Page 6 of Ghosts Don't Cry
But they’re not.
The classroom looks different in the fading light. Shadows reach across the floor, longer and deeper than they were this morning. The paper fish hanging from the ceiling sway slightly in the air-conditioning breeze. Their movements remind me of something, of someone?—
I grab my bag, check twice that I’ve locked everything up, then head to my car. The parking lot is mostly empty now. A few teachers’ cars remain, their owners probably finishing up prep work or grading. The air has that peculiar stillness that comes before sunset, when everything feels suspended between one moment and the next. My keys miss the lock twice, before I manage to unlock the door and get inside.
My apartment isn’t far from school. Nothing in this town is, but the drive takes me longer than usual because I take the long way home. I tell myself it’s to avoid rush hour, even though there’s not really any such thing here. The truth is I’m avoiding the street where Mitchell’s is, even though I’m sure he’ll be long gone from there.
When I finally get home, I stand in the shower until the water runs cold. I put on pajamas—an old college t-shirt worn soft withtime and washing—and try to focus on tomorrow's tasks. Lesson planning. Grocery shopping. The art supplies need restocking.
My phone buzzes with texts from friends about weekend plans. Cassidy wants to know if I’m up for a visit to the farmers’ market on Sunday. Another friend is organizing a girls’ night out, complete with emoji-filled enthusiasm. I should respond. I should care about normal things like weekend brunches and movie nights, and which stall in the market has the best honey.
Instead, I find myself at my window, staring out at the street below. The town looks softer at night, shadows blurring its edges, streetlights creating pools of amber in the darkness. It looks pretty from up here, but I know better.
I press my head against the cool glass and close my eyes. My breath fogs the window, and when I open them again, the view has blurred.
Somewhere out there, he’s back. Breathing the same air as me. Walking the same streets. Is he sleeping, or is he awake, and wondering how he ended up back here … the same way I am?
Sleep, when it finally comes, is restless. I drift between memories and dreams, never quite sure which is which. One moment, I’m grading papers while rain patters against my window. The next, I’m eighteen again, writing notes I shouldn’t write, and making promises I couldn’t keep. My younger self had no idea what was coming, or what those promises would cost.
The clock on my nightstand reads 3:23 A.M. when I finally give up trying to sleep. The green numbers glow in the darkness, marking time that seems to have stopped moving forward.
It’s too late to be awake, too early to get up, and too quiet to drown out the thoughts I’ve spent seven years trying to silence.
The darkness presses against my window, thick and heavy. In a couple of hours, I'll have to get up and pretend. Smile at the right moments and say all the right things. Then I’ll spend Sunday with Cassidy and my mom, and do it all again.
On Monday, I’ll be Ms. Gladwin again, a kindergarten teacher who has her life together, and doesn’t let the past get in the way of her future.
But right now, in the quiet hours of darkness, I can admit the truth. The truth I’ve been running from since Jenny spoke his name in my classroom this morning.
Some ghosts don’t stay buried, no matter how deep you try to put them. And some people leave marks on your heart that seven years of silence can’t erase.
Chapter Three
RONAN
Mitchell& Associates sits in the heart of Graystone Hollow’s business district, looking exactly like the kind of law office that doesn’t deal with people like me. All polished wood and brass, with an air of old money that makes me twitch. The leather chairs in the waiting room probably cost more money than I’ve seen in the past two years. Everything I’m not.
The receptionist’s smile falters when I give her my name, her eyes locking onto the tattoos peeking out from beneath my sleeve before she can stop herself. She recovers quickly, professional mask slipping back into place, but I catch the way her hand moves toward the alarm beneath the desk.
I’m used to that look. The quick assessment, followed by a subtle recoil. Seven years ago, it would have made me hunch my shoulders while I tried to make myself smaller. Now I just stand straighter, head held high, and let them see exactly what I am.
Her manicured fingertips tap against the computer keyboard.
“Mr. Mitchell will be with you shortly. Would you like something to drink while you wait, Mr. Oliver?”
I shake my head, shoving my hands into my pockets.
“Please, take a seat.” She returns to her paperwork.
I glance over at the leather chairs near one wall. They’re positioned in front of a large dark wood bookcase filled with leather-bound law books that I would bet haven’t been opened in years, if ever. On the opposite wall hang framed degrees for each of the lawyers who work here—Harvard, Yale, Columbia. All names that open doors, and matter in rooms where decisions get made.
The coffee table placed between the two chairs holds magazines arranged in a perfect fan.Architectural Digest, Wine Spectator, Harvard Business Review. Publications for people whose biggest concern is which vacation home to visit this month, rather than where their next meal is coming from.
Richpeople problems.
I opt to remain standing. There’s too much restless energy coursing through me, and my muscles are wound too tight for me to sit still. My boots leave marks on the plush cream carpet with every step, while the receptionist’s eyes flick up to follow me every couple of seconds, as though she’s checking I don’t pocket something when she’s not looking.
The waiting feels endless. Every second that passes giving me too much time to think, too much space for doubt to creep in and set up camp in the back of my mind.
