Page 25 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
“Why are you laughing?” I call after her, laughing too, even though I’m terrified.
She shouts back, “Because what the fuck was that?” I grin at that. She laughs when she’s scared.
We don’t stop running until we’re back in the safety of my room. I block the door with one of my flimsy ass dining chairs before collapsing to the floor and taking deep breaths.
“What are the chances that some phantoms are invisible and can pull pranks?” I huff out between breaths.
Ophelia giggles. “Probably as much a chance as there is for me to have a cloud of whispering darkness following me?”
Our heads brush and we turn toward the connection, our gazes meeting. This close, I can make out each strand of her hair, every lift and dip of her lips. Her eyes are soft and daring, making my cheeks burn.
“I forgot my hat,” I blurt out to break the trance she puts me in. I fear if I don’t, I’ll do something stupid.
“No,”she says sardonically.
I restrain myself from reaching up and brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“In the morning then?” I laugh, because we’re cowards.
She nods and sits up. “In the morning. When our heads are clearer.”
“You going to be able to sleep alone tonight, my rose?” I jest and don’t expect her to turn and look over her shoulder at me. But she does. Her eyes are drawn low and filled with desire.
Did I just saymy rose? My worrying is for naught, as she disregards it completely.
“I don’t think I can. Not after a scare like that,” she says carefully, studying my features for hints of where my head’s at.
My stomach warms and I swallow hard.
“I can put a movie in and whip up some popcorn if you’d like?” I stand and offer her a hand up. She takes it and smiles suspiciously at me.
“What kind of man are you, Lanston Nevers?” She asks as she makes her way to the wall with the microwave and coffee bar. Opening cabinets until she finds a bag of popcorn and prepares it.
What kind of man am I? Is that a physiological question or a simple one? Like when an interviewer asks you, “What’s your biggest weakness?” Yeah, because normal people know how to answer questions like that. So I go with my gut.
“I’m a man who never gets what he wants but smiles anyway.” I turn on the TV and pull out my bag of DVDs. Slasher and horror films are off the table, so I flip to the section with drama and find one.
The microwave beeps and Ophelia dumps the popcorn into a big bowl we can share. “Why?”
I press play and turn to look at her. “Why what?”
“Why do you continue to smile anyway?” She sets the popcorn down on my bed and walks to her side of the room, lifting her dress up over her head.
My brain stops working.
Heat flares across my cheeks and I sharply look away. “Ophelia! What are you doing?” She chuckles and I’m tempted to turn and look just to see her smile.
“Answer the question. Why do you smile anyway?”
I can hear her rustling through my closet. It’s a miracle I can even focus enough to muster words. “Um, right. Well, I just figure that if I keep smiling, at least people will think I’m happy. It’s better than looking miserable like my father.” I pause and tighten my fists at my side. Shit, I should’ve kept that last part to myself.
“And are you?”
I turn, forgetting why I wasn’t looking at her in the first place. Her hair is let down and she’s wearing my heather-gray T-shirt. It comes down to her midthigh and I swear to God she’s testing me. I’ve dreamed of having a girlfriend wear my shirt to bed—I shake the thought.
“Am I what?” My voice is low.
“Miserable.”
