The Dead Romantics (28)

But it was gone, and so was my dad.





11





Past Tense


I SLEPT FOR almost three hours.

Almost.

I knew how ghosts worked. They always popped up in the most unexpected places, and I wasn’t sure when Benji Andor would show up again. If he showed up again. A very small, very unreliable part of me well and truly hoped I’d imagined him. But tell that to my anxiety, which was dead set on not letting me get a full REM cycle of sleep. Every groan and crack of the old house startled me awake, until my phone finally went off at 9:30 a.m.

And I felt like a truck had run me over, backed up, and hit me again.

At least I had packed my heavy-duty concealer—the good stuff. I slathered it under my eyes and hoped I looked at least a little alive as I traipsed down the steps to the foyer, where a larger redheaded man sat on the stool Dana occupied last night. He had on an anime T-shirt and about half a dozen piercings in his face, and it took me a moment to recognize him.

“John?”

He looked up from his magazine at the sound of his name, and put on a smile. “Flo-town! Dana said you were staying here!” He stood and quickly hurried around the desk to give me a bear hug. Approximately three of my ribs cracked and I died. He set me down with a laugh. “It’s been—how long, ten years?”

“About,” I conceded. “I barely recognized you!”

He blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. He had on a hat with a pizza design on it, and a loud floral button-down. Miles from the guy I dated in high school—polo shirts and short buzzed hair and a football scholarship to Notre Dame. “Ah, yeah, a lot’s happened.”

“You’re telling me. Congrats on you and Dana!”

“Yeah, can’t believe my luck. How’s New York been treating you?”

“Good. Well—not bad,” I amended.

He laughed. “That’s good to hear. And how’s your wr—” The old rotary phone at the desk began to ring, and he apologetically excused himself to go take the call. “Mairmont Bed-and-Breakfast, John speaking . . .” Then he put his hand over the receiver and whispered to me, “It’s good to see you, though I’m sorry about your dad. He was a real good guy.”

The words hit me like a hurricane, because for a moment I’d forgotten. “Thank you,” I forced out, fixing a smile onto my face.

He went back to the person on the phone, and I left as quickly as I could. I think he shouted after me about breakfast, but I was already late to the Waffle House to meet my family, and no offense to the breakfast at the inn—nothing topped hash browns scattered, smothered, and covered.

The WaHo was at the end of Main Street, near the elementary school and the bookstore, and the parking lot was jammed with travelers stopping through Mairmont on their way through South Carolina to North Carolina and Tennessee. It was close enough to Pigeon Forge to visit Dollywood whenever you wanted or pop over to Asheville to tour the Biltmore. Mairmont was situated just on the outskirts of the Appalachian Mountains, hilly enough to have great walking trails but flat enough for the mountain roads to not kill a Prius. My family sat in the farthest booth at the diner, already eating their cheesy hash browns and sausage-and-egg omelets. I quickly hurried over and slid into the booth beside Mom.

She said, “We already ordered you a waffle and hash browns,” as she slid over a cup of coffee.

I took a long drink. “Mmh, battery acid.”

“Late as usual,” Carver added dryly, mocking a look at his expensive Rolex.

Alice agreed. “Some things never change.”

“No one said there was a hard meeting time,” I scoffed. “Ooh, yum,” I added as the waitress came over with my waffle and a side of hash browns. They smelled absolutely delicious, and my stomach grumbled, reminding me how many meals I skipped yesterday. (Three, all three.)

“Blessed nutritious breakfast sugar,” I said, starved, as the waitress left for another table.

Carver gave me a strange look from across the table. “That hungry?”

“They don’t have Waffle Houses up in New York,” I replied, digging my fork into the soft waffle, cutting off a piece so large I had to angle it to get it into my mouth. It was syrupy and sweet and soggy, just like I remembered.

Mom asked, “So how’s the bed-and-breakfast? I heard it was renovated after Nancy Riviera passed. Is it pretty?”

“Gorgeous,” I said between mouthfuls. “Dana did a great job.”

“Your father and I talked about spending the night there on our anniversary and . . .” Mom frowned into her almost-empty cup of tea. “Well, I guess that won’t be happening.”

Alice gave me a pointed look, as if it was my fault.

“Anyway,” Mom went on, “staying in hotels always gives me such sore muscles. You know, your room is exactly as we left it. Well, with the exception of a sewing machine in the corner. And some paints. And some reclaimed furniture pieces I found on the side of the road—”

Alice interrupted, “She turned it into her art room.”

“It’s my crafting office,” she corrected nobly.

“That’s fine. I like the bed-and-breakfast.” I took another large bite of waffle. “So, what’s the family meeting this morning?”