End of Story(62)

“Idiot.” I downed a mouthful of vino. “I know Lars and Aaron have been friends a long time and there’s a bond there. But he was just such a shit to me. I don’t know how to reconcile it, but I don’t want it to be a thing between us.”

“You’re serious about him,” said Cleo.

I scowled and nodded. “I tried to keep things casual between us, but it feels like I’m fighting a losing battle. If this doesn’t work out I’m joining a nunnery.”

“Sounds reasonable. How much of you is angry at Lars for being Aaron’s friend, versus you being mad at yourself for staying with the asshole for so long and making excuses for his behavior?”

“Good question. Gah. Stop being so insightful.”

“Relationships.” She sighed. “The thing is, Tore didn’t have to like the stupid show. I just needed him to shut up and sit there so I could enjoy it. Now I know not to take him to a play, especially if it’s a tragedy, because it fries his little-boy brain and makes him act out.”

“Have you considered a ball gag?”

“I’d rather go on my own than run the risk of him yelling You can do better, honey to Ophelia.”

I snorted. “Hamlet is a total fuck-boy. I’m with him there.”

“Oh, I’m not debating that. It’s the appropriateness of interacting uninvited with actors during a live performance that’s the issue,” she said. “This is the problem with new relationships. Working through what you can and cannot tolerate. What you can do together and what you should absolutely do apart. And after all of that if the sex is good, deciding whether there’s enough common ground left to warrant still having anything to do with each other.”

“Yeah,” I said glumly. “I have the worst feeling Lars and I are in a relationship.”

Cleo cocked her head. “Has that honestly only just occurred to you?”

“The idea may have dawned on me a few days ago.”

“Well done. Your dramatic run through the hospital ward last weekend kind of gave it away.”

I scoffed. “I run for no man.”

“Hauled ass like your pants were on fire.”

“Actually, that reminds me,” I said. “A local athletic wear brand might be giving you a call. They reached out regarding one of our combined projects and I told them you were the genius behind the camera lens.”

“Okay. Are you working with them?”

“They have their own in-house social media manager. But they were shook by your shots.”

“Nice. I’ll keep an eye out.” She smiled. “How else did dinner with the folks go?”

I downed some more wine. “Eh. I don’t know...”

“Talk to me, Susie,” she said. “Tell me everything.”

Everything ok?

“If I wind up getting possessed I will be so pissed at you,” said Cleo several hours later. During which time Lars had not answered my text. Not a good sign.

“We’re not going to become possessed. And I promise to find you a hot priest on the off chance your head starts spinning around.”

“Oh, good.”

We were lying on the living room rug, attempting a séance. On the coffee table sat the divorce certificate, a bunch of candles, and a number of empty bottles. There was an ever-so-small chance we were wine drunk. But hey, it happened to the best of us now and then. Especially if you drank a lot of wine. That really increased the chances.

“It’s not easy being your bestie,” she said. “You know that, right?”

“I do.”

“Hmm.”

“Would anything like to communicate with us?” I asked the darkened room. Shadows from the flickering candles danced on the ceiling. But otherwise the spirit world was still. “Unless you’re evil, in which case, bye.”

“Nice save.”

“Thanks.”

“Specifically we would like to talk to Aunt Susan,” added Cleo. “We have questions.”

Nothing happened. Then Kat the cat dashed into the room with her tail all fluffed like a toilet brush and, seeing nothing in need of the immediate attention of her claws, she jumped onto the sofa and settled down to give herself a bath. In all likelihood, she was waiting on Lars’s return. She was far more his feline than mine. When he finally got around to moving back to his condo, Kat would be heartbroken. And she would not be alone. Dammit.

“Aren’t you supposed to cast a circle of protection or something?” asked Cleo, rising up on her elbow to down some more wine. She was drinking out of a glass. How pretentious. I’d been chugging chardonnay straight from the bottle like a basic bitch for the last hour, at least.

“How would I know? I’m not a witch and it’s been years since I watched Supernatural. I’m not even convinced ghosts are real.”

“And you think I am?” Cleo shook her head. “Talk about your aunt. Maybe that’ll stir the interest of something on the other side.”

“Okay.” I cleared my throat. “Aunt Susan died of stroke a little over six months ago. I talked to her the night before and she said she was fine, just a little tired. She invited me over for breakfast the next morning. But she never woke up. I hope that means it was painless. That she was gone before she ever even knew what was happening. Her face looked peaceful, but... I don’t know. Her hand was cold to the touch. She must have been dead for hours when I found her. At any rate, I loved her very much. Mostly I’m bummed that I never got to say goodbye to her. To hear her last words of wisdom.”