Page 55 of Ghosts Don't Cry
“First love always hurts, Lily. I understand that. You saw the mess I was in when me and Mike broke up. But what you two had … that was different. It wasn’t just a high school romance.”
“It haunts you.”
“Yeah, it does.” She squeezes my hand. “And maybe that’s okay. Maybe some things are supposed to leave marks. It doesn’t mean you haven’t moved on. It means it mattered.”
Chapter Twenty
LILY - AGE 17
The old textilefactory swallows light. Even at sunset, when the sun’s angle means its light floods through the windows, the shadows don’t leave. It’s almost as though they’ve seeped into the stone, and stained everything they touch.
I pause at the entrance, heart thudding as I adjust the backpack on my shoulders. It’s Thanksgiving. The streets are deserted, with everyone hidden away in warm houses, watching football and eating pumpkin pie. The cold bites through my jacket, but that’s not why I’m shaking. Mom thinks I went for a drive after dinner. If she knew where I really was, she’d ground me for a month.
Lying to my parents bothers me, but not as much as knowing he’s here … alone.
His notes haunt me. The way he writes about Steinbeck, and watching the world pass by while you’re pressed against the glass. I read the one he left me yesterday so many times, the words are burned into my memory.
Tom Joad knew about carrying nothing but hope in your pockets. What it feels like watching food disappear from store windows while your stomach eats itself. He knew what it’s like to have people look right through you, as though poverty might be catching if they stare too long.
The food in my backpack burns against my spine. Turkey and potatoes wrapped in foil, soup in a thermos, and rolls that have kept their warmth. I’d slipped them into my backpack while Mom was distracted.
He’ll probably refuse them. He always does at first.
The first time I realized where he was living, I didn’t sleep for days. The image of him disappearing into this skeleton of brick and steel haunted me. Then he didn’t turn up to school, and I found him here, sick with fever. That scared me. I was sure if I left him, he’d die overnight, so I convinced Cassidy to say I was sleeping over at hers, and spent the entire night with him.
I monitored his fever, and kept him hydrated, forcing him to take Tylenol and worrying about whether it would reach a point where I’d need to call for an ambulance. I even worked out a plan for what I would say. Why he was hiding here, and why his parents weren’t around. Thankfully, his fever broke in the early hours. When he returned to school a couple of days later, neither of us mentioned it.
My footsteps echo off the walls as I navigate the debris-strewn hallways, until I find him in his usual spot. An office on the second floor, with the least number of broken windows. He’s reading. He’salwaysreading. The library’s copy of ‘The Grapes of Wrath’is propped against his knees, angled to catch what’s left of the light.
He tenses when I reach the doorway, but doesn’t look up. Fading sunlight catches his profile, deepening the hollows under his cheekbones. His hoodie has a new tear at the shoulder. Dark circles shadow his eyes. When the wind moans through the windows, he shivers. The movement is slight, barely noticeable, and it makes my heart hurt.
“You’re here again.” The words come out low and rough, not quite hostile, but close.
I swallow, and lick my lips. “So are you.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw, but he doesn’t tell me to leave, just drops his eyes back to his book. Maybe he thinks if he stays still long enough, I’ll convince myself he’s just another shadow and leave.
I step forward, the backpack growing heavier with every move I make. I don’t get too close to him. I’ve learned he needs space around him, visible exits and to know he isn’t trapped. But close enough that when I crouch and start unpacking, the scent of food fills the air between us.
His fingers flex against the book’s spine. He won’t look at what I’m doing, but his throat works. Steam rises from the thermos, carrying the scent of sage and rosemary toward him. It reminds me of home, and warmth, and everything this place isn’t. I wonder if it holds any memories for him.
“It’s nothing special.” It’s a lie. We both know it. Itisspecial. It’s Thanksgiving dinner. It’s proof that someone knows he exists. “Just leftovers that would have been wasted and thrown out.”
He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes betray him. They move toward the food and then away again. His stubbornness makes me want to grind my teeth. I force myself to patience, and dip my hand back into my bag to pull out the book.
It’s a used copy of ‘The Grapes of Wrath.’ The corners are bent, but all the pages are intact. I found it in Carson’s Books lastweek, and have been holding onto it, unsure how he’ll react to the gift.
“The library is going to want their copy back eventually.” I set it down beside the food. “I thought you might want your own. For your thoughts.” I’ve seen how he reads. He doesn’t see words, he absorbs them with his entire body, almost as if he’s trying to crawl inside them and live there.
His expression shifts, showing a hairline crack in an impenetrable wall. His eyes move to the book, then to me, and then away again. That split second reveals everything. There’s hunger there, of course, but it isn’t for the food.
“Why?”
I could lie, and spout platitudes about holidays or charity, but I know those are both things that will make him reject me and this fragile …thingthat’s building between us. So, I tell him the truth.
“Because your notes about Tom Joad aren’t just about the character. You write about hunger because you know it.” I pause, checking his expression. He remains still. “You shouldn’t have to give it back when you’re not finished saying everything you need to say. And this one is yours forever.”
Color floods his cheeks, his fingers curl into balls on his lap, and I brace myself for harsh words telling me to leave, to take my food, the book, and my unwanted concern away. His eyes hold mine, and I can almost see the dismissal forming on his lips, then his gaze shifts to the book again. Slowly, so slowly I find myself holding my breath and counting the seconds, he reaches for the book. His movements are slow, hesitant, maybe waiting for me to snatch it. When his fingers brush the cover, they tremble. He flexes them, and looks at me.
