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I frown, scoffing. “Your shoulder? Yeah, you’re just overflowing with empathy, aren’t you?”
He presses his lips together for a moment and then shakes his head. “Anyway, we’re having a small party for New Year’s tonight. We’d like the both of you over.”
“You want my dad at your party? I’m not sure he’s open-minded enough for that.”
“Maximus told me your father thinks he’s a ghost, so perhaps he’s more open-minded than you think.”
“Wait, is he a ghost?”
His mouth quirks up into his crooked smile. “Not quite.”
“Not quite!?” I exclaim.
“See you at eight tonight,” he says, throwing his ugly scarf over his shoulder. “Make sure you bring some appetizers. It’s a potluck.”
Then he walks off down the path.
Potluck? Great. There’s at least an inch of snow on the ground, which might be doable in some other part of the country, but it rarely snows here in Portland, and when it does, the city comes to a standstill. There’s no way my father or I will be going out to get some party trays.
I close the door and pad down the hall to my father’s study, where he’s been all morning.
I knock on the door and poke my head in. “Dad?”
He looks up from a book, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Yes, pumpkin? Did I hear someone at the door?”
“Yeah, it was Jacob. From next door.”
He stares at me for a moment before saying, “Everything okay? Or is this part of your, uh, supernatural schooling?”
I can tell my dad still doesn’t quite believe me on that whole thing. I don’t blame him. He’s so rooted in logic that I’m surprised he’s taking the whole “everyone in my family sees ghosts including me” thing so well. Or, well enough.
“He wanted to invite us over tonight for New Year’s Eve.”
“Oh,” he says, looking surprised. “I forgot that’s tonight. Where has the year gone?”
“They really want us over,” I tell him. “We just have to bring a party platter, and with all the snow I don’t think we can drive out and get anything.”
He gives me a small but reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll make something.” Then he sighs. “But you bring it over. I don’t think I’ll be going.”
“Oh, come on,” I tell him. “You need to get out of the house and talk to people.”
“I agree with you, but the neighbors are…a little odd.”
“They’re fine,” I tell him. “You know they’re fine. You’ve had them over plenty of times. It’s just because you think rock and roll is Satan’s music.”
He’s not impressed. “Don’t say that lightly, Ada.”
I roll my eyes. “It will do you good. They invited us both. You’re going. Eight pm. Wear that green sweater. It’s festive.”
I leave but hear him call after me, “It has reindeers on it!”
“It’s still the holidays!” I yell back, smirking at the picture of my dad in his hideous Christmas sweater my Uncle Al gave him as a joke years ago. Actually, my dad being super Catholic used to make us celebrate the holidays all the way until the Epiphany on January 5th, but he dropped it ever since Mom died. It’s hard to get him to even celebrate Christmas nowadays.
The rest of the morning and afternoon go by slowly. I text with Perry for a bit over their plans for the night, which is going to a bar with their friends. Had Jacob not invited me, I would have felt a little jealous with my lack of social life. I then text my friend Patrick from design school to see what he’s up to, knowing I’ve completely dropped the ball on keeping up with my friendships ever since Jay dumped me.
Then the thought of Jay, and the dream, make me head back to bed just before dinnertime, having a little cry and sleep before my father wakes me up to eat.
We have a light salad, considering we’ll probably be eating a lot of junk tonight at the party, then as my father heats the appetizers in the oven (cheesy spinach and artichoke dip…except replace the spinach with kale because that’s all we had), I get myself ready. I should use this as an excuse to dress up, since I can barely put on pajamas most days, and J-Lo’s matching sweatsuits circa 2003 have been the epitome of effort for me. But I opt for leather leggings and a perfectly kitschy red oversized Home Alone Christmas sweater so my dad doesn’t feel out of place.
At eight we get on our coats and head over to the Knightly’s, my dad nervously cradling the dish in his hands, while I’ve got a bottle of Prosecco I rescued from the back of the fridge and a bag of tortilla chips.
The door opens before I can knock. It’s Dawn, smiling brightly at us. Her red hair is pulled up high into a messy topknot, and somehow she looks younger than ever, definitely not the sixty-something she’s supposed to be. It helps that she’s wearing a shimmery silver long-sleeved dress with bat-sleeves, though there are combat boots on her feet, like she pulled a page from Perry’s stylebook.
