Last Girl Ghosted(57)

“A girl has got to eat.”

Truth.

“What happened with the mauler?” I ask.

“Ghosted.”

“Good.”

“He’s not the last Coca-Cola in the desert, right?” She must have talked to her mother.

“Hell no.”

I don’t know. Maybe he is. I’m not feeling very optimistic about love at the moment. Or anything. A pall has settled over me—this place, the search for you, the missing women, my strange relationship with Bailey Kirk, my unbidden memories. It’s one ugly twist that I can’t seem to untangle. But I don’t need to drag her down with me.

“You don’t sound right,” she says. “Just come home. You know you get depressed up there. Sell that damn house. Forget about the graves. What are you holding on to, Wren?”

She’s right. I know this. What am I holding on to?

“I’ll come home tomorrow.” I nestle down into the soft sheets and covers, watch the flames in the fireplace.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“What about Dear Birdie?”

“You can do her, Jax. I trust you. I’ll pay you.”

She’s chewing. Must be Chicken Lo Mein, her Chinese go-to. “I think you already did—in takeout and movies.”

“Just bill me.”

“I don’t know how you do it, Wren.”

“Do what?”

“Dear Birdie. Don’t you get tired of other people’s problems?”

I think about Bailey Kirk for some reason. The fatigue under his eyes, the burden he seemed to shoulder. The weight of other people’s sorrows is often far less than the idea of examining your own. I wonder what he’s carrying. Those eyes are full of secrets.

“Someone has to help people in this cruel world,” I say, only half kidding.

“Yeah,” she says, drawing out the syllable. “But does it have to be you?”

The fire crackles, and the room is bathed in the pink light coming from the lamp by the bed. I feel safe, ensconced. That’s the other thing about The Hollows. I may not like it. But there’s something comforting in its familiarity. Like I could just stay. Or like I should.

“Maybe,” I answer. “I don’t know.”

“Because I was thinking that you could just sell Dear Birdie.”

“Sell her?”

“Yeah, you know, like Princess Bride. Dread Pirate Roberts? It was just a name, right, someone else slipping into the role, then handing it off to the next person who needs a cover.”

“You’ve been watching too much Netflix.”

She blows out a breath. “It’s a thing. For real. People do that shit. How many dead authors are still writing books from beyond the grave?”

I never thought about that, the idea that I could shed Dear Birdie like a shawl, put it on someone else’s shoulders. The thought is equal parts comforting and frightening. Who am I without Dear Birdie? I don’t even know.

“Do you want to be Dear Birdie?” I ask.

When she stops laughing: “Heeellll no. You must be out of your mind. I’ve got my own problems. I can barely handle the nonproblems—my boss won’t promote me, what is my purpose, am I following my bliss—I’m dealing with day to day on my own blog. Dear Birdie? Some of those troubles are dark.”

It’s true. Jax’s blog is a bit lighter, the problems more existential, the issues of people who are standing on solid ground. I wonder...could I, would I, shed Dear Birdie?

“What would I do about the podcast?”

“Just find someone who sounds like you,” says Jax. “That Dear Birdie voice isn’t your real voice anyway. It’s like you’re channeling someone.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“Some,” she says softly. “Wren, I just want you to find a little joy, take a little time for you. Can you do that when you’re tethered to your past? When you spend your days listening to everyone else’s heartbreak?”

We don’t find many true friends in our lives. Everyone’s always looking for love, right? That perfect soul mate. The candy, flowers, trips to Paris, romance. No one ever talks about the power and comfort of a true friendship that endures years. The friend who worries about you, is there when you call, brings soup when you’re sick, camps out on your couch when you’re sad. There aren’t many friends like that. If you have one, be grateful. I know I am.

“Don’t worry about me,” I tell her. “I’m okay.”

“Okay,” she says. “We can keep talking about it. In the meantime, I’ll cover her tomorrow. But then you need to take her back.”

“Deal.”

“Oh, hey. There’s a message—not spying on your email but something forwarded from the old account. You know—the one from the blog where you used to get the Dear Birdie letters. I couldn’t log in to see what it was.”

Sometimes people email their letters to that old address. It’s still floating out there in the eternity of the internet. I should close the box. But I hate the thought of someone reaching out and just getting an error message. I check it periodically.

“I’ll take a look.”

She draws in and releases a deep breath.