Page 36 of The Ghost of You

She looks up at me as she sets a serving of lasagna on my plate. “So do you Noah.”

She’s right. But it’s hard to think I do. I’m the one that made my wife leave.

We sit in silence as we eat, and I devour the food in front of me. I can’t remember the last time I sat down at this table and ate a proper meal. I’m not sure I ever have. I bought it when I moved into this place to give me the feeling of home but I think I have eaten every meal on the couch.

“You made a lot of progress on the porch,” she says, breaking the silence between us.

I look up at her but don’t answer.

“I remember seeing you take it apart last week. It looks good.”

I grab my wine and take a sip. “I still need to stain it and do the railings.”

“What color are you staining it?”

I take a bite of lasagna, willing myself to engage.She is a distraction, remember? Get it together. “Not sure yet. Deciding if I’ll go with walnut or keep the pine color.”

“Are you going to keep your house blue?”

I nod. “It was one of the reasons I bought the place besides the cheap price. I loved the navy color.”

She studies me as I talk and I finally don’t feel like our conversations are awkward. She seems genuinely interested in what I have to say.

She sips her wine and sets her fork down. “I like the navy too. Better than the shit mint green on my duplex. I think you should keep the pine. It would go nice with the navy. But I’m no designer, so my opinion might be crap.”

I eat the last bite of lasagna on my plate. “I think you’re right. It would look nice.” I pause as I take another sip of the rich red wine. “Thank you for dinner. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal here in a long time.”

She smiles and finishes her wine. “You’re welcome, Noah. And anytime you want home-cooked food, you are welcome to come over. I hate making meals just for myself. I never seem to finish the leftovers.”

I pour more wine into her glass. “Why don’t you hang out on the couch? I’ll clean up.”

“I can help you,” she says, standing and picking up her plate.

“Nah. You cooked. I got this,” I say as I take her plate out of her hand.

She reluctantly walks to the living room as I clean up the couple dishes we used and set them in the drying rack on the plywood.

I grab my half glass of wine and walk into the living room. She is sitting on the couch with her feet curled under her, the oversized sweatshirt she is wearing is slipping off her shoulder, causing the flowers tattooed on her arm to peek out. A colorful mix of roses, orchids, and dahlias, and a few I don’t know the names of. Brutus is lying next to her, his head on her lap as she pets him.

I sit on the other end of the couch, Brutus between us. “What’s with the flower tattoos?”

She looks up at me and a ghost of sadness sweeps over her hazel eyes so briefly I wonder if I imagined it. “I like flowers. My mom has always had a garden. And I loved helping her as a kid tend to the soil, plant new flowers every spring. I love tattoos and always wanted them, just never knew what to get. Ky—my friend told me it should be flowers.”

I don’t miss her misstep once again. Changing words she planned on saying. I go to ask her another question but she beats me to it.

“Why the house remodel? Why not buy a house that was finished? You seem too busy to work on it.”

“Honestly, I thought it would be easier to remodel. It’s not. It’s tough fucking work. I needed to get out of my old house. I loved this neighborhood. I don’t make a ton of money as a cop so I couldn’t buy a new home. Decided it was the perfect solution.”

She tilts her head as I say it, no doubt trying to decipher between the lines. “Perfect solution to what?”

“Finding a distraction to keep my head clear.” I know that is as vague of an answer as any.

“A distraction for what?” she asks.

I sigh. This is the reason I usually keep to myself I don’t like talking about myself or my life or everything that went wrong with it. But I look at her and I can see understanding in her eyes before I even give her a real answer. It’s almost like she can read me, understand things without knowing, connect with me on a level I’ve never been able to with any other person. I take a deep breath before I answer her. “Life.”

Her gaze flicks away from mine and out the window. I can tell she is thinking. I can practically see her brain turning over thoughts. And I want to know what she’s thinking. I want to know whatever pain is deep inside her that she shelters from the world. I want to know how she does it so that I can do it too.

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