How To Bring Your Love Life Back From The Dead (19 page)

Hefting his mallet, he swung it into
the nearby wall. That felt good. It crumbled. Old sheetrock spilled
around his feet.

First, he’d destroy the house, and
then he’d tackle its ghosts.

Nine Months Later

“Do you know what I find appalling,
Duck?” Clay asked, dropping down to sit beside her under the oak
tree. The crisp autumn leaves crackled beneath him as he
sat.

It wasn’t the only shade or the only
tree, and she was clearly reading. The book was in front of her,
her eyes had been skimming the pages, and it was right-side up.
Clearly she was reading…not just pretending to read so that
everyone would leave her alone—that was just an added benefit.
Especially today. And if there was anyone she wanted to see less,
today of all days, they didn’t come to mind right away.

“Probably not the same thing I find
appalling,” Corrine said, keeping the book directly in front of
her. She snuck a quick look at him, without actually turning her
head to look at him. He was wearing coveralls covered in sky blue
paint. It must be painting day at the house he was flipping. She’d
bet it would be cream-colored because it would off-set the brick
nicely. He’d found out what her money was on and painted it blue
just to spite her.

“It might be.” he said.

“Do you want to bet?”

Clay pulled a dollar out of his
pocket and held it up between two fingers.

She went to take his dollar, but he
yanked it out of reach. “I was actually paying to hear what you
think is appalling, not betting you. I have no doubt you can make
up something that’ll sound decent.”

She did turn her head this time—to
glare at him. “One,” she said—loudly—in a voice she was sure he’d
mock when she was out of earshot. He called it her librarian voice.
He always had.

“There’s more than one?”

She rolled her eyes. “Clay, with
you, there’s always more than one. One, I find it appalling that
you still call me ‘duck’ because I haven’t waddled since
kindergarten.”

“It wasn’t the waddling,” he
said.

Oh. She’d thought it was. It
surprised her so much that she dropped the book into her lap. She
frowned. “Well, what was it?”

“It was that you followed me like
you were a baby duck.”

She looked away from him and down at
the book on her lap as her cheeks flushed with heat. Oh. That was
so much worse. The nickname was bad enough—for the most part. Okay,
it sometimes made her feel a little like she had an ‘in’ with the
town’s local eternal bachelor even though she’d been away from here
for almost a decade when she returned a year ago. Now, it’d just
make her feel stupid. She should ask him if everyone else knew the
reason for the nickname, but she really didn’t want to
know.

“Two?” he asked, his voice was a
little quieter, less arrogant than when he’d sat down.

“Uhh, two, you’re nearing the age of
thirty without realizing that a person holding a book in front of
them while sitting under a tree is exhibiting a behavior indicative
of societal mores stating they wish to be left in
peace.”

“Sometimes I think you use big
obscure words to remind me you had to tutor me in
English.”

“That was a long time ago,” she
said, feeling deflated.

“Appalling was three syllables. I
should get points for that one at least. I could have said scary…or
even bad, but appalling fit the best.”

Every sentence made her
shrink.

First, he knew she’d had a crush on
him for who knows how long. He’d been calling her ‘duck’ since they
were five. She’d followed him around for a good long while, and
even when she’d stopped being obvious about it—in retrospect, maybe
she hadn’t stopped being obvious about it.

Second, now he thought she was
pretentious and patronizing—that she used big words to prove she
was smart—no, to prove she was smarter. She’d never believed that.
She’d worried he’d think that when she’d been randomly assigned to
tutor him for his college entrance exams. He was gifted in other
ways. He seemed to have a savant ability to do the math required
for remodeling in his head and then the skills to do it all
himself. He’d flipped over a dozen houses in the area since he’d
gotten out of high school. How could she not be
impressed?

She didn’t use big words to make
anyone feel bad—she just sort of liked how they felt on her tongue.
It was like a language she’d learned in another country, and it
trickled into her everyday talk because she liked those words
better.

Third, he’d accused her of making up
stuff to find appalling in order to win a bet. People in Rye Patch
didn’t cheat on bets. They were many things—a little stuck-up, far
too insulated, probably slightly in-bred, but they didn’t cheat on
bets.

“Three?” he asked. “I know there’s
got to be a three. There’s always at least three once you get going
on a list.”

Three. Three was three too many
insights into their past and his feelings for her. She held her
book up in front of her face. “Three is keep your damn dollar and
go find someone else to harass.”

He sighed and took the book from her
hand, despite her attempt to grab it back. Sticking the dollar in
as a bookmark, he set it to the side of him, out of her
reach—unless she dove across him which she wouldn’t do.
Anymore.

Swallowing, she settled back against
the trunk of the tree and kept staring straight ahead, even though
she could feel his gaze on her. She pulled her legs up to her chest
and wrapped her arms around them. She always felt gangly and
fifteen when Clay was around. In a minute, she’d get up and leave
without her old, dog-eared copy of Dracula. In a minute, she
wouldn’t care that he was paying attention to her—as if finally,
she merited a second look. In a minute, she wouldn’t wonder why he
hadn’t dated anyone since she’d gotten back to town.

Then, a minute passed, and he kept
staring at her.

Another minute passed.

Finally, she couldn’t take it
anymore. “What do you find appalling?”

“That you haven’t completed the one
bet you left hanging when you bolted out of town and, here it is,
ten years to the day, and you haven’t made any plans to complete
it. I might start calling you chicken instead of duck.”

She froze. There was only one thing
he could be talking about—the thing that had been the last
straw—the thing that made her realize he didn’t see her as anything
more than some joke instead of an equal. The one thing that made
him the last person she’d wanted to see, especially today. October
twenty-fourth seemed to exist for the sole reason of making her
feel stupid. A week before Halloween. A week before Rye Patch’s
fall festival.

The town was already ramping up.
Decorations were going up on lamp posts. People were already
buckling down to improve on last year’s apple pie recipes for the
contest. There would be a dance in the high school gym open to
everyone, but she hadn’t gone even when she was in high school. In
a week, this park would have a small carnival.

They were sitting under the tree
where they usually sold caramel apples. When she was eleven, the
boy beside her had bought them both caramel apples with his
birthday money.

Only he wasn’t a boy anymore. Not by
a longshot.

Last year, they said there’d been a
kissing booth and several of the local firemen had manned it to
raise money to replant the acres that wildfires had destroyed a
couple years back. Somehow Clay had got roped in, possibly because
he was a volunteer firefighter, but she wouldn’t rule out maybe
he’d just jumped at the chance to kiss a bunch of women. Clay had
made quite a bit of money for charity that day—apparently. She’d
heard there’d be a booth again this year. Bets had been placed on
how much Clay would make.

She’d planned to skip it for that
very reason. Skip the whole night. And then muscle through this
week leading up to it—this week she affectionately called “hell
week.” Maybe being back in Rye Patch tonight and this week would
finally vanquish her ghosts, and she could get on with her
life.

“Duck?”

She shook her head as she dragged a
hand through her short, blonde curls. “What does it matter? The
Miller place belongs to you now and, clearly, it’s not the scary
derelict spook house it once was.” She gestured at his coveralls.
“I can’t believe you’re painting it blue.”

“Who told you I was painting it
blue?”

She turned and looked him square in
the eyes. “You’re covered in blue paint.” Did he really think she
was that dim or was he just teasing her again? He even had flecks
of blue paint on the tips of his light brown hair. It looked like
the worst highlight job the small town’s salon had ever
seen.

“I haven’t even started on the
outside. I just finished the remodel on the inside. Figured I’d let
the new owner pick the outside color.”

“You’ve already sold it?” Wow, the
rumor mill had failed rather spectacularly. They’d said he wasn’t
in any rush. Of course, she’d heard there was speculation a year
ago that he was leaving Rye Patch for good, but clearly that hadn’t
been true either.

“Nope.” He snorted half a laugh. “I
heard you were betting on white.”

“Not white. Cream or egg-shell.” She
closed her mouth with a clack of teeth. Crap. He always tricked her
into admitting things like that. “Shut up,” she said preemptively
which made him laugh again. “You’re holding off on painting the
outside just to make me crazy.”

He picked up a white clump of clover
and ran it along her arm near her elbow. It made her shiver even
though she tried not to. “Is it making you crazy?”

Everything about him made her crazy.
He was the one ghost she might never exorcise.

As if he heard her thoughts, he
said, “You know it’s still haunted, right?”

“Your house?” It surprised her
enough that she turned to face him. “The house you’re flipping—is
haunted?”

“Yup. That’s why I figure the bet
still stands.”

She narrowed her eyes as their gazes
met. “Like…for reals? Haunted?” She sounded like she’d never left
Rye Patch and went to college up north. She’d already slipped back
into all the old slang after only a year back. It was tenaciously
resilient—like a superbug—or roaches.

He shrugged. “Yup. Things have
happened there that make no sense. It might stay haunted forever if
I can’t figure out how to get rid of its ghosts.”

She waited for him to laugh and
punch her shoulder—treat her like he had back then. He’d called her
‘Duck’ ten years ago when he’d challenged her too—she remembered
that. So, she had been obvious. Damn. Finally, she asked, “Are you
serious? If this is a joke….”

He held up both hands. “No joke. I
swear on my mother’s grave….”

“I’m going to tell her you said
that, and she won’t find it at all funny. I helped her find a rare
copy of
Catcher in the Rye
to auction off at the fall
festival.” Corrine kept a small bookstore on Main Street even
though ninety-five percent of her business was done online. She’d
closed early today so she watch the sun go down on October
twenty-fourth and kick out her own ghosts once and for
all.

“Yeah, she said that. Said she was
impressed—that you really know your stuff when it comes to books,”
he said as he went back to rubbing the clover across her
arm.

She grabbed his hand, stopping
him…that was all she’d intended, but it hit her heart like a
lightning strike—and she wished she hadn’t touched him again. Her
ghosts were never going away, not in this town, not with Clay still
around.

He grabbed her hand in a firm grip
when she went to pull it away. “The bet still stands, Cory…we shook
on it.”

It was rare that he called her
anything but ‘Duck’ and it sent squirrelly heat bouncing around
inside her chest. She’d only shaken on it to get out of that room
in the library. They’d been in one of the study rooms, and she’d
felt like maybe things were different between them—maybe he was
starting to feel something for her. Then, he’d joked about her
spending the night in the haunted house and bet her she was too
chicken to do it. And she’d felt it—her illusions shattering at her
feet like she’d dropped glass. He’d never see her like she saw him.
So, she’d shaken his hand and got out of there so fast she’d left
skid marks.