The Ghost (Professionals Book 2)

by Jessica Gadziala

  I wasn't that woman.

  I wasn't someone who called and cried at men. It was humiliating to realize I had done it, that I couldn't undo it, that there was no way to take it back, that he would pick up his phone - possibly already had - and heard me sobbing and sniffling and babbling, bemoaning my fate.

  What would he think of me?

  Not good things, I was sure.

  Maybe that he was glad he dodged a bullet by leaving like he had.

  It was not the last memory I wanted him to have of me, but it would likely be the most vivid one, one he would tell his buddies - about that chick he laid that called a few days later crying at him.

  I was that woman.

  Pathetic and laughable.

  Which was a hell of a lot worse than being remembered as the cold, rich bitch he likely thought I had been before that call.

  But, I tried to reason with myself, there was absolutely not a single thing I could do about what had already happened.

  All I could do now was try to move forward, forget what had happened, carve out some kind of life for myself here.

  So what if the big box store wasn't my cup of tea? I had enough money to hold me over for a while. I could be more selective, wait to find something I didn't absolutely loathe.

  There was a knocking at my door, making my heart fly up into my throat, making it feel like I was choking on it before I realized that even if Cortez could find me, he likely would not come knocking.

  Taking a steadying breath, I moved out toward the living room, stepping silently so no one could hear me in case I didn't want to open the door for whoever it was.

  But I didn't find Cortez. Or my old boss. Or Andrew.

  No.

  I found a woman.

  Petite, plump, blonde-haired, bright-eyed.

  I knew her.

  Well, knew of her.

  She was the woman who lived across the hall with her two daughters. No husband or boyfriends. I had seen them coming and going, but hadn't bumped into them yet.

  Reaching up, I flattened my crazy hair, then slid the locks, and pulled the door open.

  "Hi!" she cheered, smiling openly, a bit too happy for... well... any time of the day. "I'm Auddie, from across the hall," she explained, waving toward her door. "I'm sorry to interrupt your hangover, but I wanted to introduce myself finally, so you didn't think I was being rude. It's just... when we first moved in, everyone stopped over that very day, and things were crazy and disorganized, and it was not the way I wanted to entertain company, y'know? With the house full of boxes, looking like a disaster area. So I figured I would give you a few days to settle in before I came over and bugged you. I brought rum cake!" she announced, making my attention go down to see a plate in her hand. "I didn't intend for it to be the hair of the dog, but this kind of makes it kismet, don't you think?"

  I worked with a lot of young, excited professionals. I thought I understood people who talked a lot. This woman, she put them all to shame.

  "I'm Sloane," I offered, giving her what I hoped was a kind smile, even if it was forced. Because I saw this for what it was. An opportunity. If I was going to live here - and, really, I had no actual choice in the matter - then I needed to be open to making connections, friendships, normal things.

  "So, what were you drinking about?" she asked, moving forward, letting herself into the apartment without an invitation. "Alone on a Tuesday night, I believe that is usually indicative of man trouble, yes?" she asked, casually going through my kitchen drawers and cabinets until she found plates and utensils.

  "Several," I offered, watching as her head jerked up, eyes dancing.

  "Oh, juicy!"

  "Not really," I said, shaking my head, feeling a little bit of the weight of the morning lift off of me, finding her energy a bit infectious. "I had a boss that hit on me, then made my life hell when I turned him down."

  "Ugh. There's always one of those in your life, right? The perv boss? Mine was when I was fifteen. He tried to put his hand up my skirt. My daddy found out, came in, and poured scalding coffee on that hand."

  I smiled at that, wondering how nice that must have been. To have a father who cared like that.

  "But you said men. Plural."

  "I'm, ah, trying to..."

  "Ah, say no more," she said, handing me a plate, holding up a hand. "Asshole ex. I know that one well. Trying to get away, start over. Me and my girls, that was why we came here too. I mean, we're only a few counties over from my asshole ex, but it's away. It's nice here," she added, going into my fridge to pull out the milk. Something about that was so sweet, so pure, so... mom-like, that I almost wanted to cry a little as she poured us each a glass. "I know it's hard when you first start. Everything is different. And different sounds good at first, until you start missing how they made pizza in your old town better, and how you miss the stores, the sights, the people. But you'll start making new favorites here too."

  "Yeah," I agreed, nodding. "That's true. I haven't given it much of a chance yet."

  "There's this... oh, wow!" she stopped short, putting her plate down with a careless clatter, moving out of the kitchen space, and into the living room area where my small dining table was set up with my easel on top. "You did this?" she asked, turning back to look at me as though I was some famous artist or something.

  "Oh, yeah. It's not finished, but..."

  "It's amazing!" she cut off my attempt at self-deprecation. "I wish I could do this. My sister can paint. I was always so jealous of that. But I was better with words, so at least I have that."

  "You write?"

  "Well, not really. I make up books for my girls. To teach them relevant things that I notice they are interested in. I print off pictures online to put with them. It's hideous actually," she said, smiling back at me.

  "I could draw some pictures for you," I offered, shrugging it off. "I'm between work right now. I could use something to keep me from going stir crazy in this apartment."

  "You're serious?" she beamed. "That would be so amazing! Oh, I'm so excited. I will drop off the pages later today if you want. That would be such a cool surprise for them. I bet I could get Billy down at the print shop to make me some actual books out of them too. How cool would that be? For them to see their mom's name on the front of a real-looking book? And your name too, of course," she added with a smile. "Illustrated by Sloane..."

  "Livingston," I answered immediately, knee-jerk.

  And, suddenly, I could see myself as her.

  Sloane Livingston.

  I could be her.

  The woman with the friendly neighbor that she called a friend. The woman who casually illustrated some children's books for fun, to help a young single mom to teach her daughters some lessons.

  I could be her.

  The one who shared rum cake at ten in the morning.

  The one who was willing to give this place a real shot. Not because it was necessary, because life would be a never-ending pit of misery if I didn't try, but because I could carve a life out for myself here.

  "You know what you should do?" Auddie declared excitedly.

  "What?"

  "Get a job at that wine-and-paint place they just opened in town?"

  "Wine-and-paint?" I asked, brows drawing together.

  "Yeah! It's fun. I went when they first opened, when the girls had a sleepover. You pay, and bring your own wine. Then everyone there gets to drink and paint some cool picture that you would never be able to paint on your own. I mean... my sunset was pretty hideous even with instruction, but it was a blast. I bet the owner would totally let you do a class here or there. Or private events. That place has been crazy. She probably hasn't had a night off since it opened. You'd be perfect for that!"

  Maybe I could be her too.

  The woman who taught art lessons to drunk women having girls nights out.

  I could be her.

  I could maybe even be happy being her.

  After some time, some adjustment.

 
; I could get there.

  For the first time since any of this started, I felt a small sliver of something I could only call hope.

  The next day, I got to work on a sweet story about a little girl who had a hard time making friends at school - something I learned that Margo, Auddie's six-year-old was struggling with because she was a bit on-spectrum, and some of the other kids didn't understand why she did or said some of the things she did.

  "Do you think we should print up a couple other copies?" Auddie asked, thumbing through the completed book for the fifth time since I gave it back to her six days after she handed it to me.

  I had to say... I really enjoyed it. I was proud of it. And sure, I enjoyed designing my purses. I was proud of what I made. But the very big distinction here was... this was fun. There were no concerns about what some 'big names' might think of my collection, if it would sell, what the general public would think. All I had to do was create something that two sweet little girls would like.

  And Auddie assured me that I had accomplished that task.

  "If you think you know some other little girls that would like it, yes," I told her as I mixed the cookie batter in a bowl. Under Auddie's watchful eye. She swore she would make a baker out of me yet. So far, I had been less than successful. But she assured me that where cooking was an art, baking was a science. I just had to get all the parts right, and it would be a perfect product. I was willing to put my faith to rest in that.

  "Well, Margo has a little group of friends with Autism or Aspergers that we meet every few weeks for playdates. I think the moms - and the kids - would really get a lot out of this."

  "Then definitely get them printed up," I told her, then maybe went a bit business-head on her, reminding her to put copyright pages and all that jazz.

  "I think I will," she declared dramatically, coming over to inspect my stirring. Apparently, there was a right and a wrong way to stir. Who knew? "So did you hear back from the lady at the painting place?"

  Auddie had dragged me there two nights ago to drink wine and paint. And then loudly demand that I be hired there.

  "She wants me to send in some original work. I don't have anything finished yet. But I am going to do it."

  "Good. I'm glad. Someone like you, with talents like yours, you shouldn't be working in retail, wasting away. You need to use that. It's special. People will pay for special."

  "I definitely want to be able to draw and paint more," I admitted. "Things that make me happy or excited. I've drawn for work before, but it wasn't really anything that..."

  "Lit a fire under your butt?" she supplied for me. "Those are ready. Get your ice cream scoop, and put them on the tray."

  "Exactly," I agreed, following instructions. "It is nice to feel really passionate about something."

  "Life is too short not to love what you do," she told me. Auddie worked from home doing various jobs that her Masters in English allowed. Copyediting. Freelance articles. Ghostwriting. Anything that would bring in money, but allow her to be home for her girls should they ever need her.

  I wondered then as I put the cookies in the oven, and Auddie babbled her goodbyes, talking excitedly about going down to the printers to get the books bound, if I ever would have realized that on my own. If none of this had ever happened, if my life hadn't needed to be uprooted, if Gunner hadn't put me here, left me here, making me dive into a bottle, be a hungover mess, and appeal to the good nature of the sweet woman across the street. Would I ever have realized that no matter what I did in life, I should be happy doing it?

  Honestly, probably not.

  I would have kept valuing myself for my work ethic, for my level of production, for my name and respect.

  Without ever giving thought to my own happiness.

  Not comfort, like having my bills paid, like knowing I would be okay even if I lost everything, if the economy took a turn again, and the demand for designer handbags tanked.

  But happiness.

  I couldn't claim to exactly be happy right now. There was still darkness, still pain, still nightmares, still unfulfilled desires.

  But I could feel hints of it.

  It was a warm thing, happiness.

  It was like the touch of spring on buds after a long winter, coaxing them to open up.

  And I realized as I took out cookies that weren't burnt, that didn't spread, that were the perfect mixture of sweet and gooey, that happiness wasn't just something you were or not. It was something you chose, something you cultivated, a goal you worked toward.

  I set my mind right then to doing just that.

  Choosing happiness.

  Cultivating it wherever I found it, so it grew.

  Working on it even when I didn't feel like it.

  I had one shot at this thing called life.

  I was going to do my best to find some joy in it.

  Which was what I set to doing after I put the cookies on a rack to cool.

  I went over toward my dining table which, since I moved here, hadn't been used for dining at all, making me eat on my couch much like I had scoffed at Gunner and his team about. It was now my craft table with graphite pencils, markers, acrylics, watercolor paint, brushes, you name it. It was covered.

  My easel sat in the center, looking out on the balcony, so I had something pretty to look at when I gave my eyes a break from my projects.

  Then I worked, finding myself humming here and there, lost in my little world, putting what I hoped was my best work into creating something the art teacher at the shop would approve of, would like enough to hire me to create and teach to others.

  It wasn't until the sun was casting reds, purples, and pinks across the sky that there was a knocking at my door.

  "No way did Billy work his magic that fast," I declared as I moved to stand, reaching up to brush my hair behind my ear before I undid the locks, and opened the door.

  But it wasn't Auddie standing there.

  Oh, no.

  It was the last person in the world I ever expected to see on my doorstep.

  It was Gunner.

  I had been trying. You know, to move on. To suppress the thoughts of him when they popped up. Which was incredibly frequently. To pretend I didn't wake up longing for him at night.

  It was all I could do... try.

  I had thought maybe I was making progress too.

  But then here he was.

  Looking just as good as I remembered, if maybe a bit more tired, a bit more tan, a bit more... rough, even.

  And my belly fluttered.

  Actually fluttered.

  Like I was a teenager with a crush.

  "Gunner?" I heard my voice ask, sounding as confused as I felt. "What are you doing here?" I added when he just seemed to stare at me, those green eyes of his boring into me, reading me, picking up on everything like he always so effortlessly seemed able to do.

  There was a long moment of nothing before he raised his hand, drawing my attention to the fact that there was a newspaper there for the first time.

  Arm straight, the paper was right in my face.

  My gaze shifted reluctantly, not wanting to look away from him, almost afraid that if I did, he might disappear.

  But he clearly wanted me to read the paper.

  Rodrigo Cortez Found Dead.

  And just like that, just like the night I saw this man take someone else's life, everything changed.

  "What?" I heard myself hiss, my stomach swirling and sinking somehow at the same time. "Cortez is dead?" I asked, looking over at Gunner, actually needing his confirmation. As though the biggest, most reputable newspaper in the city would put a false headline on the front page.

  "You called," he said, making my belly drop for an altogether different reason. I had, mostly, been able to stop being embarrassed about said call. Because I had worked really hard never to think about it. "You called and cried about not wanting to be here."

  Why was he being so weird and cryptic?

  I called and cried about not wan
ting to be here?

  What did that have to do with... oh, god.

  No.

  That couldn't have been possible.

  People didn't just do that.

  Right?

  Not even people who had many years in the military.

  They didn't take lives.

  Not on home turf.

  Not just because a woman cried.

  "You didn't..." I said, already shaking my head as he brought the paper down.

  "You wanted to have your life back. He was all that was standing in the way."

  "Oh, my god. You didn't ki..."

  "This isn't a conversation for the hallway," he informed me, but didn't move forward, waited for an invitation. So I moved to the side to let him in, then closed the door behind him. "You've been busy," he said, looking around.

  He wasn't wrong. I had been picking up things here and there, trying to fill the empty space, trying to make it more my own. There were pictures on the wall - including the one I had painted myself while tipsy on cheap rosè with Auddie. I had a decorative bowl full of fruit on the kitchen counter. There were a few knickknacks on the coffee table.

  It was looking more lived in.

  "I, ah, yeah. When my job fell through, I went on a shopping binge. It really is as therapeutic as you hear people claim."

  "Who is Billy?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Who is Billy?" he repeated, turning back to me.

  "Oh, he's the man at the printing shop in town."

  "Got something going on there?" he asked, tone guarded, and I finally understood why.

  "What? No! He's like twenty-three. I haven't even met him."

  "Then how do you know about him and his 'magic'?"

  I felt my eyes rolling at that. "My neighbor, Auddie," I clarified. "I helped her illustrate a book for her daughters. She was bringing it to the printing shop to get real books made."

  "You illustrated a children's book for your neighbor's kids?" he asked, brows drawn together.

  "Yes."

  "Did I fuck this up?" he asked, tone hollow.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Did I fuck this up? Did you get a good thing going here?"

  "I... started to adjust," I said, shrugging. "What choice did I have, Gunner? I was stuck here. Miserable. But I didn't want to be miserable forever. So I have been... trying."