Page 64 of Ghosts Don't Cry
“My brother says sharks only bite bad people,” Zack announces during story time. “Is that true?”
“No. Sharks don’t bite anyone on purpose.” I turn the page, trying to focus on the story instead of the clock, whose second hand seems to be taking forever to move.
When the end of day finally comes around and the last parents pick up their kids, I rush around straightening the room before heading home. Cassidy will be at my apartment soon to get ready for the night out I’ve been regretting agreeing to all week.
My phone buzzes as I’m unlocking the door to my apartment.
Mom: Are you coming for dinner on Sunday?
I ignore it. I’ve been ignoring a lot of things this week. I’m not sure if I want to go over. I love my mom, but after the week I’ve had, I think I’d like a weekend at home … alone.
Cassidy arrives just as I’m getting out of the shower, holding a garment bag, and with determination in her eyes.
“You’re wearing this.” She unzips the bag and shows me a dress I’ve never seen before. “No arguing with me about it.”
“I wasn’t going to argue!”
“Sure.” She shakes the bag at me. “Take it.”
Rolling my eyes, I take it from her. I’m not about to admit it to Cassidy, but after Tuesday at the grocery store where I had to watch Amy and Kate touch Ronan, while his eyes burned into mine, I need to dress up and look like someone who hasn’t spent the past seven years pretending he didn’t matter.
I want to look like someone who is one-hundred percent over him.
The dress is perfect. Deep red, falling just above my knees. Simple but elegant. I slip it on and study myself in the bedroom mirror, turning slowly to see it from all angles. The fabric hugs curves I usually keep hidden under teacher-appropriate cardigans and loose blouses. My reflection looks unfamiliar … or maybetoofamiliar, giving me glimpses of the girl I used to be before I learned to make myself smaller and quieter.
“You look amazing,” Cassidy says from the doorway, glass of wine already in her hand.
“Is this new?”
She grins at me. “If I say no, will you believe me?”
“No.”
She laughs. “I was in Carrington on Wednesday, looking for materials.” Cassidy makes clothes and accessories for pets, usually cats and dogs. She has a successful online store and is always on the hunt for new ideas. “I spotted that in the window of a dress store near the wholesalers. It was on sale. When I saw it was your size, it was like fate was talking to me.”
“Fate?”
She smirks. “Fate.” Taking a sip of wine, she peers at me over the rim. “And it might stop you thinking about him for five minutes.”
“I’m not.”
“Don’t even try to lie to me. You get this look.” She leans against the door frame. “Like you’re seeing ghosts.”
“Maybe I am.” I sit in front of the mirror and set out my makeup. “This week has been …” I shrug.
“I know. But tonight isn’t about him, or town gossip. It’s about us having our well-deserved monthly night out.”
But we both know it’s not that simple. It hasn’t been that simple since he came back.
I apply my makeup with more care than usual, each stroke of mascara and sweep of blush a small act of armor. Cassidy watches from the bed, sipping wine and offering commentary that makes me laugh despite the tightness in my chest.
By the time we’re ready to leave, I look like someone who has her life together. Someone confident and unmoved by the past. Someone whodefinitelyisn’t thinking about how Ronan’s hands felt on her waist, or how his voice broke when he told her to leave.
The Flamingo is packed when we arrive. Friday nights always drew crowds when it was called Sullivan’s, but this is different. Stepping through the doors feels like crossing a threshold into a different timeline. The old, scarred bar has been replaced with polished wood and brass. Where pool tables used to sit, thereare now intimate booths with leather seats. Even the lighting is different, warm and elegant instead of the harsh fluorescents that used to show every stain and scratch.
But underneath the renovation, I can still smell it—the ghost scent of decades of spilled beer and cigarette smoke that no amount of fresh paint can completely erase. Music drifts from speakers mounted in corners, something jazzy and sophisticated that would never have played in Sullivan’s. Conversations blend into a pleasant hum of voices, laughter punctuating the rhythm.
My eyes scan the room automatically, cataloging faces, looking for?—
