Page 68 of Grim Tidings

“She’s not here,” he said as soon as I walked in, a box of leftovers from the bar in my hand. Plenty of protein and fiber, because Frank always forgets to feed himself something that’s not microwaved in a cup. “She went out the back with her dog and her flowers.”

I placed the Styrofoam down on the counter and watched Frank descend upon it like a ravenous bird. “I didn’t ask about Darcy.”

He laughed at that. “You didn’t have to.”

I don’t like being ignored. And for reasons I don’t exactly want to investigate, I especially don’t like being ignored by Darcy. Which is why I’m stomping around the bar, muttering under my breath, and restocking glasses like they’ve personally offended me.

“What’s with the face, sour grapes?” Nate leans on the bar in front of me, sliding a small bowl of pretzels back and forth. “Is your girl-friend mad at you?”

I would swap out his drink for a Shirley Temple if that wasn’t exactly what he ordered for himself as soon as he walked in. I guess he’s in the mood to be a shit-stirrer today and ordered accordingly.

“Darcy isn’t my girlfriend.” I snatch the pretzels from in front of him, but Nate just grins. I realize my mistake a second too late.

“But we are talking about Darcy.” Nate grabs the pretzels back, picking out the broken pieces first. “Everything seemed fine last week when she followed you up to your apartment.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“Were you watching us?”

“Uh, the whole bar was watching you, buddy.” He tosses a pretzel in the air and catches it between his teeth. “You two are more entertaining than those old Orioles games you keep showing over and over.”

“What else am I going to show? The Orioles didn’t make the post-season.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’m sure as shit not turning on the Yankees.”

“I got it, Gabe. Listen. My point still stands.”

“Is there a point?”

Nate leans closer. “Dude,” he whispers. “You like her.”

I snort. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

He flicks a pretzel at my face. “Yes.”

I am a thousand-year-old being with ancient power thrumming through my veins. I have seen terrible, wonderful things Nate cannot even begin to conceive of.

And yet here I am, arguing with him about a girl.

I rub the back of my neck. “It’s a work thing.”

Nate’s forehead creases in confusion. “Does she work for a distributor or something?”

I rearrange bottles and try to think of a way to explain this without spilling the secrets of the afterlife. “Not exactly,” I hedge. “She, uh—she works for the competition.”

Nate stares at me. “The Irish bar two streets over?”

“No.”

“What competition are you talking about? You run a—and don’t take this the wrong way, bud—you run a perfectly average dive bar.”

Indignation straightens my spine. “Why are you here so often, then?”

“Because I can score free drinks, obviously.” He crams another handful of pretzels in his mouth. “So, she works for the competition, whatever that means. Okay. How does this impact your crush?”