Page 12 of Ghostly
“Oh.” His confused look changed to a suspiciously scrutinizing one—it looked right at home on his face.
“I mean, not that I’m turning this into a dating situation. Oh, dear.” She sat on the sofa. “I didn’t mean to sound like that. I think my conversational skills had gotten rather rusty over the years.”
“Ida.” He turned to her with a reassuring, but cold smile. “I have a lot of work to do, and I want to do it well and quickly.”
She looked at the screen, displaying blocks of text. “You know, I could go in there and retrieve any information you need.”
“Thank you, but I’d rather do it myself.”
He didn’t trust her, did he? Or maybe he thought her, and her abilities, creepy.
Or maybe she was being too clingy. Rhonda’s magazines said a lot about that, too. She’d promised she wouldn’t bother him. But talking—to a proper person, not herself or the TV or a book—felt so good. She hadn’t felt like this in ages.
Perhaps she’d chosen a bad time. Back when she was alive, she got upset, too, when people interrupted her gardening.
“Sorry.” She stood. “I’ll leave you to your work. I didn’t mean to be a nuisance.” She zoomed out of the living room, only to be halted at the doorway. Out, back in, out, in, out—
“Ida?” Gabriel’s suspiciously scrutinizing look was back.
She clenched her fists.Not now, loop, please. Not now.Luckily, after three repetitions of the three repetitions, the memory of her compulsion let go, and she disappeared upstairs.
And luckily, Gabriel didn’t come to question her behavior.
***
He regretted everything.
When Ida said she needed company, he’d expected a not-too-invested roommate, like someone at college who saidhiandbyeand occasionally chatted over a vending machine sandwich.
Occasionally.
Ida, however, was here through all of his waking hours (and he wouldn’t be surprised if through the sleeping, too) and had an opinion on everything.
Toast. “I don’t get what all the deal with sliced bread is, anyway. We always had to cut our own, and I think it retains more freshness if it isn’t sliced beforehand.” She said that, hovering by the kitchen counter as Gabriel prepared his dinner.
Wallpapers. “The one they had here in the forties was much nicer. Lovely pastel with flowers. What would you put up, if you could? I mean, you can, if you want to. It’s not like I can prevent it—well, in theory, I could rip it off with enough energy…” She stared at the living room wall, tapping her finger on her mouth.
Even damn computer keyboards. “Your keys are spaced out very nicely. And it’s neat. Mike, who lived here before Larry and Rhonda, was a gamer. He had this crazy setup where everything was lit up in red—and then ghosts are supposed to be the spooky ones? And his keyboard had some keys painted…”
Meanwhile, Jacobsky had figured out Gabriel would do just about anything, so he sent him more work. Speaking of regrets: some documents were all chemistry—to deal with the disputable drugs—and chemistry had been one of Gabriel’s most hated classes in high school. He’d already had to do three Google searches just to get the meaning of this crap, and an annoying, uncomfortable voice kept whispering to him that he was still winging it.
He wouldn’t admit it, but if Ida did have research superpowers, he could’ve used them right now.
But no—he wouldn’t back down. Everything he’d ever achieved had been because of work (though a charming smile here and there didn’t hurt) and this was just another test. He couldn’t let Ernest and Clifford forget he was still good, and still useful.
But it was damn hard to focus when Ida wanted to chat, and he was starting to feel bad for constantly telling her not to chat.
And to think a few days ago, his main problem was boredom.
It was evening, the third day since Ida showed up. She may have finally ran out of things to say, because she’d been quiet for about fifteen minutes, inspecting the bookshelf. Gabriel was deep into writing a report for Jacobsky, when an email popped up.
Ernest? Clifford? News of his suspension? Maybe he could come back anyway and—
It was only a reminder of a voucher for the ski resort. For him and Wynona, their happy ever after in an alternate reality where they never got discovered beforehand. The reservation date was but weeks away. Gabriel took one glance at the overly-photoshopped promotional image for the resort, and he loathed this damn living room and its musty smell even more.
Wyn.
He reached for his phone and, with a few taps, got to her social media profiles. No updates. His stomach clenched until he reminded himself this was good. At least she still had her profiles—she was only laying low, much like he had to.
