Falling for the Ghost of You

All rights reserved

C
opyright © 2012 by Nicole Christie

This is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, establishments, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 1

“I can’t believe you’re still unpacking, Violet,” Lauren says, shaking her head.

She’s judging me from her lofty perch on my desk.  I don’t know if she realizes, but I’m pretty sure she’s sitting on a Ho Ho I had left on there last nig
ht.  Good news for her, though—I
never got a chance to unwrap it.

My method of unpacking involves transferring my clothes from the suitcases lying on my bed to the big square hamper I had dragged in from my bathroom.  Most of the clothes weren’t dirty, but they all smelled like oregano for some reason.  I glare at the growing pile in horror.  I guess I know what I’m going to be doing all day.

To Lauren, I say, “Well, we just got back last night, and some of us aren’t that anal.  I barely had the energy to shower.  Besides, my mom talked my ear off all night about her new fiancée.”

“Did they really meet in an elevator?”

“I know, it sounds so fake.  Trapped for two hours when the power went out in her doctor’s building.”

Lauren arches a blonde eyebrow in that way that I wish I could copy.  “Hmm.  Have you met him yet?”

“No, we’re meeting him for dinner tonight.  Did I tell you he has a son?  He’ll be there, too.”

“You’re going to have a stepbrother.”  She smiles when I make a face at her.  “I still can’t believe your mom got engaged to someone she met in the two months that we were in Hawaii.  That doesn’t seem like her at all.”

“I know,” I agree, flopping down onto my bed.  “But she says she fell in love with him in that elevator.  I don’t know.  She’s happy, that’s all I care about.  As long as he treats her good, I’ll play nice.”

Lauren seems to be impressed with my accommodating attitude.  Either that, or she’s shocked.  “Are you guys really moving in with him?”

“Yup,” I say.  “It’s weird, but it’s only for a year, then I’m off to college.”  I pause and roll over onto my stomach to look at her.  “He moved here from L.A.  He just bought a house in Emerald Point.”

Her eyes widen.  “He’s
that
rich? Wow.”

Emerald Point is the really fancy section of Hidden Cove.  I’ve only been in that part of town once, for a sleepover at Summer Rosen’s mansion.  Her father owns two hotels in Vegas.  Yeah, they have a theater room.  And an indoor tennis court.  Just to give you an idea.

Lauren and I are strictly lower middle class girls.  We live in the same apartment complex, which
is fortunate for Lauren, since I drive her butt to school every morning.  We aren’t exactly ghetto here, but we’re more likely to
be
the maids, than to have them.

“You think the snobs who live there will be able to tell I don’t belong in that neighborhood?” I ask, half-jokingly.

Lauren shrugs.  “Maybe they’ll think you’re the really young trophy wife of an old perv.  You’ve kind of got that look about you.”

“Do I really?” I say, and present her with not one, but two upraised middle fingers.

She just laughs.  “Does Matt even know you’re moving?”

“Nope.”  I sit up, and rummage around in one of my suitcases until I find the small package I’m looking for.  “We’ve hardly talked all summer.  I’m meeting him at Taco Bill’s in a couple of hours, so I guess I’ll tell him then.  Do you think he’ll like the shark’s tooth necklace I got him?”

“I can see him wearing it.  He’ll
probably tell everyone he caught the shark, himself.”  Lauren shifts awkwardly on my desk.  “What am I sitting on?”

“Ooh, you’re right.  And he’d say it in that fake accent he swears is Australian.”  I point at her, ignoring her question.

She removes the smashed up Ho Ho from under her rear and stares at it.  “I’d better go.  I have to pick up some stuff for dinner.  I’m making sweet potato soup.”

Lauren likes trying out new recipes.  That’s not always a good thing.  “The twins won’t eat it,” I predict.  Her little sisters were picky eaters, but what can you expect of pre-teens?

“Probably not.” Lauren shrugs indifferently.  She hops off my desk in a quick efficient move,  “Let me know how it goes tonight.”

“Sure,” I say.  “Or, you could come with.”

“Not even if you paid me,” she says over her shoulder as she practically runs out the door.  “Text me!”

Shoot.  I should have tricked her into saying yes.  Lauren hates social situations more than I do, but if she accidentally agreed to go, she would have gone through with it.  I know what I’m talking about, I’ve done it to her before.

Lauren and I met back in kindergarten.  We sat next to each other in most of our classes, but by the end of the first week, the teachers had us separated for talking too much.  We had bonded over our mutual disl
ike of public speaking.  We’re
both quiet and shy, sharing a love of reading and writing.  When I first saw her, I knew we were going to be best friends.  She had me at her pirate stickers collection.  We’ve been attached at the hip ever since.

In sixth grade, I became convinced Lauren suffered from
Asperger
syndrome.  She made me look it up, and to my disappointment, she only had two or three of the traits, and they weren’t severe enough to qualify.  Not that I wanted there to be something wrong with her, but the girl is even more socially dysfunctional than I am.  It’s weird, but that’s one of the things I like best
about her.  Lauren doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks of her, and she’ll usually just say whatever’s on her mind.  Best of all, she never lies.  Even when sometimes, you prefer she did.

I’ve tried to look at Lauren objectively, and I’ve decided that she’s more cute than pretty, with her tiny build, huge brown eyes, and wispy blonde hair.  She kind of reminds me of a fuzzy little kitten, the runt of the litter.  The one who always has its back turned on everyone, with its tail curled protectively around its body.

In retaliation, Lauren always tells me I look like every guy’s pornographic fantasy.  Since I’ve heard some version of
this from not a few people when
I lost all the weight, it irritates the crap out of me.

I used to be fat.  Really fat.  I was an emotional eater.  I mistook Twinkies for love.  Common mistake.  I blame it on my dad.  When he left my mom for some woman he found on the internet, I stopped overeating.  I’m not going to say that my overeating was entirely his fault.  But it was. 

My poor mom.  She never really got over what that loser did to her (until now, that is).  A few years after he left, she was diagnosed with breast cancer.  What a horrible, horrible disease it is.  It devastates the lives of the person who has it, as well as everyone who cares for her.  My mom had to quit her job as a school counselor.  She lost thirty pounds in two months, and when she started chemo, she lost most of her hair—including her eyelashes and eyebrows!  She was so self-conscious about that, I remember.  My pretty vivacious mother…she became this shrunken pain-filled shriveled thing I didn’t recognize.  A shadow who lived on the couch for almost a year, and needed help with the most basic
of
tasks.

It sounds weird, but the scariest thing for me was that she wouldn’t tell me
anything
.  She wouldn’t admit to being in pain, or tell me just how bad her prognosis was.  Had the cancer spread?  What did the doctors think of her chances?  She wouldn’t say, insisting that she was fine and was feeling stronger—when clearly, she wasn’t.  And I was too much of a coward to come out and ask her,
“Are you going to die?” 
I wanted to believe her, I wanted to pretend with her, but every night I lost sleep to check on her, and make sure she was still breathing.  My secret fear was that I would wake up one morning and touch her cold lifeless body.  No warning, no goodbyes.

It’s hard to think about those days.  I try to forget them, and it’s almost easy to when I look at my mother now.  Cheerful and pretty, with a head full of pale blonde hair and a smile full of love and rainbows.  I try not to remember how ravaged by the disease she was just a couple of years ago, and I try not to think about how it
could
come back again at any time.

Wow, I really don’t want to talk about that.  She’s doing so much better now.  Mom couldn’t return back to her job at the school, but she has a better set up now, maintaining her best friend Jane’s “Healing Lotions” website—which she can do from home.  So, yes, my mom’s home all the time, and yes, I consider it a good thing.

So that’s why I don’t begrudge my mother finding herself a fiancée while I was away for the summer.  Hell, I’m thrilled he’s apparently loaded.  If anyone deserves to be lavished with expensive gifts, it’s Mom.  I’ll even call him Daddy if he keeps her happy.

No, I won’t.  That’s just weird.

******

Chapter 2

I have to meet Matt in less than an hour.  What should I wear?  Normally, I don’t put too much thought into my outfit, being a t-shirt and jeans kind of girl.  But I haven’t seen my boyfriend in two months, so I should make some kind of effort, right?  I bought a shirt in Hawaii, a hot pink tee with a giant glittery Hibiscus flower on it.  I should have tried it on before I bought it because, damn, I did not realize it would make my boobs look so huge and…bouncy. 

Oh, who cares.  I never show them off, and today is a special occasion.  But if I wear a nice top, does that mean I can wear my grungy black shorts with the elastic waistband?  I’ve been told before that I should never wear them out of the house, and that was by my own mother.  Maybe she’s right.  I decide to go with my favorite pair of old jeans instead, and congratulate myself on the effort.

Aw, crap, they’re kind of tight.  I blame it on working in my grandmother’s bakery over the summer.  I didn’t even have to eat anything to gain weight—just breathing in that wonderful freshly baked pastries smell was enough to put on the pounds.  But Lauren didn’t gain any weight, and she was right there behind the counter with me, selling baked good for minimum wage.  Must be nice to have a bird’s metabolism.

I wonder what Matt will think of my new hair color.  My long dark brown curls are now a golden brown, closer to my real hair color, which is blonde, like my mother’s.  I’ve always thought my light hair didn’t match my naturally tan skin and almond-shaped eyes, so I’ve been dyeing it since I was fifteen.  I feel like a brunette trapped in a blonde’s body.  Is that weird?

I’ve spent too much time worrying about my appearance, and now I’m going to be late.  I grab my bag and dash out the door—but then I have to come back in for Matt’s souvenir necklace—and also I decide to put my hair up in a clip, because I hate the weight of my heavy hair on my back on a hot day like today.

Wow, it’s really hot.  I hope the air conditioning in my old Toyota works today.  It blows air, just not very cool air.  I think I’d be better off rolling the windows down.  Ha, good thing I put my hair up.  I start the car and pull out of the carport in a hurry, eager to get some air moving around in the car’s stiflingly hot interior.

Despite the brain melting heat, it’s a nice day.  The sky is a bright shade of blue, with fluffy cotton candy clouds drifting lazily around.  I live in Hidden Cove, a small-ish coastal town in southern California.  Because of the beautiful beaches and perfect weather, we’re kind of considered a party town, and we seem to attract more than our fair share of drunk college kids.  Now some people may think that makes Hidden Cove sound like a fun place to live, but not me. 
It gets really irritating.  I hate being hit on by obnoxious frat boys who have vomit breath and grabby hands.  And ladies, do
not
flash me your boobs.  I have a pair of my own, and I have absolutely no desire to see yours.  Really, put some clothes on, girls.