Pretty Guilty

by K. L. Cottrell

  “Well, it’s not normal, but it’s not crazy, either. Not to me. I grew up hearing ghost stories from my mom and her best friend, who used to live in a haunted house. And for as long as I knew my grandpa, he talked about seeing stuff and having supernatural things happen to him.” Frowning, I cross my arms. “I just don’t have a problem with it, Coralie, and I’ve been trying for over a week to tell you that.”

  She turns on her heel and strides away again, now toward the back of the store. “Whatever. Just—just whatever.”

  “What do you mean?” I give a flat laugh as my feet finally start moving, too. “I’m telling you I like you despite what you think about yourself. That’s a good thing.”

  “You’ll change your mind about me once you realize—”

  “No, stop.” I don’t know how I got to her so quickly, but here I am, turning her around. Surprisingly, she doesn’t struggle, just glares up at me, and I want so badly to take her face in my hands. I remember how it fits in them, how soft her skin is. But I refrain. “Do you like me, too, or not? Quit evading and telling me how you think I should feel. Tell me how you feel.” Please tell me you think I’m amazing. Say it.

  “Of course I like you,” she snaps. “Are you kidding me? You’re attractive as hell and fun and nice and you make me smile. The problem isn’t how I feel about you. It’s the fact that I am constantly going in and out of a living nightmare and I never know when it’s going to happen. I never know when Aaron is going to show up. He sat through our date but disappeared while we were talking in your car. I don’t remember seeing him when we got to your house, but he was there when I woke up from my bad dream and he fucking told me he likes watching me sleep, so who knows how long he was there? If you only knew the things he says to me—so, I mean, why the hell would you want to sign up for that? Why would you want me when he’s part of what you get?”

  Oh, ugh. Ugh. No wonder she freaked out that night. He was there while she wasn’t wearing any clothes.

  The thought of him seeing her like that upsets me.

  “See?” she says mockingly. “You don’t have an answer because who would want me like this? I’m right. I’m right and I fucking knew I would be, so—”

  “No, you’re not,” I cut her off. My hand is still on her shoulder, so I squeeze it gently, like I don’t feel disturbed and angry about Aaron. “You’re not right about me. Stop thinking that. Please.”

  Thankfully, that seems to quiet her down. As she looks up at me, I can sense her thoughts warring with one other. They’re all over her face: ‘Keep fighting or don’t? Believe him or don’t? Let Aaron ruin this or don’t?’

  “This isn’t the worst thing in the world, you know,” I tell her. “You’re dealing with something stressful, but you don’t have to do it by yourself. I’ll just be your friend, even, Coralie, if that’s what you want. I like you more than that, but I’ll take your time however you’ll give it to me.” I sigh. “It’s obvious you’ve been having a hard time with Aaron, and there’s just no need for you to keep suffering by yourself. I’m not afraid of him.”

  As I expected her to do a minute ago, she pulls out of my grasp, but her eyes are decidedly softening.

  It gives me some hope.

  After many, many seconds of that being her only response, I ask, “What are you thinking?”

  She frowns now and closes her eyes. “That you wear me out.”

  My heart sinks.

  “Are you really serious?” she whispers. “You really…?” Her eyes reopen and look into mine, and I understand the rest of her question.

  My hope has come right back. I nod. “Yeah.” Yeah, I want to be around you. Yeah, I can handle what you’re going through.

  She’s back to doing nothing but looking at me. This time, I don’t break the silence. I wait for her to do it.

  After what feels like forever, she holds out a hand. “Friends.”

  Hell, I’ll take it, just like I said.

  Relieved, I wrap my hand around hers and give it a light shake. “Friends.”

  Her gaze moves sideways and grows heavy, and she draws a deep breath. “I’ll, um…I’ll spark this off with honesty, then.” She exhales shakily. “Aaron is right next to you and he just called me a whore for sleeping with you on our first date when I never even held his hand the one time we went out.”

  I cross my arms and slide a glower to where she’s looking. “Well, he’s a jackass.”

  “You have no idea,” she mumbles.

  “Bring me up to speed?”

  When I look at her again, I see her nodding. “Fine, Mr. Whatever-your-last-name-is. Come stand by the shirt table with me, I guess.”

  Chuckling, I follow her to the table and inform her at last, “Bowman.”

  I think I hear her let out a little laugh, too.

  5: Coralie

  “Go away,” I groan. I run my brush through my hair, then set it down and drop my head into my hands. “Hasn’t it been a while since you checked on your family? What about Eddie? Go see what he’s up to.”

  From where he’s standing beside me at my bathroom counter, Aaron gurgles, “No.”

  I start to beg him, but I bite my tongue. I won’t plead with this bastard for anything. More sharply, I say, “Leave me alone, damn it.”

  “Why should I? So you can have some peace? Not be bothered? You don’t deserve it.”

  I hate this.

  I hate him.

  He’s driving me insane. It’s been a month since he started talking—two since he died— and he hasn’t shut up. He won’t stop telling me how terrible a person I am and it’s driving me insane. I haven’t even been able to enjoy spending time with Will again.

  Not that I’ve done much of that. As badly as I want to be around him, I’ve had trouble feeling light-hearted where he’s concerned, and it’s kept me from being able to hang out when he asks. It’s been a couple weeks since I agreed to be his friend, and not counting that day, I’ve only visited with him once. Even chatting over texts has been kind of scarce.

  I like him. I’ve liked him since I met him. But regardless of that and of how much he likes me back, I can’t forget about the dread Aaron fills me with. It’s ever-present and it grows more and more stifling all the time.

  The ghost of him says, as he has so many times now, “You killed me.”

  I grind my teeth. “I did not.”

  “You know you did.”

  “No, you did this to yourself.”

  “You’re a liar. You know I wouldn’t be dead if you hadn’t put me in harm’s way.”

  I lift my head from my hands to glare at him.

  He looks back at me with those chilling eyes. There’s a dark, accusatory expression on his busted face.

  I whirl toward the door, deciding not to bother with hair and makeup at all this morning. I need to get out of this room. Out of my house. Into some fresh, open air.

  Of course, he follows me out of the bathroom. I try to ignore him, even when he says, “Face the truth, Coralie. You’re a killer.”

  I stomp into my room to find clothes for the day.

  “Stop acting like you had no part in what happened to me.”

  I yank an outfit into my shaking hands. I don’t know when Aaron will disappear, so I need to go ahead and get dressed now. I hate it, but I don’t know what other choice I have—I’m already about to be late for work.

  I’m in the middle of wiggling into a shirt while still wearing my pajama top when he speaks close to my ear: “Stop acting like you didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Shut up!” I scream as I stagger away from him. My words crack back to me from around the room, causing my hair to stand on end. “I didn’t do anything wrong! You shouldn’t have put your hands on me, you stupid son of a bitch! You crossed a line and got yourself kicked out of my car! It’s not my fault you walked into the middle of the street and got run over!”

  The wet, somewhat strangled noise that bubbles up out of him makes my skin crawl.
r />   It’s laughter.

  He’s laughing, showing me his bloody teeth, shaking his head so the grisly wound on it catches the light again and again.

  I gag and press a hand to my mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut and order myself, Don’t be sick. Just finish getting dressed and get outside.

  “When are you going to stop telling that lie?” he asks.

  Ignore him. Get dressed. I reopen my eyes and quickly get back to my task. My shirt is on in a second.

  “You know good and well,” he continues, “that I didn’t walk into the middle of the street.”

  Ignore him! Skirt—get the skirt—

  “You know I was already there. That’s where you left me.”

  “No!” I fumble with my long skirt and drop it. I bend down to pick it up and drop it again.

  “I got hit by that car because you dumped me out in the road. You wish I’d died because of my own carelessness, but that’s not what happened, is it?”

  “Yes, it is!”

  But even as I say it, I remember towing him out of his seat and straight onto the ground, which was the road, because he was sitting behind me in the car, on the left side, and there was road on our left side, not grass, and—

  “You could have left me somewhere else, Coralie, and you didn’t.”

  “You shouldn’t—” I choke out as I try and fail yet again to pick up my skirt, “—you shouldn’t have touched—”

  “You were sober and responsible for getting me to a safe place whether you were pissed off or not. You could’ve pepper-sprayed me with your keychain and left me at the gas station. You could’ve even pushed me onto the side of the road if you wanted me out of your car that damn badly. But instead, you left me drunk and hurt right where the next car could come and run me over.”

  “You shouldn’t have—”

  “I apologized,” he growls now, close to me once again, “and begged you not to leave me. And you still did it.”

  “Whoop-de-fucking-doo, you said you were sorry!” I finally get hold of the skirt and whip it through the air as I look at him. “You didn’t mean it for a second, Aaron! You weren’t being sincere about groping me three fucking times! You were never sorry about bothering me! You never cared what made me uncomfortable or annoyed me! You only ever thought about yourself!”

  I will not be blamed for protecting myself.

  I will not be blamed for protecting myself.

  Who gives a dick whether or not I had pepper spray? Who cares what my other options for getting rid of him were? He assaulted me and I defended myself. How I did it doesn’t matter.

  It wasn’t exactly impulsive, though, was it? Leaving him in the road? I saw the gas station and didn’t go to it on purpose.

  The abrupt, unwelcome admission sends unease jabbing through me.

  But I shake it off and finish clothing myself, beyond ready to leave.

  Aaron is oddly quiet up until I start walking out the front door: “Has it occurred to you that I’m still here because I can’t rest in peace yet? I have unfinished business with you because you won’t take responsibility for my death.”

  “Can’t admit to something I didn’t do,” I say flatly.

  No, sir, I can’t.

  I didn’t get Aaron killed, so I can’t act like I did. I’m not a killer. I’m just a girl who made a choice and went on her way. Whatever happened after that has nothing to do with me.

  “I’m not guilty,” I reassure myself in a mumble.

  He hears it and disagrees, “You’re pretty guilty.”

  “Fuck off!” I yell, sending a couple birds zooming from the tree in my front yard.

  An elderly, shocked voice floats over from next door. “Why, I’m just enjoying my tea!”

  I roll my eyes that way and spot Mrs. Gideon on her porch swing, bundled up in her winter clothes with her eyes wide. Why she thinks I would be talking to her like that is beyond me. “Sorry, Mrs. Gideon,” I call back as politely as I can for how irritated I am. “Talking to someone else.”

  “Oh…yes, all right. But who, dear?”

  I look away from her and find that even I can’t see Aaron. He’s gone away for now.

  I’d be relieved about it if his last words weren’t echoing in my mind.

  *

  Hour after hour after hour.

  Minute by minute by minute.

  ‘You’re pretty guilty.’

  I can’t stop thinking about it.

  I thought about it while I marked down items for clearance. And while I sorted two shipments of beads for new bracelets. And while I ate lunch in the back room. And while Catie told me about the plans for my nephew’s birthday party. No matter what’s gone on, I’ve had those words in my mind.

  By the time I’m walking home from work, I’m on about the twentieth urge to tell Will about it. We’ve texted a few times today, and at several points throughout my shift, I even started typing it out. But I deleted it every time. He’s all right with me seeing the ghost, but what if I tell him about the accusations and he decides it really is too weird? What if he starts doubting my innocence and I lose him for good? I’ve been keeping him at arm’s length, but I don’t want him totally gone; at arm’s length is already too far for him to be.

  I know he said he won’t turn on me, but…

  …but he doesn’t know.

  He doesn’t know what I know. He doesn’t know what I did. I didn’t tell him everything that night at the shirt table. I only filled him in up to Aaron pissing me off at the party before I tried to drive him home.

  I wish I didn’t know what I did—hell, this morning I was adamant that I didn’t. But it’s been gnawing at me all day, growing heavier in my stomach and bigger in my mind.

  ‘You wish I’d died because of my own carelessness….’

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. Needing the distraction, I stop walking and check it. I see a text:

  WILL: Hey, you’re off now, right? Do you want to get some dinner? Someone gave me a coupon for Juan’s. Buy an entrée, get one half off :)

  Sometimes it’s ridiculous how big my stomach flips over him.

  Hell yeah, I want to go to dinner with him, especially to Juan’s. Their salsa is so good, and it’s been a while since I saw Will’s smile. And this is the third time since our last hang-out, I think, that he’s invited me somewhere. I squirmed my way out of the other invitations, always too anxious to go.

  Happy stomach flips aside, I’m still anxious. Aaron isn’t with me right this second, but I can hear his voice all the same, gurgling that I don’t deserve a fun night with Will. Or maybe he would approve of me going so I could tell Will the truth and drive him away from me. There’s something I deserve.

  ‘I have unfinished business with you because you won’t take responsibility for my death.’

  My stomach lurches as I recall those words.

  I’ve never been some weakling who lets people walk on her or tell her what she can and can’t do, but with every day that passes, I can feel myself slipping. Aaron is doing something scary to me. I feel like I’m sinking into the ground, growing increasingly stuck because I’m unable to fight being drawn closer to his decay.

  The voice in my head from earlier—the one that acknowledged that I chose not to leave Aaron safely at the gas station—speaks up again: Maybe if I just admit he’s dead because of me, all of this will stop.

  I feel sick at the thought. My knees threaten to give out and I briefly feel dizzy. And also like crying.

  I’m not a murderer. I’m just not.

  Yes, it’s true that I’ve never been one to take shit from people, but I’m not a monster. I hated Aaron, but I didn’t want him to die. Jesus. I just wanted him to leave me alone.

  I didn’t want him to die. I didn’t cause him to die. I’m not guilty.

  “I’m not guilty,” I say aloud for the second time today. And since Aaron isn’t here to repeat what he said earlier, too, I try to forget the words I’ve been troubled by. I try instead to
fill my mind with Will, and more Will, and even more Will. Will Bowman, who I like and who likes me.

  I text him back that, yes, I’m off work and, yes, I’d love to go to Juan’s with him.

  His response is immediate and happy.

  I’m hit with the sudden desire to fix myself up for this dinner. It’s been forever, it seems like, since the last time I cared about my appearance. I want to look like the real me when I see Will, not like this whatever I’ve been lately.

  I hurry home, actually trembling with excitement.

  That’s what I’m going to call it, anyway.

  *

  What a fine mess I’ve found myself in.

  Every time I lay eyes on Will in his button-down shirt and khakis, my mouth waters. When I hear his genuine laughter, my spine tingles. I see the way he casually crosses his arms and I want them around me again, and I talk with him and feel warmth steadily blooming in my chest. And all the while, Aaron is stabbing into my mind.

  He reappeared in my bathroom earlier as I was putting burgundy lipstick on. I was instantly on edge and thought about canceling on Will even then, ten minutes before he was supposed to pick me up. It was easier to feel confident when Aaron wasn’t around, and I didn’t want his darkness to spoil my time with Will.

  But I didn’t cancel. I just told Aaron to fuck off and went back to perfecting my lipstick, trying my best to let the fresh words of blame go in one ear and out the other.

  He hasn’t fucked off. He’s followed me around for the last two hours, just as he did the first time I went out with Will. And it’s been harder to ignore him than it was on that night.

  Will can tell. We’ve already talked about Aaron’s presence and how I feel about it. And I still haven’t opened the can of worms involving what Aaron says to me; as far as Will knows, I’m just being hit on and told how much he and I suck.

  Still, he does his best to distract me and cheer me up. I must say, seeing how he looks at me is pretty distracting, since it’s the same way I look at him.

  On our way out of Juan’s, our hands brush on accident and I actually shiver. I make myself look everywhere except at him, but I can hear the way his breath catches before he asks quietly, “Have I told you how gorgeous you look tonight?”