Page 15 of Ghost's Obsession

I reel back in my mind—back to the nausea that seemed to drag on forever this morning. To the last time I had my period. The past month and a half have been so crazy I’ve been more focused on surviving than anything else. As my mind does the math, my breath catches in my throat. My entire world slows to a crawl and my hand tightens on my pen. I’m late, and by a few days. Scrap that. More like a few weeks…

I put the notebook aside and pull my knees up to my chest. My heart is starting to thud just a little too fast.

I tell myself it could just be stress. Or the new schedule, the travel, the long hours. But none of that is true. I know deep downinside what it is, even though I desperately want it to be anything but that. I’d rather have an ulcer than be pregnant with my ex’s baby.

He’s a monster, one I haven’t seen in almost two months. I ran from him, left everything behind and ran like hell to Las Salinas. This was supposed to be my fresh start.

My worry turns in different directions. I can’t let him know. Knowing him, he’ll be looking for me. I left before and he dragged me back. This time that can’t happen, especially not if I am pregnant. There’s only one way to solve the question, and that’s to buy a pregnancy test and use it. Unfortunately, I’m paralyzed by fear.

Chapter 5

Ghost

By the time I pull back into my driveway, it’s in the early hours of the morning. I coast my motorcycle into place, trying not to wake Heather. I don’t know exactly what’s going on with her, but I know she needs to sleep. I’ve been thinking of her all night—something about her didn’t seem right today. She was off her food and has been looking pale.

The overhead lights inside the garage are still on. That’s nothing unusual. Heather works late sometimes, especially when she’s working on a cool idea. She’ll sketch and rework the same idea six different ways until it’s perfect.

But tonight, it feels different. I turn off the engine, kill the lights. The air is cool and dry. Crickets chirp somewhere in the brush. There is no music playing from her Bluetooth speaker like usual.

I have to know if she’s okay, so I walk across the lot quietly, boots thudding softly on the pavement. The garage door is cracked open a few inches with light spilling out into the dark night. I push it open slowly and see she is curled on her cot, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting across an open notebook. The pages are half-full of sketches. One line is trailing off like she’d fallen asleep in the middle of drawing.

The little desk lamp next to her is still on, casting a soft glow over her sleeping form.

I want to go in and turn off her light, but I don’t. Not until I realize she fell asleep without covering herself up. I slipthrough the door and tug her notebook away. She doesn’t move or even notice. Setting it on the table, I drape a warm blanket over her body and back away. Standing there watching her breathe, something dark and possessive blooms in my chest for the first time. Not wanting to think too long and hard about what that something is, I reach over, switch off the light, and leave her to her rest. When I slip back out into the chill night air, I can’t shake the image of her lying there defenseless and beautiful. She’s sweet, innocent, and needs someone to protect her. Someone like me, to be exact.

Something is wrong with her. She looks tired, but not the kind of tired that comes from too many hours on her feet. This is deeper. Maybe I’m working her too hard, working her to the bone. Her brow is creased even in sleep. Her hoodie is pulled tight around her, like she’s trying to hide herself in it, like she’s trying to disappear.

I don’t like that. Not one damn bit. I ease the door shut and head back to the house, but I don’t go straight to bed.

Instead, I grab a water bottle from the fridge, unscrew the cap, and lean against the kitchen counter, staring out the window that faces the garage. The lamp I’d turned off still leaves a soft glow in the space behind my eyes, like I can still see her there, curled in on herself like a girl half her age.

Heather isn’t the fragile type. I’ve seen her carry heavy lumber and argue with city officials over permit timelines without flinching. She doesn’t scare easy. Hell, most days, I forget how young she really is. She carries herself like someone who’s lived a couple of lifetimes already.

But tonight? Tonight, she looks like someone who’s tired of life, tired of holding it all together on her own.

And yeah, maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe she really has just crashed after a long day. But that knot in my gut—the one that tells me when something is off—is alerting me that something is off. And it hasn’t steered me wrong yet.

I take a slow drink of water and rub my hand over my face, as I remembered what it felt like to be a kid watching my mom come home from a ten-hour shift at the diner, her hands raw from scrubbing tables and her eyes dull with exhaustion. I remembered standing in the hallway, too young to help but old enough to feel useless.

I promised myself back then that when I got older, I’d be the kind of man who did something when someone needed help.

And right now, that woman sleeping in my garage? She needs something. Even if she doesn’t know how to ask for it.

I don’t go straight to bed after locking up. Don’t even try.

Instead, I find myself standing in the kitchen, back against the counter, bottle of water in hand, lights off. Just staring out the window that faces the garage.

There’s nothing to see. The place is dark, but I’m still thinking about her.

The way she looked curled up on that cot, wrapped in her hoodie, with that notebook fallen open beside her like she’d passed out mid-thought. She’s always in motion when I’m around, always working, building, measuring, scribbling. But tonight, she looks fragile and exhausted. Like something has been drained from her. Not just physically, but maybe mentally too.

It’s clear that she works hard, maybe too hard. I’ve seen people push through worse. But I don’t want that for her.

This is the second morning in a row where she looks drained. Her face is paler than usual. Why the hell am I keeping count of the days she doesn’t look healthy?

I shift my legs and take a long drink of water, as I stare at my reflection in the blackened window glass.

It’s not like me to fixate on people. Sure, I look out for fellow human beings. I always have. But this is different. This woman has me transfixed. She has a way of drawing me in without even trying. The way she brushes her hair back when she’s concentrating. The way she talks with her hands when she gets excited about a design tweak. The way she always smells faintly like sawdust and cherries from her lip balm.

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