Page 97 of The Ghost and the Graveyard (Knight Games 1)
"Come on, Grateful. You're twenty-two years old. You can have sex responsibly without opening your whole life to a person. Keep sex where sex belongs, in the bedroom. Keep your heart where your heart belongs-in your chest, tightly guarded by your brain. You know, if you were a man we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Uh oh. I'd tapped on Michelle's passionate feelings about gender equality. Better change the subject or this could take a while. "I thought you were supposed to tell me to follow my heart."
"No! That's terrible advice. Hearts make knee-jerk emotional decisions. Your heart picked Gary and look how that turned out. This time, you need to use your head."
I knew she was right. Michelle was always right. But could I do it her way? Could I just wait and not make a decision about Rick or Logan or becoming the witch?
Strange Cup of Joe
I did not make a decision. Weeks passed. Nothing happened. The ground didn't open up. I wasn't struck by lightning. As far as I was concerned, I could do non-committal for as long as it took. To fill my days, and keep my mind busy, I picked up extra shifts at the hospital and fell into an exhausting routine.
Logan proved amicable with my non-decision, although disappointed I wasn't choosing him romantically. No matter how many times I tried to explain our joining was a mistake, like literally an unexpected accident, I could sense that his feelings for me ran strong. He continued to cook and clean. He was an excellent listener. It was flattering...and completely wrong.
I passed Rick's stone cottage an average of twice a day, sometimes catching him on the porch or working near the cemetery, but I did not stop. With sad eyes, he'd watch me go, but he didn't come for me. Although he was fast enough, and strong enough to press the issue, he never did.
Summer, in pursuit of greener pastures, packed its bags and left New Hampshire, ushering autumn to Red Grove. Overnight, the trees grew bolder personalities, dressing in garnet and persimmon and welcoming my Jeep home with an increasing number of free-spirited leaves.
"You can't put us off forever," Prudence said one night from the edge of my bed. Tonight she was her young, nursey self, soft spoken and vulnerable. "It's not fair to Rick or to Logan."
"Or to you. Don't forget yourself, Prudence," I snapped.
She sighed heavily.
I circled my hand in the air. "You know who this entire situation isn't fair to? Me. This isn't fair to me."
Prudence rippled and blinked out of sight. "Perhaps," her disembodied voice said, and then she was gone.
The next morning, I worked a full day and an hour of overtime. I plodded to my car, exhausted from thirteen hours of beeping machines, blood, and drugs. The extra shifts were catching up with me along with the stress of avoiding the supernatural entities in my life. On the way home, I called my dad. I'd neglected our relationship since what I'd come to refer to as "the big reveal." The call went straight to voicemail.
"Dad, I just wanted to tell you I love you. I'm so glad you told me the truth about Mom. Maybe we can have dinner Sunday night. Call me when you get a chance."
I ended the call and pulled into a Java Jane's for a cup of coffee. I wasn't sure I'd stay awake on the country roads to Red Grove without it. A line had formed for the drive thru, so I parked and drifted to the counter half-asleep.
"I'll have a Fall Spice Latte," I said to the barista.
She nodded and requested an exorbitant amount of money in exchange, which I promptly handed over. All part of the Java Jane's experience. I folded into a wooden chair at one of the bistro style tables while I waited for my grande. Even though I was exhausted, I couldn't help but notice an old man in the corner of the cafe staring at me. He was giving me the hairy eyeball as if he'd just seen me on America's Most Wanted. Beady eyes peeked out from a deeply wrinkled face of a yellow color that only comes from a lifetime of heavy smoking and abuse of alcohol.
Every self-defense class I've ever taken emphasized that eye contact simply encourages the aggressor, so I looked away, hoping he'd lose interest. I heard him scoot his chair back on the tile and out of the corner of my eye, saw him scratch his potbelly through his stained t-shirt. Besides the barista, he and I were the only ones inside. I silently prayed he'd leave. No luck. I didn't hear him approach until he was right next to me, close enough for me to smell his foul breath, a smell I could only compare to the stench of gangrene.
"I see you," he said in a raspy drawl that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
My protective instincts told me to run. Instead, I turned my head and looked him square in the face, my most professional demeanor sliding into place like a mask. "If you need a doctor, the hospital is a mile north of here. You can get treatment in the emergency room."
The wrinkles of his face swallowed his eyes as he considered what I said. He tilted his head to the side, contemplating me with such intensity I stood up and stepped toward the counter just to get away from him.
"I'll be right with you," the barista said, busy finishing my latte.
The old man showed a mouthful of yellow teeth. Was that supposed to be a smile? "For now, heh-cah-tee," he rasped. "But I see you. I see you." And then, to my relief, he left, laughing all the way out the door.
"Here's your latte," the barista said, handing me the cup.
"Thanks. Jeez, that guy was creepy, huh?"
"What guy?" she asked.
"The old man who was just here talking to me. The one with wrinkles like a Shar-Pei."
She looked at me blankly. "I didn't see anyone. Gosh, I hope he doesn't complain to the manager. I'm supposed to greet everyone who comes in."
