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)
“I don’t mean that.” Mrs. Shaheen presses a finger to my chest as I stare at her questioningly. “Your soul.”
“My soul …?”
“It may have already been torn. That day you nearly lost your life. The trauma of it, it’s exactly the thing that might have shattered your inner spirit. You took no time for yourself to heal from that near-death experience.”
I squint at her. “Wait. So you’re saying …?”
“I’m saying it may not be West’s fault, either,” she explains. “It was nearly inevitable that the simple act of West forcing his way out of you when your soul was in a weakened state may have caused this to happen.”
I look down. “I … I guess I was so in shock about my close call with the bus that I didn’t consider it might still have damaged me in a different way. You really think that’s what happened?” I ask her, lifting an eyebrow. “My soul was already torn when West exited my body? This is all some sort of ‘accident’ …?”
“I’m not fully sure of anything.” After a moment, her voice turns serious. “Do you trust this Westley? You believe he will keep his word? You feel so sure about your friendship with him?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Yes, I do.”
“Good. I sure hope you’re right. Because while that talisman around your neck may protect you for now, I haven’t the faintest notion whether it’s a match against whatever horror show your dear fiancé is planning with his dads come Halloween.”
It’s later that night—at a mere seven minutes before midnight, to be precise—that I decide I’ve had enough. A phone call won’t do. Neither will a text.
I have to see him face-to-face.
In plaid pajama pants, sneakers, and a mismatched jacket with a green-and-black-checkered beanie, I head around the corner and down the block past the dark windows of the closed Spooky Beans Café. Hugging my chest against the wind, which seems to be blowing extra chillingly tonight, I make my way to the nearby front of his building and push my way inside.
Byron must be awake, because not ten seconds after I knock on his door does he answer. “Griffin?”
“Is our wedding still on?” I ask rather sharply.
“Of … Of course it is, babe.”
“‘Babe’? So I’m your babe again? After today?”
Byron sighs. “Come inside. Let’s talk. I should’ve called you. I … I thought you might need your space. I was foolish. I should’ve known you were worrying in your apartment all this time.”
“Oh, you don’t say?” I snap. “Your fiancé whose soul is in mortal danger? And you think I needed space? Space for what? Dying?”
He gently takes hold of my hand and pulls me into the apartment, then closes the door behind me.
Soon, we’re sitting on his couch near the large glass windows with baroque harpsichord music softly playing and mugs of hot chocolate in our hands. He holds his mug with one hand while gently stroking my back with the other, arm half slung over the back of the couch.
Yes, I’ve calmed down a bit. Apparently so has he. “You’re not as pale or cold to the touch,” notes Byron.
“It’s my dollar-store death talisman,” I casually tell him, gesturing carelessly at my neck. “I don’t know if it’s actually doing anything, but I haven’t shivered or seen anything scary since Mrs. Shaheen gave it to me.”
Byron’s eyes avert for a moment. Then he seems to decide something, smiles, and looks at me again. “That sounds promising. Good.”
“Now you’re suddenly okay with everything?” I look at him. “I keep replaying the look on your face as you stormed angrily out of my apartment.”
“I know.” A creepy note trills on the harpsichord. “I felt like I was losing control of everything. I lost myself a bit, too. Maybe it was an aftereffect of … what we just went through together. I’m still shaken a bit.”
I’d say I’m shaken, too, but I think I’m way more used to the outlandishness of the ghost world than he is, even despite his fathers. I wonder if his dads ever even once encountered the ridiculous level of insanity we just faced earlier today, or if all they know is merely based in theory with little to no evidence.
Speaking of: “So what did your dads say?”
Byron meets my eyes briefly, then stares down at his mug. “They … They said we’ll be fine.”
“‘Fine’ …?”
“Of course they were worried at first,” he gives in a little, shrugging, “but I told them the situation, and I … I told them what your ghost friend promised, and …” I see a hint of discomfort in his eyes as he shifts slightly on the couch, then finally smiles at me. “You don’t have to worry about anything, Griffin. You’ll be just fine no matter what happens.”
He’s not telling me something. “What exactly do you think might happen, Byron?”