A. Gardner - Poppy Peters 01 - Southern Peach Pie and A Dead Guy (6 page)

"Shhh," he says, stopping outside one of the student kitchens. "I think it came from in there."

Through the tiny window on the door, I can't see a thing. The kitchen is pitch black.

"No one is in there," I point out.

"Someone
has
to be."

"Yeah," I gulp. "The ghost of pastries past." I grab his hand, hoping it will force him to leave before I have a panic attack and faint.

"But—"

"You heard what that guy Steve said when we first started," I mutter. "It's the ghost of Old Man Thomas." I glance around at the darkened hallway. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up when I mention the ghost story out loud.

"There's no such thing as ghosts." Cole says.

"Oh, yeah?" I retort. "Are you sure about that, because I've heard him banging around in there before. Now let's—"

"You've heard this noise before?" Cole asks. "When?"

"Yeah." I pull his hand again, but he's as solid as a rock. "I told you about it, remember? Our first night here?"

"That doesn't count," he argues. "You were tipsy."

My eyes go wide.

"Really? You want to debate this
now
?" I try dragging him towards the exit, but he won't budge. "Come on."

"Hold on," he argues. "Just let me—" The two of us hear the noise again. This time it's closer, and it startles me so much that I accidentally let out a yelp. The noise stops. All I hear is the sound of Cole breathing.

Cole glances at me before he carefully looks through the small window on the door again. I curiously take another peek too. I still don't see any light. Inside the room there's nothing but shadows.

One of the shadows looks as if it is moving. It creeps slowly towards us like a snake slithering to its prey. I gulp and jump back eyeing the door knob. If it starts turning on its own, that's it. I'll drive all the way back to Oregon screaming like a lunatic.

I don't have to plead with Cole to leave this time. His eyes are as wide as mine. He tightly grabs my arm and pulls me with him down the hall. Both of us almost trip over each other as we do. I feel the overwhelming urge to look behind me, but I stop myself. If I see a ghost glaring at me I won't be able to remove the image from my brain. I'll need meds to get a good night's sleep.

When we reach the night air, I take a huge breath. Cole paces the sidewalk with his hands on his hips. He scratches his brow and looks at me. I turn and start walking towards my apartment, hoping that a night with Jeff will help me forget all this.

"Stop," Cole instructs me. "Where are you going? We should report this."

"Report what?" I ask. "You sound
just
like Bree. We didn't see anything, unless you are counting Old Man Thomas who has returned from beyond the grave."

"That's a stupid story some student made up a long time ago," he states. He takes a few deep breaths. His expression looks sour like he's having an inner debate with himself. Probably the same one I had my first night here.
This proves that I'm not crazy.
"I heard someone. I know I did." Cole looks back at the building before he jogs up the steps again. He pulls on the door handles, but after dinner they all lock from the inside, so students can leave but no one can go back in.

"This never happened," I respond as he pulls the handles a second time. "Got it? I won't mention it if you won't mention it."

"Fine." He sighs and follows me across the quad. "If it makes you happy, I will believe in ghosts just this once."

The smell of oatmeal raisin fills my nose when I open the front door to my apartment. I see Bree sitting on the couch with a hot mug of tea. A tiny dessert plate is on the coffee table displaying a few of her homemade cookies. Jeff is sitting across from her with his hands on his knees. His legs are long enough that they look a little squished between the sofa and the table.

"Look who decided to show," Bree says, smiling. If I could read minds I am almost positive she'd be shouting at me for setting her up for an awkward moment with Jeff.

"Sorry," I apologize. "How long have you been waiting?"

"Twenty minutes," Bree chimes in. "I told Jeff you were practicing batters on campus and probably lost track of time."

"Yes." I take a minute to catch my breath. "That's exactly what happened."

Bree studies my expression as she stands up with her mug and eagerly escapes to the kitchen. I smile at Jeff. He looks at my outfit and grins.

"You might want to change clothes for where we're going." He's wearing a simple pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt that brings out the color of his eyes.

"Why, where are we going?"

"You'll see." He shrugs, refusing to give anything else away.

"Right." I nod. "Give me a couple minutes." I head to my room and dig through my suitcase, grabbing a pair of slim jeans and a gray-striped tank top. I look in the mirror as I put on my diamond studs and let me hair fall past my shoulders in long, chocolate brown waves. I grab some high heels.

I feel more like myself wearing this.

"Okay," I say, entering the living area and grabbing Jeff's arm. "Let's go. Bye, Bree!"

"I won't wait up." She laughs from the kitchen.

"You look nice," Jeff responds as we walk to his car.

"Thanks."

He opens my door and quickly gets into the driver's seat. When he turns on the car, a CD begins playing death metal. Jeff blushes and turns the stereo off. I smile, mostly because I knew exactly what band he was listening to.

"So," I say, breaking the silence. "Not a huge fan of country music, huh?"

"If I were, I would definitely be in the right place," he replies.

"Yep." I glance out the window as he turns a corner, taking us into the little town square that I've only driven through once since I've been here. I usually spend the weekend grocery shopping and studying. I don't have time to do much else. I've even put off finding a few pieces of home décor to hang in my bedroom for a pop of color.

"So you're from Portland?"

"Yes," I answer. "And you?"

"Seattle."

"Right." I wrinkle my nose as we pull up to a gas station. There is a smirk on Jeff's face as he drives past the convenience store with a light bulb missing on the sign towards a bar surrounded by cars and motorbikes. My window is closed, but I can hear country music blasting inside.

"Told you that you were in the right place for some good ole country music," he jokes.

"What is this place?" I can hardly see through the windows because of all the neon beer signs.

"Nicky's."

I step out of the car, and immediately my heart starts racing.

"I've got to hand it to you, Jeff. You are full of surprises."

"Don't tell me you've never heard of Nicky's?" he says. "About half our class raves about it every Monday morning."

"I guess I'm always busy reading." I shrug and step carefully on the gravel path so I don't twist my ankles. Jeff walks slowly, assuming that I will too because of the shoes I'm wearing. I surprise him when I stroll up to the front door without any problems. I survived dancing pointe for half my life. High heels on a gravel road is no problem.

When Jeff opens the door a chime rings, but I can hardly hear it. Nicky's Bar looks exactly how I imagined it would. From outside I assumed it was one of those side of the highway stops with pool tables and men in leather drinking the night away. I assumed right. I follow Jeff to the bar, feeling out of my element. I focus on keeping my posture straight. I slouch when I'm nervous.

"Jeff," the barman says as we approach him. He's wearing an orange, flannel shirt, and it's tucked in so you can see just how far his beer belly extends. A thin strip of facial hair outlines his jaw, making him look like he's wearing a chin strap. The man holds out a hand, and Jeff shakes it like the two of them are old friends. "How are you, man?"

"Nice to see you, Nicky," Jeff answers. "Bring us two of the usual, will you?"

"Hey, man. You got it."

"Come here often?" I comment. Jeff rotates his stool so that he's facing the pool tables. He stretches out his arms and rests them on the counter.

"I spent a year in Ireland when I was twenty-five," he responds. He repositions his arms so that his bulky biceps are on full display. "Ever since then I
have
to know where my local pub is, no matter where I am."

"What did you do there for a whole year?"

He scoots a little closer to me. I bite the corner of my lip, staring briefly at his golden locks and the way they shine in the light. Jeff turns and looks at me. He chuckles and touches a strand of his hair.

"Do I have something on my face?" he teases.

"Your hair, actually." I squint, trying to look closer at a crusted piece of something hidden behind his ear. It looks like flour. Jeff automatically runs his fingers through his hair until he finds the leftover school assignment hiding in his mane.

"Oh." He wipes his hands on his shirt. "That's embarrassing."

"So." I change the subject. "Ireland, you say?"

"Oh, yes. I lived there for a while when I decided to backpack through Europe. I stopped in a little village where this old lady ran a book shop. She needed an assistant to do the bookkeeping, so I stayed for a while."

"Why did you leave?" I ask.

"Well." He turns his stool so it's facing the bar counter again. "My dad passed away, so I went home. Got a proper desk job and woke up one morning years later wondering what the hell I was doing."

"So you came here?"

Nicky hands the two of us a cold mug of beer. The froth on the top barely spills over onto the counter.

"Cheers." Jeff takes a sip and nods as Nicky places two baskets of fries in front of us. Fries are one of the many foods I've indulged in since I injured my back. Jeff watches me study the basket. I pick up a fry, impressed by how thick they are and how hot they are.

"Fresh out of the fryer," he comments, taking a bite.

I copy him but soon regret it when the heat sears my tongue. I pull the chunk of potato out of my mouth and blow on it until it's cool enough to taste. When I finally have the chance to try it I'm amazed that something this good came from
this
bar.

"That extra crunch it has—"

"Beer batter," Jeff says. "These are seriously some of the best beer battered fries I've had. Nicky's grandpa started making them with their leftover beer back in the day."

"Wow." I look behind the bar where the man called Nicky is wiping glasses with a clean rag. He briefly looks up and winks at me. "These are
really
good."

"Good enough for me to bring the bull out?" Nicky butts in. "We never get enough chicks in here who want to ride the bull."

"Don't push it, Nicky." Jeff laughs and takes another gulp of his beer. "He says that, yet they bring out the bull every weekend."

Nicky shrugs and chuckles to himself.

"Maybe I'll come back on a Saturday then," I respond.

"You heard her say it, man." Nicky nods and returns to tending his bar.

I can't imagine Bree in a place like this, riding a mechanical bull in front of drunken strangers. But there's still a lot I don't know about her, or Cole, or Jeff for that matter. I eat another fry, remembering my first greasy taste of them in college. My mom was very strict with me when it came to food. I guess that's why I always felt like it was Christmas when Grandma Liz came over to bake.

"You still haven't told me what your plans are when you graduate," I say, watching Jeff down his basket of fries like they might disappear any minute now.

"What are
your
plans?"

"Still deciding," I answer.

"I'm going to open a bagel shop." Jeff nods as he eats another fry in between breaths. "All kinds of bagels. And pastries, too."

"In Seattle?"

"Or Ireland." He chuckles. "We'll see what happens."

I take a tiny taste of my drink and slowly allow myself to relax. Inch by inch I work on my basket of fries, gradually forgetting about my incident with Cole. It feels good to let that all go for a night and pretend I'm not on the brink of failing my courses. I focus on the positive instead—the fact that I rocked those éclairs after class, and I'm sitting in a biker bar eating junk food with a guy who looks like he sleeps on the beach.

Before I have the chance to ask for a refill, Jeff's phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, and immediately his shoulders go tense. He turns slightly so that I can no longer see his lips. He clears his throat and reluctantly takes the call.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Now? Really?" He takes a deep breath. "I'm kind of in the middle of something." He pauses for a couple minutes and rubs his forehead. "No," he mutters. "No. I don't want that. Okay, fine." He glances at me for a brief second. "Okay, I will. Bye."

"Is everything okay?" I ask. By the frazzled look in his eye, I know that it isn't.

"Yeah." He looks down at his empty basket. "It's just…something has come up and…"

"We need to get going," I finish.

My ex used to get that same look on his face when we would go out for Chinese. On more than one occasion he left suddenly because of some family emergency at his brother's food truck. Turns out our date nights kept landing on his
dudes only
poker night, and he was just too lazy to reschedule.

"Sorry."

"For what?" I make it easy for him by saying good-bye to Nicky and taking a handful of fries to go. "We came. We sat. We ate."

"I promise I'll make it up to you," Jeff replies.

That's what they always say.

"It's okay," I answer. "Thanks for the beer."