Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 52976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Just how many lies have I told him over the years?
When I hear noise outside my door, I rush and open it, hoping to find Byron. Instead, it’s Mrs. Shaheen, who returned from the shop, letting herself into her place.
“Mrs. Shaheen …” I try.
At the sight of me, the woman scuttles quickly into her apartment and shuts the door without a word, nearly breaking her cane in half in the effort.
Even she’s spooked by me.
And I thought she was utterly unspookable.
When my replacement phone arrives in a tiny box at the door, I take a moment with my laptop to set it up, then sit at the table sulkily as I relive that moment with the bus rushing past my face. I keep hearing the way it so recklessly swiped my phone right out of my fingers. Had I been a millimeter more into the street, I might not have a face right now.
As if my heart isn’t filled with enough uncertainty and fear, my own memory of that day haunts me.
My mom is the first call I get on my new phone, but it’s just to confirm the address of the wedding venue. Again. “It hasn’t changed the last ten times you asked.”
“This will be the first time in over thirteen years we won’t be home to give out candy,” she complains in her warm, thickly drawled voice. “Are you sure we can’t have the flower girl drop candy down the aisle instead of rose petals? It would be so cute!”
She still hasn’t processed that there isn’t a flower girl. “This isn’t really a traditional wedding, Mom, and I’m not sure stepping on Snickers and Skittles as I walk the aisle to my fiancé is a good idea.”
“Oh, you’re no fun!”
The truth is, I’m in no mood to talk to my mom. All I can do is sit here in front of my laptop scrolling the web in search of anything I can find about ghosts. There is no telling what’s real and what’s made up. Everything looks like everything else. If I search any longer, I’m gonna start finding Casper The Friendly Ghost porn.
Have I really been putting my own soul in jeopardy by having a friendship with Westley? Letting him share my body? Or was that just a lot of fearmongering from Mrs. Shaheen, who is habitually paranoid and on edge about anything to do with the dead?
Maybe I should’ve befriended a sea monster instead of Westley. Then I’d probably have her full support.
Honestly, I could use the help of Byron’s dads. But they seem to think we’re in some kind of danger, too. Their first priority would be to do exactly what Westley said: seek out the spirit and exterminate it like a pest in the walls. I doubt I can trick them the way I tricked Mrs. Shaheen into giving me valuable information.
Now I’m pretty much alone.
With my questions.
With my fears.
With myself.
That’s when the phone chimes with a text. I pull my phone (and Mom’s rambling) away from my ear to look.
At once, I bring the phone back. “Sorry, gotta go.”
I hang up on my mom midsentence, grab my keys off the kitchen counter, and head out the door.
As I burst out of the building, I ignore all of the storefronts decorated in fake spider webs and skeletons and make my way. Orange and green lights blink in my face as I turn the corner and end up at my destination: Spooky Beans Café, with its strings of bright pumpkin lights with funny faces tracing the windows.
The door chimes when I enter. The front counter is abuzz with customers being served, and the spicy scent of seasonal lattes fill the air.
I spot Byron sitting by himself at a tiny table in the back. His eyes are already on me, waiting.
I rush to the chair across from him and sit. “Byron.”
“Griffin,” he says softly back.
I’m relieved to hear he doesn’t sound angry. “I was worried. All day long. You said you just needed air, and then you were gone for hours.”
“I had to think. I guess I … had more to think about than I realized.” He gently nudges a cup toward me. I’m so focused on Byron, I didn’t even notice the two cups sitting on the table between us. “For you.”
I take a small sip from the tall orange straw. It’s a Pumpkin Prince, but it’s sweeter than usual. Perhaps it’s one of those variants he mentioned before. “Thanks.”
“Of course.”
Sadly, my mind isn’t in the right place to make small talk about it. “Did you … finish thinking …?”
He takes a sip from his own, smacks his lips, then gazes thoughtfully at his cup. “I did.”
“Okay.” I clutch my Pumpkin Prince and stare at the real, living one sitting across from me, waiting for his answer with mounting impatience. He only stares at his cup in thought. I clear my throat. “And …?”