She didn’t answer him right away.
Just a soft little huff of air that might’ve been a laugh, except it was too sharp at the edges. She waved him off—gentle, but firm—as his fingers tugged at her hair again.
“No—no. It’s nothing like that.” she said, chuckling as she pulled back just slightly, her gaze fixed on some cracked point in her drywall instead of him.
“I’m just—” her voice fluttered, stalled, then picked up again like she’d rehearsed it in the mirror. “I’m going through my own things. Trying to be a better version of myself.”
Better. Not broken. Not hurting. Not waiting for a man who didn’t come back in time to stop this from happening.
“I guess I’m just bad at this” she added with a small, embarrassed shrug. “I’ve never really dated. So poor James has to deal with all of my… inexperience.”
She laughed again, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m happy. I am. I guess I’m just frustrated with myself, is all.”
But even as she said it, her throat burned.
Because she remembered exactly how it started. How she’d stumbled into Emmett’s bar that night like someone trying to outrun her own shadow. She hadn’t expected to see anyone she knew. She hadn’t expected him.
He’d looked about as wrecked as she felt nursing a whiskey in the corner booth, sleeves rolled up, knuckles bruised, eyes distant. They weren’t friends, not really, but they’d seen each other around the neighborhood enough to nod.
That night he didn’t just nod. He looked at her like she was the only thing that made sense.
He was gentle at first. Tender, even. They’d both been drinking. Talking. Swapping stories that tasted like loss. He told her about his last deployment, about the girl he left behind, how he came back changed—how he didn’t know how to stop being a ghost.
She’d laughed quietly at that, said something half-joking, half-serious about how she’d always felt like a ghost herself.
Always just around, haunting the background of someone else’s story.
She had been the poltergeist in the quiet corners of his life the unspoken space in his routines. A shadow brushing by when he needed a soft moment. A comfort, a whisper, a thing never spoken aloud.
She had never been part of his real life. Never got to meet the girls he brought home. Never got to ask why he always left without warning. She only existed in the quiet.
So when James started texting. Calling. Asking her out, she said yes.
He was steady. Present. A little too gruff sometimes, a little too drunk too often. But he showed up. Brought her sunflowers. Cooked for her once. Told her she made him feel like he mattered again.
Sure, he talked about his ex more than she liked. Sure, he’d get sharp when he drank too much. . . Eyes going flinty, words cutting just enough to sting. But she understood. He was working through something. And in his defense…
Because every time James did something kind, something sweet—every time his lips brushed her temple or he made her laugh at dinner, when the moments grew sweet and tender she found herself wishing it was Theo.
That guilt started quietly.
Guilt that she was unfaithful in thought if not in deed. Guilt that she was too broken to be enough for James. Guilt that if he lashed out, it was probably her fault for not being better.
So when his moods got darker when he snapped at her or called her childish, weird or selfish. . . she tried harder.
She stayed. Even when he stopped apologizing. Even when he gripped her arm too hard and told her she was lucky he still had the patience to deal with her particularities. . . Her weird.
Even now, she said, “I’m happy.”
And maybe if she said it enough, she’d believe it.
She lifted her chin slightly, eyes flicking back toward Theo with a practiced, lopsided smile that didn’t quite cover the damage beneath it.
“You know me.” she added softly, trying to make it sound like a joke. “Little ghost girl. Still figuring it out.”
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