the apartment building next door lifts his coffee cup to me and says, “Who’re you talking to? The grays?” He squints, his eyes furtively darting around the dark block.
I smile to myself. Serena was wrong. There’s at least one other person on the planet who thinks aliens before ghosts.
I shake my head apologetically. “No. I’m talking to myself.”
Then I hurry after Daniel, tuning out the homeless man’s laughter.
19
I wrap my hands around the paper cup, letting the heat sink in, and breathe in the bolstering scent of strong, dark coffee and copious amounts of sugar.
The coffee shop has that freshly ground espresso smell, that low hum of voices over soft acoustic guitar, and the dim yellow-tinted lighting that blends morning seamlessly into night so that you don’t notice the time passing while sipping your drink for hours.
I smile thanks to the barista, drop cash into the tip jar and then turn to pretend a casual study of the interior—as if I don’t know exactly where I’m going to sit.
Daniel finishes his rapid-fire monologue on the essential steps to letting someone know you are both attracted and available. He spoke in a quick voice over the whine of the grinder and the hissing of steaming milk, trying to impart a lifetime of wisdom in ninety seconds.
“Got it?” he asks, his brows drawing down in concern, as if he can tell I’m not quite clear on his theory of attraction. “Jillian?”
“Mhmm,” I say, nodding and walking across the reclaimed wood floors toward the thickly cushioned, gray upholstered couch near the back wall, where Daniel’s choice of a “decent-seeming guy” sits reading his book.
My heels tap against the floor as I hesitantly wend around dozens of coffee-lovers chatting, reading, and tapping on their phones while parked at cute little wooden tables.
“You don’t, do you?” he asks worriedly, keeping pace with me by walking through backpacks and empty chairs.
I shake my head no and clutch my cup more tightly. The closer I get to the guy the cuter he looks. He has a confident aura, a way of reading and smiling at his book that makes you know big thoughts are happening.
I stop and think about turning around and rushing back into the cold spring night.
“Nope,” Daniel says, catching my expression and reading it correctly. I swear, it’s ridiculous how well he can read me. “It’s fine. It’s easy,” he says reassuringly, dropping his hand to my arm. I look down at his curved palm resting over me and sigh.
“Repeat after me,” he says firmly.
I look up into his eyes and widen my own in protest. How am I supposed to repeat after him when I’m standing in the middle of a coffee shop surrounded by dozens of people?
“Say it into your cup. Now repeat after me—I’m a beautiful woman.”
I take a sip of my coffee and raise my eyebrows over the rim.
“Go on,” he says, his blue eyes implacable and demanding.
“I’m a beautiful woman,” I say into my cup, the coffee scent fanning around me.
Daniel smiles in approval. “I’m passionate and kind.”
“I’m passionate and kind,” I whisper, the coffee heating my cheeks. I let the liquid singe my lips.
Daniel nods. “The man who loves me will be the luckiest man alive.”
I swallow the coffee, the sweetness overwhelmed with bitterness. But I hide my reaction behind the cup and say in a scratchy, thick voice, “The man who loves me will be the luckiest man alive.”
Daniel considers my response, his sandy-brown hair falling across his forehead, my fingers itching to brush it back, and then he nods. “You’ll do great.”
At that we walk to the couch together, and once I’m there, I casually sit on the opposite end from the black-haired man and set my cup on the wooden coffee table.
“Okay,” Daniel says, stationing himself next to the arm of the couch, like a coach on the sidelines.
The acoustic guitar plays overhead, stretching out the silence as Daniel takes in the scene, probably going through his playbook of moves.
What were the essential steps he mentioned before?
I can’t remember. I’ve forgotten them already. Prolonged eye contact? Was that one? Or does that just make you look like a psychopath?
I shift on the couch, sinking into the cushions, take off my trench coat, and cross one leg over the other. My red dress, one patterned after Uhura’s from the original Star Trek, slides up my thigh, revealing a good amount of skin.
I glance at Daniel, waiting for his coaching, but instead find him hungry-eyed, staring at the hem of my dress. Warmth flows through me at the heat in his gaze, but as soon as my fingers trace over the hem of my dress, he blinks and shakes his head.
“Right,” he says, all business. “All you need now is to attract some attention. He knows you sat down, he glanced up momentarily, so now…attract him more.”
The coffee shop is warm, I didn’t notice how warm before, but it’s warm warm. Slowly, I put my fingers to the hem of my dress and push it up an inch, another inch, and one more.
Daniel’s eyelashes flutter, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing, and he lets out a puff of air.
“That’s…” He swallows, his throat bobbing, “You can ask him the time, and when he looks up, hit him with your smile.”
Daniel moves around the coffee table to stand behind the black-haired man. I bite my bottom lip and focus on Daniel. The line of his long chest, his strong arms, his wide shoulders, the steadiness of his gaze.
“Do you know what time it is?” Daniel asks me, his mouth curved into a smile.
I shake my head no. “Do you know what time it is?” I ask back.
At that, the man who had been absorbed in his nonfiction tome, completely ignoring me, glances at his watch, then says without looking up, “Quarter to nine.”
Then he goes back to reading, chuckling at something funny on the pages. I give Daniel a surprised look, and Daniel scowls at the man.
“When a lady asks you the time,” he explains patiently, “You look at her when you respond.”
I hide a smile. I wonder what Daniel did when he was alive. Maybe he worked for Emily Post, writing treatises on etiquette.
He glances back to me, shaking his head, “That didn’t work. Round two. Drop a pen near his foot and then twist your hair seductively as you ask him to retrieve it for you.”
I hold back a snort. Seductively twist my hair? Who does he think I am?
I give him a sardonic look, and he grins at me.
“Like this.” He takes his hand and twists a finger through his hair, letting the ends brush against his chin. I stare at the way his finger glides through his waves, and when Daniel sees that I’m watching, he drops his hand and says, “Try it.”
I root through my purse, pull out my favorite erasable pen, a turquoise one with a hot pink eraser, and then casually toss it to the ground. It plinks against the wood and then rolls and skitters, coming to a stop against the man’s black motorcycle boots.
Of course, he doesn’t notice. But, “Good shot,” Daniel says approvingly.
I grin at him, and he gives a triumphant smile.
“Now, twirl your hair and put on a smile.”
I thread my fingers through my curls, spinning them around and around, and try to smile like Daniel did.
He shakes his head. “You look like someone just told you Picard never actually escaped the Borg. Smile, Jillian. Smile.”
A laugh fills my chest and I give Daniel a blindingly brilliant smile. He may not remember being a trekker, but he is one, even in death. No one else would care whether Captain Picard was assimilated to the Borg or not.
“Now that is a smile,” Daniel says, leaning toward me, drinking in my expression. “Ask him,” he says. “What do you need?”
What do I need?
I need Daniel to not be dead.
I need him to be the one to love me.
I need him to never leave, to never move on.
His eyes widen as if he can hear my thoughts, then he says. “Ask him for your pen.”
My smile dims a bit, but I say, “Excuse me, I dropped my pen. Could you please…”
And wouldn’t it be wonderful if Daniel could pick it up? Instead of his hand passing through it.
The black-haired man finally looks up from his book, he glances at me, his forehead wrinkling. He gives me a sharp stare and shakes his head. “What?”
I twist my hair more furiously, flutter my eyelashes, and smile the most I’m-attracted-and-available smile I can muster.
The man frowns, clearly not understanding, so I nod meaningfully at my pen resting next to his foot. He looks down, sees my pen, and grunts. Then he gives my favorite, my most wonderful erasable pen a quick kick, sending it skittering back toward me.
“There you go,” he says gruffly.
I suck in a stunned breath, the smile dropping from my face, and bend forward trying to execute a quick grab. But I don’t reach down because my right hand, formerly seductively twisting my hair, has become tethered, no knotted, to my curls.
My hair is snarled in the prongs of my ring. So instead of reaching for my pen, I jerk my head down, yank out multiple strands of hair, and let out a sharp, pained yelp.
The pen smacks against my heel, ricochets away, and spins to a stop under the coffee table. When it finally stills, I look at the man in helpless outrage. He’s paying me no attention because he’s back to being impossibly cool and completely absorbed in his book.
I tug at my hand in frustration, but my fingers are still stuck in my hair, attached via prongy ring.
“What…” Daniel pauses, his eyes moving from me tugging at my captured hand, to the man lounging on the couch and reading his book on the history of free jazz.
“How can he ignore your smile? How can he ignore your…” Daniel scowls, then says determinedly, “Round three.”
Gosh, maybe he wasn’t an etiquette arbiter, maybe he was a boxing or a jiu-jitsu coach. That would explain his physique at least.
“All you need to do is crawl under the table and retrieve your pen. It’s game over after that.”
I give Daniel a skeptical look. If smiles and seductive hair twisting didn’t work, then crawling under the table won’t work either. However, this is my favorite pen, it’s out of reach, and the only way I’ll get it back is by crawling. So, here goes.
I hobble down to the wood floor, one hand still stuck in my hair, and drop to my knees. Out of the corner of my eyes, I notice that the black-haired man is finally paying attention. But instead of being wowed by my beauty, he looks as if he thinks I’m some crazed lunatic.
My cheeks flush, and I scooch forward, one hand still in my hair, the other reaching forward under the long coffee table. I look like a trussed up turkey being shoved into the oven. It’s humiliating.
But my pen!
I fall forward, my elbow cracking on the wood, and then grasp my pen in my fingers. But my position, my stretching, and my tiny 1960s sci-fi mini dress, all conspire against me. There’s a tearing, the sharp whine of fabric that you never want to hear when you’re bent over, and then there’s the cold breeze hitting my butt, covered, mortifyingly in white Starfleet granny panties.
“Jillian,” Daniel says, as I freeze. My mind screams, “Drop and roll! drop and roll!” but my body refuses to move.
“You’re…you…” Daniel cuts off.
The black-haired man coughs and that finally manages to pull me out of my paralysis. I drop to the wood floor and then roll over, grabbing my dress with my one free hand, and pulling the torn fabric together.
I scoot out from under the table, like an injured crab scuttling back to the ocean. My poor pen is still under the coffee table. The black-haired man has his book raised to hide his entire face.
I slink up to the couch and drop onto my coat, pulling it around my lap.
“Jillian,” Daniel says.
I shake my head, my cheeks burning, refusing to look at him. The black-haired man is thankfully ignoring me, just as he’s done since I sat down.
“That was…” Daniel stops, and something in his voice makes me look up.
When I do, I level him with a hard look.
He’s trying so hard not to laugh that he’s practically crying.
“It wasn’t funny,” I say under my breath.
“I really like your underwear,” Daniel says, his mouth quivering. Then he salutes me. “Captain.”
I tug at the ring in my hair, trying to loosen my hand. “If you laugh, I will kill you. I will redshirt you. I will murder you in your sleep.”
“Can’t,” Daniel says, as he barely holds back, his chest shaking. “Too late. It’s too late for me.”
