Page 43 of Haunt Me, Maybe

“I agree with the ghost,” she said, not even looking up from the ceramic in her hand.

Wes and I both froze. Did she just…? The silence that followed her statement would have been comical if it weren’t for the panic building inside me. I didn’t even know why. It wasn’t like I could get in trouble for conversing with a ghost. Be declared insane, sure.

“You…” My voice squeaked. “What?”

Briony snorted. “Please. You keep pausing in the middle of sentences to argue with air. Also, mugs don’t slide across the counter by themselves—well. Usually.” She flicked a glance toward the back room. “And do you really think you could sneak a spirit past my kitchen?”

My face went absolutely nuclear.

“You can…see him?”

“Not see,” she said, waving a hand. “But feel? Oh yeah. It’s like a cold draft that doesn’t leave you alone.”

My mouth was permanently stuck open. I couldn’t even turn my head to see how Wes fared. The temperature hadn’t dropped, so I assumed he was either stunned like me or he didn’t care.

“You’re a witch,” Briony continued. “I knew it once I saw your toad. It took a minute, but by his third scone I’d figured it out.”

Ok, that had Wes shifting closer to me. She knew I was a witch. Fuck. My cover was blown…right? I waited for a mob to appear outside the windows with torches and pitchforks, for the proverbial bucket of water to be thrown and melt me into a useless puddle. The café thrummed around me like a comforting hug, and my magic leaped in answer.

Wes felt it as soon as I did—he was so attuned to me now. A firm hand pressed to my lower back, slipping beneath my sweater and the tie to my apron. My magic eased like a well-behaved hound, lying at his feet and waiting for a treat. All the while, Briony kept talking like she hadn’t dropped a bomb.

“It’s the ghost from the inn, right? What was his name…Wes?” She smiled at the empty space over my shoulder. “Hi, Wes!”

The espresso machine steamed with laughter, and Wes, for once in his afterlife, was speechless. I couldn’t blame him. The feeling of danger faded—it was a knee-jerk reaction, really—but I still wasn’t sure what to say.

That shock and silence was how Briony was able to usher me out of the café and across the square. There was no comforting chill to tell me Wes came with us. Any minute, he’d be forced back to the attic anyway.

Clove & Thyme smelled like warm cider and old wood, with something faintly floral—like someone spilled perfume here years ago and the walls never forgot. There were fairy lights draped from ceiling beams, candles in mismatched jars on every table, and a tiny stage in the back occupied by a middle-aged man singing far too loudly into a microphone. Completely off-key, by the way. But everyone clapped along like their eardrums hadn’t ruptured.

Briony lit up the moment we stepped inside.

“Oh my God! It’s Song and Story Night,” she squealed, and grabbed my sleeve. “This is perfect.”

Our idea of perfect was so far apart it wasn’t funny. I hesitated in the doorway, taking in the low murmur of voices and the way no one even noticed us. Still, something was bound to go wrong if I stayed.

“Do I have to?” I asked, but Briony was already tugging on my sleeve again.

“Yes.” She grinned. “You don’t even have to sing. You can sit and judge people with me.”

Well, when she put it that way…

We ended up at a round table in the back, half-hidden behind a potted fern. Briony ordered us a round of spiked ciders and then bumped her shoulder into mine when I opened my mouth to refuse.

“Relax. It tastes like apples and poor decisions.”

When they arrived, I wrapped my hand around the cool glass and took a cautious sip. She was right, dammit. It was delicious. It also warmed me all the way down to my toes. Back on the stage, someone finished a sad folk song about a drowned lover, and the woman who replaced him told a rambling story about a ghost that used to steal her laundry.

I cringed at hearing another person talk about ghosts, but the audience laughed and clapped along. Already at the bottom of her glass of cider, Briony leaned in and whispered her own commentary.

“That ghost was definitely into her.”

“Ten bucks says this story is mostly made up.”

“Oh no, she’s crying. We have to clap extra hard now.”

I tried not to smile and failed. This was actually pretty fun. By the time a tipsy college kid got up to sing something painfully earnest, I was halfway through my cider and feeling ten times lighter. Briony noticed and shot me a smug grin.

“You’re not flinching every time someone laughs.”