Where One Goes(15)

Slowly turning, I take in the house. There are pizza boxes everywhere, empty beer bottles cover most of the surfaces, and yes, there’s a white dust coating his coffee table. “This place smells like ass,” I tell Ike, but he doesn’t respond. When I glance at him, his expression is dismal as he stares down at George. I know he’s worried about him. I know George’s inability to deal with the loss of Ike is what is keeping Ike tied here, preventing him from moving on. I’m saddened with that thought. A part of me doesn’t want Ike to go.

I had every intention of searching George’s house, flushing his drugs and dumping out his whiskey, but I won’t; he’d just get more. I know where his head is at, and he needs something big to bring him to his knees. Only then can he really begin to heal. So I put off my intervention. Tonight I need sleep. That’s what I tell myself anyway. I push aside the thoughts of Ike crossing over. The truth is selfish. And it’s wrong.

The truth is . . . I want more time with Ike.





One thing’s for sure, Charlotte sleeps like the dead. The alarm has already sounded, twice, and she needs to wake up, but I like watching her sleep. It’s only been two days since I found her on the bridge and already I feel tied to her, like she’s a part of me. That’s silly since we’ve only just met, but it’s an odd bond. I’m fighting to give her, and my brother, life, while she’s fighting to help me let go. Somehow we’ve become tethered to one another, even though we both know our time together is limited.

Staring at her, I will her sleepy, gray eyes to open. Leaning forward, my dog tags jingle under my shirt and she stirs. One eye peeks open, and she mumbles something incoherent.

“Good morning, beautiful,” I whisper from my pleathered seat. I call it mine as it’s where I’ve sat all night, watching her.

“Oh yeah. I’m sure I look really beautiful right now,” she says, through a yawn, and I chuckle.

“You do,” I confirm.

“The dead never sleep, huh?” She smiles at me, and I swear, if my heart still beat, it would skip once. Why couldn’t I have met a girl like her when I was alive? Waking up to that smile every morning would’ve been the highlight of my day—every day.

“I miss sleeping,” I admit as she sits up and stretches. I can’t help the way I watch her, and I’m almost certain I see the faintest ghost of a smile when she notices, but it vanishes as quickly as it appears.

“I better get dressed,” she mentions in a huff as she climbs out of bed. “I think I have an idea on how to get George a little closer to getting his shit together, but it’s going to be ugly. I just need to know, do you trust me?”

I stare at her dumbfounded for a moment. I do trust her; it’s George I don’t trust. She must read my thoughts in my expression because she says, “He’s tougher than you think, Ike. But he needs a wake-up call. Sometimes we have to hit rock bottom before we can make our way back up. Look at where I was two days ago when you found me. Now, I’m here.”

My gut tightens with her words. She almost killed herself. The thought alone is enough to make me feel like I’m choking, and I can’t speak. She gives me a nod and heads into the bathroom without another word, taking her backpack with her. I promised her I wouldn’t enter the bathroom while she showers. Technically, I could and she’d never know, but I’m not a sleazeball—even though I really would like to see her naked. It seems like she’s in there forever before she finally emerges, dressed for work, hair tied back in a perfect ponytail.

“You ready?” she asks, and my gaze falls to the envelope in her hands.

“What’s that?”

“Just a letter.” She shrugs, pulling her backpack from her shoulder and tucking the envelope inside.

“Is it a secret?”

“You said you trusted me, right?”

“Did I?” I joke, which earns me one of her death glares.

“Come on. Let’s go.”





I stop by the front office to bid Ginger a good morning. When I walk in, she’s sitting in her recliner in front of the flat screen. Slowly, she rises from her seat and hobbles over to me.

“Good morning, Ginger.” I smile brightly.

“Good morning to you, sugar. How’s your room?”

“Very cozy. Thank you so much.” The kindness she and the Mercers have shown is humbling. I mentally remind myself I need to go track down Mrs. Mercer and thank her in person.

“Cinnamon rolls. You’ll love them!” She shoves a brown paper bag at me and I laugh.

“Ginger, you’re too good to me.” I should probably at least attempt to refuse the bag, but I’m so hungry and they smell so good.

“We just gotta get some meat on those bones, dear.”

“I really appreciate this, Ginger. Thank you.”

“Oh, and I wanted to tell you, if you’re interested, I think I found a way to help you pay for your room. I need someone to help me clean the rooms when guests checkout. Would you be interested?”

“So I would clean the rooms, and you’d let me stay for free?”

“Yes. We don’t get many folks through here, but during tourist season we’re busier than a one-armed paperhanger. I’m booked solid the week after next through the end of November, but my health isn’t what it used to be, and it’d be nice to have someone take care of the rooms for me.”