Sophie sighs, and I know instantly it was the worst thing I could have said.
“No,” she says. “No idea.”
I find that hard to believe. She’s lived in Rowan for hundreds of years. She’s lived in that house for almost a hundred.
“No?” I ask.
“Annie,” she says, “the more thought and energy you give them, the more they’ll appear to you. They’re attracted to that energy. It’s quite similar to your ex-boyfriend. You give him power with your thoughts.”
“You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“We can put it in the past now, yes?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll take care of it,” she says. “I promise, no more ghosts.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “They won’t follow you home.”
I hadn’t considered that they might.
We come to the edge of the woods and she hugs me, rubs my back.
“Sweet dreams, darling,” she says.
“Will you come over this week? For dinner?”
“If you’ll have me,” she says, releasing me.
“Any night,” I tell her. “Whenever.”
“I’ll see you soon,” she says. And with that, she turns and begins to walk back through the woods.
When I get home, I stand in front of the mirror, admiring the clothes Sophie gave me. I have to admit, I look exceptional.
It’s late, but I’m not tired. I make myself a cup of tea and sit on the couch, examining my foot. There’s no evidence that it was ever injured. The events of the afternoon seem so far away, like they happened in another lifetime or to someone else.
Sophie seemed so concerned that I was mad at her, but for some reason, with the way we left things, I wonder if she’s mad at me. If I did something wrong.
I guess I shouldn’t have asked about the ghosts, though how could I not?
I don’t know how to navigate a new friendship, especially not with someone like Sophie.
I tap my finger against the mug, my new ring making a satisfying clink. It’s such a pretty ring. Such a lovely gift.
My phone chimes. It’s another text from Sam. This one reads You okay?
I adjust the ring on my finger. I don’t respond.
THE PICTURE
A week goes by. And another. Another. I develop a routine. In the mornings, I get my coffee from the Good Mug. I make small talk with Oskar and whoever else is around from town. We talk about how it’s getting cold outside, about how it’s getting dark early. We talk about what TV shows we’re bingeing, complain about the characters. We talk about what fruit is good at the market.
After, I go to school. The students are afraid of me. I find the rumors they spread about me ironic, considering my recent discovery about Sophie. They think that I’m the one with some kind of dark power, that I’m the one responsible for the now-infamous Chris Bersten spider incident.
But . . . they behave now. So . . .
I eat lunch in my classroom and avoid other staff, especially Jill, who has assumed that because I went to see her once about something work related, she has free rein to ask me personal questions. She asks, as I stand horrified in front of the vending machine in the teachers’ lounge, if I’m single.
“Uh . . . yeah,” I say, because for some reason I feel obligated to answer despite the question being inappropriate, verging on unprofessional. I never did learn how to set boundaries.
“This might be forward of me,” she says, “but I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask!”
She figured wrong.
“I know someone, a friend of my husband’s. His name is Pascal. He’s from Vermont, very handsome. Great catch. I really think you two would hit it off. If you’re interested! Only if you’re interested.”
“Um,” I say. “Thank you for thinking of me. But I just got out of a relationship.”
“Oh, no!” she says with such an overt display of pity it’s legitimately nauseating.
“I’m fine,” I say, wishing Sophie were around with her understated empathy, with her lack of patience for despair. “Just not ready to date.”
“You let me know if you change your mind!” she says. “He’s really, really handsome!”
With that, she leaves me alone to squirm in the lingering discomfort of the interaction.
I tell Sophie about it that night while we’re prepping potatoes in my apartment.
“I guess she was just trying to be nice,” I say.