Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
The bathroom was nearly as crowded as the club, but the second a stall opened up, Edgar sank down on the toilet seat and cradled his head in his hands. He considered calling Allie and letting her calm him down, but he’d been trying not to do that as much anymore. His sister had enough to take care of—like growing a whole person while she ran her own business. He didn’t need to throw his panic attacks into the mix.
The thing about seeing ghosts was that there weren’t a whole lot of resources out there for dealing with it. You couldn’t tell a therapist because they’d think you were crazy, couldn’t dial a hotline or hire an expert for advice because they didn’t have any, couldn’t pop a pill to make them disappear. Edgar knew because he’d tried all those things and more over the years.
Absent these solutions, Edgar had developed his own tools for coping with his unique problem, hiding in bathroom stalls chief among them.
Edgar took slow, deep breaths, keeping his eyes open to avoid being startled.
Instead of calling Allie, he opened the video feed that he’d set up to check on the new kitten arrivals at the cat café where he worked. As he watched, his pounding heart slowed, and his breathing evened.
I hate this. I just wanted one night.
“You okay in there, dude?” a voice said. When no one else responded, Edgar cleared his throat in what he hoped was an affirmative noise. The bathroom door opened and closed again, leaving him in relative quiet.
“I hate this,” he whispered once he was alone. He opened the stall door, making sure to avoid the mirror—you never knew what might be reflected behind you—and left the bathroom to rejoin his friends.
At the table, Helen now had their arm slung around the waist of a fat red-haired guy with a glorious beard.
“But it takes place in four timelines, each one year apart,” they were saying as Edgar approached. “Oh, Edgar, good, this is Isak, my friend who’s performing in the second act. Cat café,” Helen said, pointing to Edgar.
“I need another cat,” Isak said, his eyes wide and sparkling. He screwed up his nose. “Not need, like, require for blood sacrifice or anything. Need like caaaats.” He drawled the word with the worshipful delight of a cat lover.
“There’s a form to fill out for adoption. Don’t write anything about blood sacrifice on it, and you’ll radically increase your chances of success,” Edgar said.
Belatedly, he remembered to smile, and then Isak laughed.
“Ha! I couldn’t tell if you were kidding.”
“Edgar’s never kidding,” Greta told Isak.
“Or,” Veronica proposed, “is he always kidding?”
Edgar cringed. “We open at nine,” he said. “I’m gonna grab some water. Get y’all something?”
Confirming that everyone had a full beverage, Edgar made his second escape. He didn’t have it in him to meet anyone else.
He ordered a sparkling water with lime from the preoccupied bartender and wedged himself between the bar and the wall so nothing could sneak up on him. The wallpaper was an ornate pattern of orchids and foliage, blue-black flocking on an oxblood field. Edgar traced a bloom with his fingertip, some areas of the velvet soft with age and dust, others brittle enough to crumble onto his fingertips.
“It’s a reproduction.”
Edgar startled back around.
“The wallpaper. It’s not the original. People ask sometimes.”
The person who’d spoken wore a smoking jacket in peacock colors, a vee of creamy skin just visible between the parting edges of the silk.
“Oh,” Edgar said intelligently, distracted by the stranger’s beauty. A curl of their light brown hair fell over one bright blue eye smudged with black eyeliner.
“The original was modeled after a Jean-Baptiste Réveillon in Paris, but this replaced it after a fire in the seventies.” The alluring stranger smiled. “I’m Jamie. I use they/them pronouns.”
“Hey. Edgar. He/him.” Flustered, Edgar dropped his gaze and blinked at the wallpaper. “Are you an interior designer?”
Jamie smiled, revealing prominent eyeteeth and charming dimples. “Nope. Just a casual wallpaper historian.”
Jamie’s nose crinkled, and Edgar was captivated.
“I perform here, so I’ve heard a lot of conversations about this place. You know, the tourists who are following online guides and tours and stuff? They come in here all the time wanting to see the original wallpaper because it was featured in this cult movie from the sixties.”
Edgar knew the type. “Um. Are you performing tonight?”
Jamie raised one dark eyebrow. “Mm-hmm. You sticking around?”
Heat kindled in Edgar’s gut at the idea of seeing stunning Jamie take off their clothes onstage, followed immediately by guilt.
Jamie’s eyebrow rose impossibly higher, like maybe they knew what he was thinking, and Edgar hesitated. The thing about being able to see ghosts was the question it raised—that if ghosts existed, what other creatures considered mythical were real? It was hard to dismiss the possibility of vampires, werewolves, aliens, or troublingly attractive strangers who might be able to read your thoughts.