Page 37 of Hot Ghost Summer

I hang my head as far out of the window as I can, but I can’t take in clean air. My gaze catches on the burning bundle still clutched in my hand. Reversing, I pull back inside and rush over to the sink, where I dump the sage in my water glass and turn the tap on full to douse it.

Sliding onto the floor to get below the viscous clouds that now cling to the ceiling and walls, I breathe hard. My vision blurs and I press my cheek against the narrow strip of laminate that flanks my kitchen cupboards. It’s a wonder the smoke alarms haven’t gone off.

“Hollis?” I call, but it triggers a bout of productive coughing.

Slowly, I roll onto my stomach, then push up onto my elbows and commando crawl to the small table. As I drag myself along, I wonder if burning sage only rids a place of evil spirits because it makes it impossible to breathe.

Gripping the edge of the table, I haul myself up to reach for his phone.

“Hollis, you there?” I whisper hoarsely.

Nothing. The screen is dark and unresponsive to my touch. I set it down and press the trackpad on the laptop. No response there either.

With a sigh, I drop back on my bare heels. Hollis’s phone in my hand.

“Goodbye,” I mouth the words to avoid setting off another cough, but also because my large and competing emotions mean that I can’t find my voice.

I stare at his phone in my hand and listen to the sound of my own laboured breaths. Part of me is glad that it’s over—being haunted isn’t as fun as people think it might be—but another part of me is sad. I acted in anger, and told him as much, and now I’m not sure if that could affect how he moves on.

Hollis did nothing wrong. I mean yes, I’m pissed off that he shrank my clothes, but he still deserves to go into the light—or whatever—so I hope I didn’t mess that up for him.

Rising onto my knees, I set Hollis’s phone back on the table and plug it in. What a morning!

Desperate to rinse the taste of sage from my mouth, I drift over to the kitchen and select a cup from the drying rack by the sink. I drop in a teabag, then half fill it with tap water and put it in the microwave.

This is what is missing from my day: a nice, relaxing, peaceful cup of tea.

Setting the timer for ninety seconds on full power, I flatten my palms against the countertop, hang my head, and work to calm my breathing. Inhaling through my nose, I hold for a three-count, then exhale. Then inhale—BANG.

My hands fly to cover the top of my head, and my knees hit the floor so fast the impact jars the full length of my spine.

What the fuck was that?

Heart pounding, eyes darting, breaths shallow, I search for whatever…

The microwave door, destroyed by an unapologetic ceramic shrapnel storm, hangs from one hinge.

A very cross, robotic voice blurts out, “Tea made in a microwave is undrinkable and uncouth.”

My head snaps to Hollis’s laptop.

“You!” I accuse, my eyes narrowed. “You’re still ’ere?”

His phone buzzes aggressively against the tabletop, and I knee-walk over to read the screen.

Only heathens make tea in the microwave.

My mouth opens and closes, jaw working but no sound escaping. He blew up my microwave? Over a cup of tea?

“What the fuck is your problem?”

I stare back at my broken microwave, then at the phone, then at the microwave again in disbelief. This can’t continue.

For the second time today, I slam Hollis down on the table and walk away from him. And to think that when we first met, I’d wanted him to give me rules, to be stern and lay down the law. My laugh is loud and borders on unhinged.

Punishments are meant to be fun.

I shove my bare feet into my sneakers, snatch up my phone and house keys, and leave.