Flipping Fates Page 6

  “Oh.” Keith blinks. “I thought you were married.”

  I straighten. “Oh, no. Not yet. I mean—maybe someday. I hope.” Wow, this just got awkward.

  “But you’re—together?”

  “Well, we’re together. But not together-together. He lives by himself. I live with my parents. And my crazy grandmother.”

  And it just got more awkward.

  Keith waves his hand with a laugh. “Not my business,” he chuckles. “I just assumed you two had been married for a while. You’re very comfortable with each other.”

  I relax against the RV. “Well, we’ve been through a lot.”

  “I’m surprised he hasn’t proposed yet.” Keith frowns.

  Me too. The thought resonates at the back of my brain, but I don’t give it a voice. “We’re not in a hurry.”

  That’s a lie.

  And it sounded like a lie.

  Keith’s smile is more sympathetic now.

  Geez, can we talk about something else?

  “Did you see that guy we were talking to?” I nod toward the street. “Some crazy homeless dude going on about how this house is cursed or something.”

  Keith’s smile turns sad. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “That the house is cursed?”

  “No, but that the guy believed it.” His expression is difficult to read. It’s sad and thoughtful, but he’s still smiling. “When you’re on the streets, you have to believe a lot of things just to get through.”

  Keith presses his thin lips together and lifts his eyes to look at me.

  “I used to be homeless.”

  I cringe. Great job, Lee-Lee. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Keith’s smile broadens. “I got help. Union Rescue really came through for me.” He nods. “Gave me a chance at a new life, a fresh start.” He turns his eyes to the ugly orange house. “I was so excited to get to help with this project. If all goes well, it could turn a high profit for them, and they’ll use whatever we can get them to help other people around the city.”

  “Keith,” I say, “how were you—I don’t mean to be rude, but you were really homeless?”

  Keith is intelligent and articulate. He’s nothing like the hobbled old man that had been yammering away at Laurel and me. There’s no comparison. Granted, he does bother me—in the way people bother me when they aren’t telling me everything I feel I need to know about them. But with Keith that could be the secret he just spilled.

  “I was.” He lifts his chin. “For years. Hooked on drugs and alcohol. I was in a lot of trouble when I landed at URM, but they helped me. They gave me the support to change my life. And that’s what I did.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “I’m in their Eagle Wing project,” he says.

  “I haven’t heard of that.”

  “It’s a re-integration program.” Keith pushes off the RV and stretches his arms. “Everyone in it works and has to pay rent for a little apartment and utilities. After being on the street for so long, it helped having a way to ease into that process.”

  “Paying bills.” I smile. “Ain’t that the life?”

  “Right?” Keith laughs.

  “When did you finish?”

  “Finish?” He raises his eyebrows.

  “The program.”

  His eyes soften. “Oh, I’m still in it.” He sets his hands on his hips. “Been working steady for a year. Never missed a payment. And I’m sober for the first time in my life.”

  “Oh.” I nod. “I see.”

  My stomach is twisting again.

  So Keith works for URM, but he’s still part of their recovery programs? And he’s our representative from the URM for this project? He’s the one deciding what contents of the house will be trashed or sold?

  I suddenly don’t feel as comfortable about this project.

  My thoughts instantly turn to creepy old Howard, hobbling down the street with his unlit cigarette bobbing between his lips. Could Howard have a story like Keith?

  “Does that bother you?”

  Keith’s gentle question brings me back to him, and I flush. “No, not at all!” I raise my hands. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking about that old man I was talking to. I’m feeling kind of bad for what I thought about him.”

  Keith is still smiling. “But you’re okay with what I used to be?”

  What kind of a question is that? How am I supposed to answer that? No, of course, I’m not okay with it. And I wish he hadn’t told me, because it’s going to be really hard to see him the same way from now on.

  But I have to.

  So I force another smile. “Hey, we all have some skeletons in our closets. Don’t worry about it.”

  His grin is light and happy, and I ignore how it makes my stomach twist.

  “Can I ask you something?” He shifts closer.

  “Sure.”

  “Is Cecily seeing anyone?”

  A snort escapes me before I can stop it. Keith looks surprised.

  “Cecily?”

  Keith blushes.

  “Uh.” I hold my face in my hands. “No, Cecily isn’t seeing anyone.”

  “What’s funny?” Keith asks.

  “Sorry.” I keep chortling. “No, it’s fine. Cecily is just—She’s not seeing anyone.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Keith’s face lights up like a Christmas tree, hopeful and excited. “Do you think—if I ask her out—will she say yes?”

  I pause. “I don’t know.” I chuckle. “You know, Keith, I don’t really know Cecily that well.”

  His face falls sightly. “Oh. I got the feeling you’d known her for a long time.”

  I wince. “I have.” Biting my lip, I look down at my feet. “She’s not easy to get to know if you don’t speak geek.”

  He laughs. “Well, I’d better learn how to speak geek then.”

  A hollow spot in my chest begins to ache. “Yeah,” I say. “That’s probably a good idea.”

  Keith nods happily and points to the RV. “I’m going to get back to work.”

  “Have fun.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Tons of fun. Pretty sure there’s mice in here.” He jogs up the steps, leaving me to shake my head.

  Wow.

  Love truly knows no limits.

  Keith is interested in Cecily? How had that happened? When had that happened? More importantly, why had that happened? My goodness. But, different strokes for different folks, I guess.

  Still. Not what I expected.

  I’ve known Cecily for years. Years and years. She’s been the one constant in our singles group. When everyone else came and went, Cecily was always there. I’m not sure I’ve ever thanked her for that. In fact, I know I haven’t.

  It’s so much easier to connect with Laurel when I’m at church. Or Prisha. Or Nathan. Or any of the others, because at least we see eye to eye on things. Having a conversation with Cecily is like trying to talk to a microwave or a DVD player. You’ve got to push the right buttons if you want a one-word answer.

  But maybe she’s got other buttons to push, and I just don’t know what they are. I never made time to find out. So what kind of a friend does that make me?

  The side door on the house bangs, and Aaron pokes his head out. “Hey, Trish?”

  “Yeah.” I push off the RV and walk to where Aaron is standing half in the house and half out.

  He leans toward me slightly, his hair mussed up and his skin sweaty. “Could you go out to my truck and get the wheelbarrow out of the back? We’re going to need it for these piles of magazines and newspapers.”

  “Sure.”

  He flashes a grin at me.

  It’s the same grin he brings out when he wants to kiss me, and for a moment I wonder if he will. Like he kissed me in the basement this morning.

  But he doesn’t. He ducks back inside without a word.

  No matter.

  I can talk to him later. It’s not like he’s going anywhere.


  I walk down the driveway and spot his truck across the street, so I head for it, my conversation with Keith still rattling around in my brain.

  I need to make time for Cecily. She’s probably the only friend I’ve known for so long that I know so little about. I just assumed she was a geek, a nerd, and lumped her in with that segment of the world. But if Keith can see something in her beyond a nerd label, what have I missed?

  I make it to Aaron’s truck and lower the tailgate, clambering up inside and struggling to get the big dented wheelbarrow out of the bed. It’s awkward and heavy, and I’m not exactly graceful.

  When was the last time I’d seen someone so happy about getting to ask a girl on a date? Keith had been practically incandescent. And the fact that he looked that way because of Cecily is even more mind-boggling.

  Wincing as I lower the wheelbarrow to the street, my knees protesting, I can’t help but think about Aaron. I’m glad that Keith knew we were together, but I don’t suppose that’s unusual. We have been dating for years.

  But, the truth is—well—we’ve been dating for years.

  And I said I wasn’t in a hurry, and I’m not. But, I’m not getting any younger. Slowly and surely, 40 is creeping up on me. It’s not that you can’t get married at 40. I had just always assumed that I’d be married by then.

  Aaron, who’s a few years younger than I am, hasn’t ever mentioned it. In all the years we’ve been together, we haven’t discussed marriage at all. I don’t know if I’m supposed to bring it up or if he is. I don’t know the rules.

  I’d like to be married.

  I’d like to be married to Aaron, and I guess I’d figured that by now he’d want to be married to me. Our impromptu make-out session in the basement this morning only further convinced me.

  So why hadn’t he asked yet?

  With a heavy sigh, I climb out of the truck and slam the tailgate shut. Checking the street for cars, I heave the wheelbarrow forward and cross to the ugly orange house looming ominously ahead of me.

  Now There’s a Ghost Hunter

  Prisha and I stand over the five-gallon storage tub, neither of us brave enough to open it. We’d found it in a corner of the kitchen, wrapped in plastic and packing tape. So far, in this nightmarish house, anything we’d found wrapped in plastic and packing tape usually wasn’t worth keeping.

  I expect that fact will remain unchanged.

  “It could be something good.” Prisha sounds like she expects a carnivorous plant to pop out of the tub and eat us both.

  “It could be something awful.” I say, crouching down and feeling along the sides of the tub’s lid. “Like a dead body.”

  “Perhaps we should not open it.” Prisha winces.

  I sigh. “We at least need to know what it is.” I find a latch on the plastic lid and lift it off.

  The smell hits me first.

  Vinegar. Rot and decay. With the overwhelming odor of moldy garlic and dill.

  The tub is full of liquid with chunks of something unidentified floating in it.

  Prisha dry heaves behind me and turns away. With a choking gasp, I clasp the lid back on and force myself not to dry heave.

  “Pickles.” I struggle to say. “They’re pickles.”

  Prisha groans unhappily.

  “Why are there pickles?”

  “I do not like this house.” Prisha wails.

  “Oh, you are not alone.”

  Footsteps behind me make me look over my shoulder, my eyes watering. Aaron is a fuzzy blur through the sheen of nauseated tears.

  “Are you all right?” Aaron kneels at my side.

  I point at the tub. “Pickles.”

  “Pickles?”

  “Bad pickles.” I gag. “Very bad pickles.”

  Aaron bends over and lifts the tub lid curiously. “Oh, gross. They are pickles.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He snaps the lid down again. “Fire?”

  “All the fire. Burn it.”

  “Tape.” He holds his hand out to Prisha who gives him a roll of tape, which he uses to seal the lid on the tub down again.

  Why pickles? Why are there spoiled pickles here? And how awful do you have to be at making pickles that they even go bad? I’m beginning to think that this place is cursed after all.

  Stomach roiling, I get to my feet and step into the dining room where we’d put a large package of water bottles. I crack one open and drain as much of it as I can.

  The lukewarm water slides down my throat, and while it doesn’t exactly calm my stomach or erase the memory of the rotten pickle smell, it does stop the room from spinning.

  Prisha is getting her own water bottle, shaking her head and muttering under her breath.

  “Aren’t you glad you signed up for this?” I twist the top back on my water bottle.

  Prisha laughs. “I am glad to be here helping, but if we find any more pickles, I suggest we tell Nathan to deal with them.”

  “Hey, Trish!” Nathan calls from the living room.

  I turn toward the front of the house, moving around the neatly ordered boxes of junk that Prisha and Laurel cataloged last night. Nathan grins at me from the front door where he’s standing with someone I don’t know.

  Nathan is tall. Like, even taller than Aaron. His dark, close-cropped hair is covered with a sheen of dust and plaster from the work he and Aaron have been doing down in the basement today.

  In comparison, the guy on the threshold is a pale-skinned, freckle-faced weasel. Narrow shoulders, thin face, gangly arms and legs. He might be 25, definitely not 30. Head to toe, he’s dressed in black. Black skinny jeans. Black t-shirt. Black boots. He’s also wearing a skull ring, a crucifix, and a silver chain drapes from his belt, probably connected to a pocket watch just to complete the cliché. If it weren’t for all the black, I’d say he looks exactly like the sort of guy you’d see in a hipster coffee shop. Sort of like if a hipster and a goth had a baby. I have a fleeting desire to ask him where he left his eyeliner.

  “Trisha, you gotta talk to this guy.” Nathan’s warm voice booms. “Grant, this is Trisha. Trisha, this is Grant Layton.”

  I wipe my hands on my jeans, wincing at they stick slightly. Ugh. I hope that’s not pickle juice. I offer my hand to shake, and Grant takes it without hesitation. He’s got a good handshake, at least. His blue eyes bore into me as he flashes a crooked smile.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Yeah, hi.” I smile.

  “This is a weird question.” Grant steps back and levers his hands into his pockets. He offers a shy smile.

  I smirk. “I’m okay with weird.”

  “I live in this area, and I’ve always been curious about this old place.” Grant shrugs. “I’ve heard all sorts of stories about it—rumors and legends. I mean, I’ve seen the lights in the second floor and heard all the freaky stories about the voices.”

  I glance at Nathan, who’s nodding eagerly.

  My stomach clenches. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

  “I was wondering if I could come in and just do some readings.” Grant bites his lower lip. “Nothing invasive. Just to satisfy my own curiosity.”

  “Readings?” I arch an eyebrow.

  “Oh, I’m a paranormal investigator.” He nods.

  Nathan beams. “Awesome, right?”

  I glance from Grant to Nathan and back to Grant again. “A paranormal investigator?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What—uh—I’m not sure—” I take a breath. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Nathan rolls his eyes. “Trisha, he’s a ghost hunter.”

  “A ghost hunter?”

  “Yeah.” Nathan grunts like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And it’s perfect timing, because this place is creepy.”

  I hold up my hand to stop him and look at Nathan. “Okay, so you’re a ghost hunter, and you want to do—what?”

  Grant bends down and grabs the bag at his feet, unzipping it and pulling out two electronic devices and holding t
hem out for me.

  “This is all.” He smiles gently. “Some digital recordings and a general EMF sweep.”

  I take the items from him, my brow furrowing. How do I get involved in these things? How am I standing in a hoarder’s paradise in the ugliest, creepiest house in Tonkawa talking to a ghost hunter? Why is my life like this?

  “It won’t take long.” Grant laces his fingers together. “I promise. I’ve just always been curious about this place.”

  Slowly, I hand the items back to him. “What are you planning to do again?”

  “Just record some audio and check the house for EMF.”

  “EMF?”

  “Electromagnetic disturbances.” Grant shrugs.

  “Yeah, Trish, it’s how you know a ghost is around.” Nathan rolls his eyes.

  Again, like it’s something I should have learned in college.

  Apparently our singles group needs to have a Bible study on the non-existence of ghosts.

  “Hey, Guinness, come tell your girlfriend to get off her high horse.”

  My spine stiffens, and I glare at Nathan until he has the good sense to look sheepish. But now Aaron is standing behind my shoulder, looking at Grant with curiosity.

  “This is Grant. He’s a ghost hunter.” I turn back to Aaron. “And he wants to investigate the house.”

  “A ghost hunter?” Laurel squeaks from the doorway between the living and dining rooms.

  Cecily peeks out from around her, expression passive but eyes curious.

  I sigh.

  I’m going to lose this battle.

  “You think the place is haunted?” Aaron asks with a twinkle in his eye.

  Grant laughs. “I don’t know. Never been inside. Always wanted to check.”

  “And your little magic machines can tell you if the house is haunted?” I nod at his tech.

  Nathan groans and hides his face.

  Truly, I had no idea Nathan was so into this sort of nonsense. Sure, I’d heard of ghost hunters, but I’d always figured they were Blair Witch Project wannabes, flailing around in the dark with their night vision cameras pretending to be scared for the sake of ratings. I didn’t know anyone who actually bought into it.

  Well, I guess I do know someone.

  “It may not be unwise.” Cecily speaks from the dining room.