Page 85 of Meet Cute Reboot
“I think she descended into the crawl space to hang out with the ghosts of a thousand dead spiders.”
“I can give you the name of the paranormal investigators if you’d like.”
The ghost of a dead cat freaks me out a lot less than Betsy moaning about Joey and his pain meds. But a ghost is a ghost, and it still gives me the creeps.
“No. That’s okay,” I say. “I’ll just... Call a priest.”
Janice gasps. “Betsy doesn’t need to be exorcised. She just needs to be understood.”
“We’ll see about that,” I say, my jaw tense. I wonder if I can claim Betsy as a dependent on my taxes. “Anyway, thanks for the info. At least I know I’m not crazy.”
“Not at all. If you have any more questions about the house, let me know. We left our gardening tools in the shed for you. We don’t need them here at the condo.”
“I found them. Thanks.”
“We miss that old house. Take good care of her.”
“Of course.” I don’t mention that in two weeks contractors are going to take sledgehammers to the entire kitchen. I wonder how Betsy will feel when I toss Joey’s medicine cabinet into a dumpster. Hopefully she doesn’t go around knocking over my lamps and Funko Pops.
We say our goodbyes and I hang up. Korg is snoring in the corner, blissfully unaware that we’re living with a poltergeist.
The only positive I see here is that my house just became a stop on Cassie’s ghost tour. I’m sure that will make her happy. And if she’s happy, well, then I’m happy to take one for the team.
I guess.
Hopefully Betsy and Lou Lou are happy too, so I can get some sleep tonight.
Chapter 17
Luke
I ring the bell outside of Cassie’s office, bottle of wine in hand. My heart feels like a jackhammer, pounding away on my resolve to remain cool, to not let my desperation show. I’ve been patient, a gentleman (other than that part where I weaseled my way into her launch), agreeable to livestreams and public humiliation. Tonight, I finally have Cassie all to myself. This could go two ways: 1) I hold it together, or 2) I lose it and blurt out everything I’ve been wanting to say to Cassie since the night we broke up.
I take a deep breath to calm my jitters. Seconds later, Cassie flips the deadlock and lets me inside.
She immediately eyeballs the wine bottle and scrunches her brow. “I hope that wasn’t expensive.”
“Ten bucks. I’m not about to waste any more money on you.” It was supposed to be a joke, but it came off bad.
“Good,” Cassie replies. She doesn’t seem offended. “I already owe you enough as it is.”
She grabs the bottle and leads me to her apartment.
Her studio is warm and inviting, a little boho-style mixed with modern design and rustic chic. (I’ve learned a lot from my interior designer.) She sets the wine on the butcher block island and motions me over. I slide onto one of the bar stools and fold my hands on the counter.
“Let’s decide on food first,” she says.
We agree on pizza from Papa Macaroni’s, Endless Feast for me, and ham and onion for her.
“It’ll be here in thirty,” she says after punching everything into her phone.
“Great. Until then, should we imbibe?” I grab the neck of the wine bottle.
“Just a little,” she says. “I’ve been trying to cut back.”
“Smart. We should drink water instead.”
Cassie turns around and digs through one of her drawers, which by the sound of it, is overstuffed. She fights with a pair of tongs and a spatula, finally managing to shove the drawer closed with her hip.