Haunting Zoe (7 page)

“Yeah, I do.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I think sometimes we hold onto people
so tightly, we can feel them around us all the time.”

I sigh. That’s not quite what I meant.

“What about, like ghosts?”

“Ghosts?” his tone is concerned.

Ah, crap.

“Yeah, I mean, do you think that sometimes
when people die, they can just, sort of…I dunno. Still be
here?”

He rolls onto his back, clasping his hands
behind his head.

“If the Sci-fi channel has taught us
anything, it’s that ghosts are everywhere.” He chuckles. “All those
poor souls and their unfinished business.”

I look over at him. “Unfinished
business?”

“Yeah, that’s what keeps them here, at least
according those guys on the ghost hunting show. They have stuff
they still need to do or something.”

“I didn’t know you watched that crap,” I joke
lightly, letting his words roll around in my head.

“Don’t judge me.” He chuckles. “Why do you
ask anyway? You feeling haunted?”

I decide to be as honest as I can. “I feel
like, sometimes, I can still hear him. Logan I mean. Or I see him
out the corner of my eye.”

“I was that way when my little brother died.
For the first little while, it was like I could feel him in the
house. Every once in a while, I was sure I’d seen him, but it was
always just my mind playing tricks.”

I remember the feeling. That had happened
when my dad died too. Rolling over I nuzzle my head into his chest
and let him rub my back until I fall asleep.

I’m dreaming of the cemetery, of Logan’s face
as I screamed at him. Behind him, one of the stone angels was
walking forward, sword in hand. She stopped behind him and lifted
the sword over his head like she was going to cut him in half.

The crash of thunder wakes me an instant
before the now dark sky opens up and begins to pour. I grab the
basket as Carlos grabs the blanket and we race for the car,
laughing. As soon as I’m in and buckled I look out the window and
see Logan standing on the side of the road, staring at me. The
smile falls off my face.

***

By the time we make it to the Tea Room I’m
mostly dry. We pull into the narrow lot and park. Carlos reaches
into the back seat and pulls out his guitar.

“Open mic?” I ask hopefully.

He smiles widely.

Inside, beyond the initial sitting room
that’s all decked out in long red velvet couches and high backed
Victorian chairs, the space opens into an area stuffed with small
round bistro tables. The walls are covered in gold and bronze
gilded mirrors and shelves that are overflowing with ornate vases,
candle sticks, and other antiques. I head straight for the table in
the back corner, the dimmest corner of the room. On the table, a
single candle flickers in a frosted glass mason jar. Out of nowhere
Lana ,the owner and resident tea expert, appears. Lana is about
four and a half feet tall, with her long raven hair rolled along
her hairline in a 1950’s style wave. Her skin is creased with age,
her eyes narrow and warm brown. She throws her arms around
me—something she does to all the regulars—and the smell of her
thick lavender perfume sticks to me even after she moves on to
embrace Carlos.

“I’m so glad to see you!” she says warmly,
just a hint of a Korean accent in her voice. “Sit, sit.”

We slide into our chairs and she gently takes
the guitar out of Carlos’s hand.

“I’ll put this by the stage for you.”

Taking her free hand to her chin she squints
at me.

“You’ll try the mango ginger tonight, I
think. And you, raspberry and honey?”

We both nod and smile. The first time we came
I made the mistake of asking for a menu and she just rambled off
about fifty teas before telling me what I would have. Since then we
never actually get to order for ourselves, she just sort of chooses
for us. I don’t really mind. Three years of coming here and she has
yet to serve me something I don’t like.

Carlos watches her carefully lean his guitar
next to the old jukebox near the stage. The stage is little more
than a four foot square of tile with a microphone plugged into an
old amp and a faded red stool on it. But this is Carlos’s favorite
place to play. It’s quiet and intimate and the acoustics are
somehow perfect.

Turning back quickly, he jerks his head over
his shoulder. “He’s here.”

My head snaps to attention. For one idiotic
second I think he means Logan. I glance around and don’t see him.
“Who?” I ask, confused.

“Behind me to the left. No, my left.”

I glance over. The hot guy from Bloomingdales
is here with two friends.

“Did you…?”

He bristles. “I may have mentioned that I
come here to play sometimes. But I certainly didn’t
invite
him.”

“Why not?”

He tugs the front of his grey vest. “If I’d
known he was coming, I would have—“

“Chickened out?”

He raises a shoulder, touching it to his chin
in a sassy gesture, “Worn my good blue shirt.”

“Are you still going to sing?” I ask, sitting
forward with my elbows on the table.

He rakes a hand through his dark hair. “Of
course I am. Maybe. After my tea.”

No sooner does he say the words than Lana
comes tottering over with a silver tray. She carefully sets two
empty cups on the table in front of us, places a copper tea ball in
each one, then lays out the cream, sugar, spoons, and a small plate
of fresh lavender scones.

“Let them steep five minutes,” she orders
before turning around and heading to another table to deliver a
ticket.

We add the hot water from the small white
kettle and wait, knowing full well not obeying her recommended
steep time will earn us sharp looks from her later.

Stirring a spoon of sugar into his tea Carlos
begins telling me about his audition for Rhett in this year’s
production. He wants me to run lines. I smile and agree, knowing
that for the third year in a row he will end up as Ashley. Not
masculine enough for Rhett is what they tell him. I think they’re
just assholes.

“So I was thinking of growing out a beard,”
he says, finally taking a sip. “Not a weird hillbilly beard, but
one of those,
oh I just didn’t have time to shave this week
beards.”

I’m only half listening. Part of my brain is
still thinking about what he said earlier, about unfinished
business. Could that really be what’s holding Logan here? And if
so, what does he need to do to resolve it? I must be staring off
into space because the next thing I know, Carlos is snapping his
fingers in my face.

“Hello, earth to Zoe?”

“What? Sorry.”

“I asked if you had a back to school entrance
strategy.”

I take a long sip of my tea only to pucker
when I realize I’ve forgotten to put any sugar in it. “You make it
sound like we’re planning a military invasion.”

He sits back, resting his chin in one hand.
“Oh, Zoe. You are so sweet. That’s exactly what it is. An invasion
of a hostile country. You can try for diplomacy, or you can just go
in with guns blazing.” He pauses, giving me a pointed look. “You
realize that you could have your pick of any guy in school,
right?”

I raise one eyebrow. “Did someone spike your
tea?”

“I’m serious. Honey, listen. You have this
sort of shell of bitchiness that you hide behind. If you would just
open up and let the rest of the world see you the way that I
do…”

He trails off. I make a face and stick out my
tongue.

“Okay, maybe not exactly how I see you, but
you get my drift. I mean, you’re smart, funny, pretty. If it
weren’t for your acidic mouth you could be the most popular girl in
school.”

I roll my eyes.

“He’s right.” Logan chimes in and I nearly
drop my teacup in my lap, choking on the hot liquid.

“You alright there Zoe?” Carlos asks.

I cough into my napkin. He stands to pat my
back but I wave him off.

“I’m fine. Wrong pipe. Sorry.”

“You sure you’re ok? I could Heimlich you if
you want.”

He sits back down, his eyes are glinting
mischievously.

“Thanks but I’ll pass.” I nod to the table up
front. “Maybe Bloomie Hottie will choke and you can Heimlich
him.”

Carlos sighs wistfully. “We can only
hope.”

Logan takes a seat in the empty chair beside
me, passing through the table to get to it. I try not to look at
him.

“Ignoring me now?” he says lightly.

I frown but don’t answer.

“Blink once if you can hear me,” he says with
a chuckle.

I scratch the side of my head with my middle
finger. He laughs harder.

This is getting old fast.

I nod to the stage, “Alright, enough
stalling. Go sing for me.”

With a wide grin Carlos gets up, leaning over
the table to press a quick kiss on my forehead before heading for
the stage. He sits down and settles himself in. As soon as he
plucks the first chord I’m transfixed. The entire room falls into
silence, the only sound is the melody he plays. Closing his eyes he
sings one of my favorite songs, a cover of
All We Are We Are
by Matt Nathanson.

I take a deep breath and let the sound of his
voice wash over me.

“He’s really good,” Logan says.

I don’t even look at him.

“Ok, you are still pissed. I get it. And…I’m
sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I didn’t mean any of
it.”

I take my last sip of tea and slide my cup
back.

“Come on, Zoe. Please don’t shut me out. I
was upset. I didn’t mean it.”

I shift in my seat, letting my hair fall
forward into my face as I whisper.

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I really didn’t. Carlos is a good guy,
and he’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

I shake my head slowly, not ready to forgive
him just yet.

“Carlos is right, you know. You do have this
armor around yourself. You should let people in more.”

I turn and glare at him. “Why? All people
ever do is let me down or abandon me. Why should I let anyone in?
It’s not worth it.”

“You let Carlos in.”

“I let you in too. Look how well that worked
out.”

He frowns and lowers his chin. It looks like
he wants to say something, but can’t quite figure out the
words.

“Do you really want to live that way?” he
asks finally.

I shrug and turn back to Carlos. He finishes
the last chords and the room erupts into applause.

He stands up and takes a quick bow. Before he
can step off the stage Bloomie Hottie stands and stops him, they
chat and Carlos busts out his million dollar smile. That poor
cashier is toast.

I sigh. “I’m sorry too, Logan. I’m sure being
dead is very stressful. Look, I think I might know why you’re still
stuck here. Meet me at my house in an hour and we will talk
then.”

“Where should I go in the mean time?” his
voice is tight, on the cusp of whiny. “Not that I’m having tons of
fun hanging here with you.”

I glare at him for a second.

“I can make a suggestion, but you’ll need a
handbasket.”

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