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I smile too tight, lift my drink in a weird salute, and try to hide my mortification. “Well, if things go the way they’re going, I may soon not even be able to afford just a cup of regular coffee, let alone a Pumpkin Prince.”
His smile falters. “Oh. What’s up?”
“I’m job hunting. But not for the job I wanted in graphics. I’m a digital graphics artist. Maybe not a good enough one. Job hunting sucks.” I become aware of the line growing behind me. “Sorry, I’m holding up the line. Thanks for the drink, Byron. It’s nice to get a treat lately instead of … just a lot of bad-spirited tricks.”
“Hey, if you ever need to talk or anything …”
The guy behind me clears his throat. That’s my cue. “I’m fine. It’ll work out in the end.” Says the loser who just had three job interviews and three rejections in a row. “Thanks again.” I turn to go.
“Good luck, Calvin!” Byron calls at my back, and then he’s busy with the next customer.
And my awkward ass is straight out the door with the remainder of my delicious Pumpkin Prince, which is nearly as irresistible to taste as Byron is to look at.
That might have been the most words I have ever exchanged with the barista before.
And I still managed to sound like a total dork.
I can only imagine what he might tell his friends about me, the weirdo, after his day. Even if I can’t quite picture Byron being mean enough to make fun of me to his friends, I picture it anyway, and my face reddens.
Why can’t I just be cool? Why is confidence such a difficult endeavor? Why can’t I just … get the guy?
The moment I’m at my door with my jangling keys in hand, the door across the hall creaks open. “Hi.”
My landlord is so weird. “Hi, Mrs. Shaheen.”
“How’s your morning? How are you enjoying your apartment? Any issues? Pests? Rodents? Random words written in blood across your bathroom mirror?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get me to break my lease and leave,” I tease.
She straightens up. “So there was a message written in blood across your—?”
“No, Mrs. Shaheen. Everything’s totally …”
Flashes from the conversation I had last night with Westley fly past my eyes. The candle. His desperation. His requests of me. My unanswered questions to him … When I woke up this morning, the first thing I thought of was him, and I flew out of bed to check everything in my apartment—but nothing was out of place. Not even the candle, which remained on the kitchen counter, all blown out. Even the food in my fridge was left alone. Westley, more or less, did nothing as I slept.
It was like he never appeared at all.
What if it was a dream? What if my long years of loneliness have finally caught up to me, and I invented a dude-ghost in my apartment, clinging to the tale Mrs. Shaheen fed to my wild imagination about a guy who died there? What if it’s all really in my head?
Well, that certainly spells disaster for my future.
“Yes?” she prompts me. “Everything’s totally …?”
I forgot I left her hanging. “Everything’s fine. I’m all settled in. There’s no—” Is a straight jock-bro ghost considered a pest or rodent? Ah, screw it. “—no pests or rodents. No issues at all.”
She studies me skeptically. “Hmm.”
That’s all she says. Just ‘hmm’. I leave well enough alone and smile. “Have a great day! Oh, I recommend the Pumpkin Prince at the coffee place on the corner. It’s like a magic, autumnal dream in your mouth.”
“I’m allergic to pumpkins,” she volunteers, frowns, then slips back into her apartment without a word.
Endearing lady, that Mrs. Shaheen.
I get inside, shut the door at my back, then let out the longest sigh in the world as I stare into the dim and silent nothingness of my humble abode.
This is when reality crashes back into me—all my failures crowding me like a swarm of angry voices. My failure to land a new job today. My failure to score any points whatsoever with the heart-crushing Byron. My failure at being a generally useful human being today.
I sit on the couch and sulk, sucking down the rest of my Pumpkin Prince. Every sip makes my tongue sing. It’s actually rather difficult to be sulky and mad when I’m drinking this, to be honest.
Is there magic in it? Of course there is. Byron made it. It’s like drinking pure laughter and happiness.
A sudden breeze across my neck stops me mid-gulp. I glance over my shoulder. One of my windows is cracked open. Did I leave it like that? Drink in hand, I go to it and, after a moment’s investigation, shut the thing, cutting off the errant wind.
