Moments later she let out an exasperated huff and flipped onto her back, glaring at the ceiling.
"Patrick!" she called out, sounding pissed off. "If that's you... I mean, if you're really here... Jesus, I am going nuts," she said in a quieter voice. "Talking to ghosts."
He laughed ruefully. "You've been talking to me for months."
Louder, she said, "Look, I know you're a good guy. Ginny said so. Just... I don't mind sharing the house with you, but don't scare the Hell out of me like that, okay? My mental state isn't that stable."
"You're stronger than you know. Take a nap, okay? I'm sure it was just a fluke. Maybe you didn't see me at all... maybe you really did imagine it. I mean, maybe you've just seen my photo one too many times ."
As much as he didn't want to believe that, he couldn't fully accept she'd really seen his reflection. Even daring to think she actually caught a glimpse of him had filled him with the kind of hope he couldn't afford to allow himself .
Sara avoided the bathroom for the next twenty-four hours. Patrick wasn't sure where she went to take care of her business, but it wasn't at the house. She was gone for hours at a time, returning in silence and almost seeming to tiptoe around the house.
Patrick followed her into the kitchen, scared she might see his reflection in something and freak out again. She poured a glass of orange juice and sat at the kitchen table.
"I'm afraid," she said, her tone quiet. "I don't know what to believe anymore. I told Jules I didn't feel alone in this house, and now I wonder if I am. I don't... believe in God or the afterlife or whatever... but maybe you really are here."
"I am." Patrick stood behind her chair, staring at the top of her head. "I am here. I'm sorry to be so... spooky."
She left again, and Patrick retreated to her office. An uneasy burn seared his chest amaybe it was the feelings he had for her pulling at him again, but part of it was guilt. He was responsible for making her uncomfortable in her own home. There was nothing he could do, though. It wasn't as though he could go on vacation to Disneyland for spooks for a week and give her some breathing room. The most he could do was avoid her... leave the room when she came in.
He could spend time in the attic, he supposed. She rarely went up there. It was his least favorite area of the house, though. It was a place that held no good memories for him, and there were no windows where he could watch whatever was going on outside. It was just plywood floors, pink insulation , and exposed beams.
He chuckled without humor. He was finally able to do something the ghosts he'd seen in movies could do: haunt the attic. Classic. Haunt and brood... it would be his new life. Well, maybe not so new; it was what he'd been doing for the last forty years. He supposed he could add yearn for the love of his life... or afterlife... to the mix.
For the next few days, he did just that. It was torture. If Sara was in the house, he hid himself away in the attic, quietly reading his books. He only ventured downstairs when she was gone, but he was getting antsy. He missed her ... the sound of her voice, seeing what she wore each day, watching as she ate. Not seeing her was worse than the years he'd spent in the house alone.
Eventually he gave in, and he felt horrible about it, but he couldn't deny himself anymore. Being away from her roiled his guts . He descended the attic stairs, braced himself for the feeling of the wood as he passed through the door, and ended up stumbling through Sara's shoulder as she rounded the corner from her bedroom to the hallway.
She shivered again and murmured, "There you are."
He quickly stepped away from her and took in a deep breath, savoring the warm aroma of her skin. He wanted to wrap himself around her and absorb every bit of her into his body. He was an idiot to think he could be away from her. They navigated the hall together, Patrick taking the stairs just behind her. Now that he'd given up the agony of hiding, everything seemed brighter and better.
He wanted to be her man, pure and simple. Even standing next to her, the longing in his chest making him feel gross , which was weird enough considering he hadn't experienced anything like it in so long it took him a week to realize nothing was wrong except he was heartsick. With a start, Patrick thought maybe he really was in Hell , and Sara was his punishment. Not really Sara herself, but the emotions he held for her ait was torture to be in this house with her every day and not be able to wrap his arms around her or talk to her. The only thing that made it bearable was the strange connection they had. Every minute of every day he wished he'd discover some other thing they could share.
There was something different about Sara. The corners of Patrick's mouth tugged into a frown as he studied her. It took him a few moments to figure it out ait was the way she smelled. Her normal scent of soap had been replaced by something floral and spicy. He assumed it was perfume, although it was better-smelling than anything his mother had ever worn. She had preferred Avon Topaze, which he knew because he had dutifully bought her a bottle every Christmas from Mrs. Stout, the neighborhood Avon Lady.
She was more dressed up than normal, too. She looked really good, wearing some kind of tight, purple dress with a see-through dark red thing covering her shoulders and arms. It made her skin glow.
"You look really pretty, Sara."
She straightened the pillows on the couch, touching a pile of books on the coffee table a his copy of The Turn of the Screw lay on top. She now used the photograph of him and his parents as a bookmark, something that never failed to make him smile.
The doorbell rang, and Sara abruptly turned toward the door while muttering, "I can't believe I'm doing this."
"Doing what?" Her stride across the room was determined, a straight line to the front door. She took a deep breath and yanked it open. Patrick crept up behind her, peering around her head.
That Kevin guy from her writers' group. With flowers.
What the Hell was this?
"Hey, Sara. Wow, don't you clean up nice? You look great."
Patrick's mouth puckered. Was he saying Sara looked like shit in a pair of jeans? Because that was just bull... she looked choice all the time. She'd looked great even back when she was too skinny and too pale.
"Oh, uh, thanks. Do you want to come in?"
"Yeah," Kevin said, smirking. He pushed past Sara, nearly walking into Patrick, before he turned and thrust a bouquet of red roses at her. "These are for you."
"Roses. Oh, you shouldn't have." She carefully slid her fingers around the stems and brought them up to her face, taking a sniff. "They're pretty. Thanks."
"No problem. So are you ready to go? I made reservations at Lotus for seven."
"Uh huh. Just let me put these in some water and grab my purse."
Sara disappeared into the kitchen, but Patrick remained where he was, glaring at Kevin as the man very clearly stared at Sara's behind. This could not be what it looked like. There was no way Sara would go out on a date with this jerk. Patrick snickered as the guy checked out himself out in the reflection of one of the photographs on the mantle, smoothing his eyebrows with his index finger and pinky. What an ass.
Patrick considered heading into the kitchen to see if he could get Sara to see his reflection in the toaster or something... anything to freak her out so much she couldn't go out with that guy , but he didn't want to upset her. The week since he'd allowed himself to be around her again had been... well, he was careful.
"Okay, let's go." Sara smiled, her lips pressed tightly together, and they left, making small talk about the weather.
All the air in the room seemed to be sucked out with the closing of the door behind them. Patrick grimaced, chewing on the inside of his mouth in agitation.
"Crap!"
He stalked around the living room, fingers twitching. Kevin was a shitty writer, and his hair was stupid-looking. How could she like that guy? Patrick was hotter; he was sure of it.
With a groan that seemed to pull out of him from the tips of his toes, he sank onto the bottom step of the stairs and buried his face in hands, poking the tips of his thumbs into the corners of his eyes. This whole situation was so stupid. He was a ghost. That was all. Yeah, Sara had seen him in the mirror, and she could sense when he was around aor wasn't around, as the case may have been abut so what? It didn't change a thing. He loved her, and he wanted her... but there was nothing he could do to have her.
He was jealous of Kevin, a man who drove a car the color of dog shit. He'd seen it parked along the street the night of the writers' group meeting. And now Sara was in his awful car, going out to a restaurant, doing something he could never give her.
Well, he could give her something. He didn't have much. She'd already found most of the books and his record player, but there were other things still hidden away.
The cigar box was still tucked away under the insulation. He used his book on religion to pry up the pink foam since he couldn't actually touch the stuff, carefully lifting the ragged cardboard case out its space. He'd looked through these treasures in it more ti mes than he could count over his time in the house , recounting the memories each stone held. The brownish rock with the rough texture was something he'd picked up on his first day of junior high. There was a smooth, flat stone that looked almost pale pink that he'd found before his first date with Ginny.
He supposed it wasn't the most manly thing he could have collected a Andy'd had a coffee can full of beer and soda can caps abut Patrick just had a habit of picking up random stuff when he was little... and then it just became his thing . He dug through the box, luxuriating in the feeling of something physical touching his skin as he passed over other odds and ends to find the stone he wanted.
It really wasn't a stone; it was beach glass. Every time he went to Sea Isle with his parents, he'd keep an eye out for it... sometimes he'd find some and sometimes he wouldn't. This one vacation he'd found a piece of green glass that sort of resembled a heart . It was slightly bigger than the other small, polished bits he'd picked up, and no w he wanted to give it to Sara.
Sure, it was silly. He wanted to give her so much more that. He wanted to make her smile, take her out... kiss her. If he tried to come anywhere near those lips, he was pretty sure she'd be scarred for life. She'd probably sell the house immediately and nev er look back .
The glass fit perfectly into his palm, although it no longer warmed up under his touch like it used to. He chuckled as he descended the stairs into the living room, side-stepping the spot where he'd died a still his ha bit. If anyone looked through the front window, they'd see the st rangest sight ever: a piece of glass floating through the air and landing on top of a book on the end table. His book. Too bad he couldn't write a note to go with it.
He laughed again, louder this time. What would he even say? Gee, Sara, I'm in love with you and wish more than anything I could be alive for you. Uh, sorry I'm dead. Yeah, that would go over great. Maybe he should dig out that old pencil of his and hope Sara would sharpen it for him... he'd get right on penning that love letter .
Still, even without it, he wondered what Sara would think when she found the stone. Maybe she wouldn't even notice.
The top step felt hard and cold under his ass as he sat and waited for her to come home. He didn't want her to be unhappy, but he kind of hoped she wasn't having a good time. How could she with Kevin the jerk?
A few hours later, he watched his shitmobile pull up. He didn't even open the car door for Sara, which pissed Patrick off. She was a lady, and she deserved someone to do gentlemanly things for her. He pushed his face as close to the glass of the front window as he could without moving through it awhile he may not have wanted to witness what could happen when Kevin said good night on the front porch, he didn't want to accidentally leave the confines of the house and wake up a few hours later.
Oh, God. Please let this end on the porch. He'd seen some of the television shows Sara watched. Things were most certainly different now in the dating world. Not that he could imagine Sara letting this guy feel her up, but still .
He watched through narrowed eyes as Kevin leaned in, letting out an excited, "Yes!" when Sara turned her head to let the guy's trout lips land on her cheek.
"... everything, Kevin. I had a really good time," Sara said, pushing the door open.
"I'll give you a call tomorrow. Maybe we can go out again this weekend."
"Oh, uh, maybe." Sara took a step back into the house, and Patrick stood directly behind her, wanting to wrap his arms around her and press his nose into her perfumed neck.
"Yeah, later." Kevin waved at her with two fingers before turning and heading back to his stupid car.
The sound of the Sara's high-pitched giggle was confusing, to say the least. Was she happy because her date had gone so well? Or maybe her jackass date had gotten her drunk. Was she drunk? Had he taken advantage of her? Patrick stepped around to her side, eyes raking her over, from her hair to the strappy black shoes on her feet. She looked okay. Well, she looked great... but her clothes didn't look messed up, and she didn't appear to be swaying.
Patrick's fingertip sank through the end of Sara's hair, a shiver shaking her delicate shoulders as she snorted and rolled her eyes. Well, that was a good sign.
"Oh my God!" she howled, bracing one hand on the closed door and leaning her body weight forward. "What the Hell was I thinking?"
"I have no idea. That guy is a goober." Patrick's hands clenched, wanting to touch her again, wishing there was some way he could pry the details out of her. As it turned out, he needn't have worr ied aa few moments later her laughter wound down as she hiccuped, and she straightened, heading toward the kitchen while doing her normal routine of talking out loud.
"That was the worst. I can't believe I let Jules talk me into going out with that guy."
"This was your sister's fault?" Patrick kept pace with her, leaning against the counter next to the refrigerator.
"Oh, and these roses! I know there's no way he could have known, but I hate roses. Why not tulips or peonies or, Hell , even daisies?" Patrick made a note of that , adding it to the giant list of Sara facts in his head, although he didn't know when it would ever come in handy since he couldn't leave the house to pick or buy any flowers. "He made this ridiculous scene at the restaurant when he ordered wine, doing this bizarre chirping noise with his mouth when he sampled it. Jesus, Patrick!"
CHAPTER SIX.
The apartment was small, the living room barely wide enough to fit a miniature armchair and a short couch. Patrick navigated around the edge the couch, grinning when he banged his thigh into the coffee table ait had been a while since he'd had a physical reaction to something new aalthough he didn't feel the sensation of his mouth mov ing . The smile died, though. He felt himself screaming, but it wasn't him... his voice sounded gruffer and wrong. Off.
A small, rectangular mirror over the thermostat caught his eye. The shock of seeing someone else's face reflected there struck the pit of his stomach. This guy's face was thinner and more angular, his hair darker and curly. Patrick felt trapped inside another man. He couldn't make his body do anything, move... he was just along for the ride.
His feet kicked at the layers of old newspaper strewn across the floor, a smear of something on the wall leading to the kitchen. The place was a mess, and his mind raced , a cacophony of thoughts bouncing off the inside of his head. They weren't his thoughts, though. Voices bellowed, making him wince.
She wants to kill you.
Look at the eyes! They're triple-seeing, purple haze. Cut them out. Do it now.
Cover the windows!
They jumbled together, talking over each other. It continued on, rising and falling, his feet and hands twitching. He stumbled into the kitchen , jerking the blinds closed over the window above the sink and clutching at his ears to block out the ripping noise it made. The knife lying in the sink. Big. Shiny.
She knows.
Take the knife.
Patrick woke with a start, foot kicking through the wall of Sara's bedroom. He grimaced at the viscous and heavy, cold sensation . He groaned, rolling onto his stomach. He hadn't meant to sleep t here last night, but Sara had been talking to him ato him! as aying his name over and over. It was Heaven and Hell . Having someone actually acknowledge his presence was a feeling he couldn't explain. Bubbles rippled over his skin every time the word left her mouth, but at the same time he felt empty and sick. What did it matter if she said his name? So what if she had admitted to having feelings for him that one time? She couldn't take him seriously. How could she? Her feelings meant nothing. Well, not nothing . It meant everything to him. It was just bumming him out that he loved her and couldn't ever have her.
No sane person would choose someone who couldn't be touched... who couldn't hug her back. How couldn't be with her.
It was probably just some kind of a game. He wasn't real to her, and he never could be.
He pushed himself to his knees, staring at his hands against the grain of the dark wood floors. Sara stirred in the bed to his left, yawning loudly and rustling the bed covers. Patrick peered over the edge of the comforter. She sat on the edge of the bed with her back to him, the sun shining in from the window casting the lines of her body into silhouette. She had fewer sharp edges than she used to, but she was far from fleshy. The light glanced off the soft edges , making her glow as she stretched and yawned. Her hair looked like it was alight from his position ashe was a fiery demon, terrible and awe-inspiring.
The memory of the knife flashing from his dream tore his gaze away from her. The vestiges of the manic feeling clung to his brain, an uncomfortable and itchy sensation pricking at him . It was odd, almost like the anticipation of waiting for something awful to happen. Patrick climbed to his feet.
"Good morning, Sara."
Silence returned his words, and he glanced back toward her, noting the way the dust in the air swirled around her when she arched her back and twisted her neck from side to side. Without any warning, she pulled the hem of her nightshirt up over her head and tossed it in the corner of the room, leaving her in nothing but small purple underwear and a pair of socks that reached just over her knees, although Patrick's eyes were focused nowhere near that spot .
A voice in his head told him to go... to shut his eyes or turn around. He was violating her privacy, her personal space. He shouldn't be ogling her small, barely-there ass or thinking about the way he could just see the curve of her boob. The sudden rush of lust racing through him freaked him out, but the fact that he couldn't make himself look away from her skin was worse. It was so wrong.
She stretched again, pushing herself off the mattress to stand and reach toward the ceiling, the muscles of her bare back flexing and bunching. Patrick stood, rooted to the floor, feet not budging even as he desperately directed them to walk out of her bedroom. Her slight waist gently curved away at the hip, and a small, round mole in between her shoulder blades drew his attention. He wanted to touch it, circle it with his thumb to feel the texture.
Leave. Go.
Sara turned and grabbed her robe, giving Patrick a view of her nipples. She was small through the chest, even after gaining a few pounds, but her breasts were pert. Even though he and Ginny had gone all the way on more than one occasion, they'd both remained covered for the most part aGinny had kept her shirt on when they were in the back seat of his car in case they had to make a quick getaway from a nosy cop, and the few times they'd done it in a bed, they'd been under the covers in the dark. He'd never seen a live woman's body this naked in the light, and the fascination overcame his need to be respectful.
The step he took put him a few feet closer to Sara, and he reached out a hand, intent on feeling the heaviness of her flesh. It wouldn't feel good, not like really touching her, but he wanted the sensation. Needed it.
Sara turned away from him before he could make contact, breaking him out of the spell.
"What am I doing?" he muttered. He lowered his eyes to the carpet while she put her robe on, feeling like a perv.
She hadn't bothered to tie the robe closed, the curves of her still visible. Avoiding her bedroom and the bathroom when she first woke up as he had been doing seemed suddenly like both the wisest and worst decision ever. He was a Peeping Tom now, but he couldn't deny he wanted nothing more than to see her half-naked again... or all the way naked. The hard-on tenting his corduroy pants was a testament to that, but the strange mix of shame and greedy desire ruin ed the moment for him.
Singing a song he'd heard from her speakers a few days ago, she stutter-stepped in his direction, and he scrambled to get out of her way. The disgust he felt over spying on her, trying to touch her like that... she couldn't know he was here. He couldn't give her even the slightest indication. She would hate him, and he couldn't blame her.
She passed by him, still singing. The compulsion to stretch his hand toward her made him scuttle back, his legs moving through a stool. His lips turned down into a grimace. He'd never get used to that feeling, and it somehow seemed worse because he felt like shit in the first place.
The bathroom door stayed open a few inches behind her to reveal the sound of the water stutter ing on, beating on the tile of the shower wall. Patrick stood, hand flush against the door but not touching the wood, eyes staring pointedly, wishing he could see through it just as easily as he could walk, but at the same time feeling grateful he couldn't.
He imagined Sara stripping off her long, striped socks and wiggling her toes before slipping the underwear down her legs. His hard-on was back, something he couldn't and wouldn't do anything about in an attempt to alleviate the desperate need he felt for her. It w ould probably be more frustrating if he tried to jerk-off since he couldn't really finish a that he know of aand it would make him feel like a creeper to have his dick in his hand outside the door, listening to Sara shower.
It probably wasn't any worse than standing there while fantasizing what she looked like without underwear, though. This was likely the reason he wasn't in Heaven ait was probably his perverted mind. Too much jerking off, too many dirty thoughts before he'd taken that header down the stairs . Father Thomas had warned them when he visited the youth group that one time, but everyone had thought it was a big joke. Patrick had used rubbers, too, probably sealing his fate as far as God went . No wonder he was being punished like this.
So far, Catholics were the only religious group he'd found that had real rules about birth control. Well, as far as his book of religion went anyway. There was probably some African tribe somewhere who worshipped rubbers and stuff, some religious sect the writer didn't know about. Maybe they had their own theories about death, this tribe... about the afterlife. Something cool, like you did your fifty years on Earth after you die and then you win a million dollars and become king of the underworld. He didn't need a crown, though; he just needed Sara.