Page 53 of Ghost Of You
"Yes! It does!"
"No! It doesn't!" I shout, feeling my heart pounding away in my chest and a flush of heat flood over me. "This ismylife, not yours. If I feel like something's wrong I'll deal with it."
"What's wrong with you, man? Can you not see that we're concerned? This is getting out of hand. You need to see someone, Killian. How many times have you had these vivid nightmares now?"
"Ethan, I'll be fine."
"No, Killian! This has gone one far too long. I can't do this anymore!" he shouts, as he stands up from the sofa and storms out of the living room, leaving me with Jasper.
As we hear the front door slam shut, Jasper hesitantly smiles and awkwardly messes with his hands as one of his legs shakes and one foot taps away.
"I don't know what to say." He awkwardly chuckles, like he's trying to lighten the mood. "I think I'm better off just going," he hesitantly says. "Make sure Ethan doesn't punch someone or do something stupid in his fit of rage."
As he stands, so do I, without saying a word. To be honest, I don't know what to say, let alone think. What did Ethan mean when he said he 'can't do this anymore?'
It's nothislife. Yes he's going to see me struggle at times, but if I can't deal with something, I'll seek the help I need. I know he'stryingto look out for me, but to ambush me and show up uninvited and then shout at me is bang out of order. I wouldn't do that to him.
Chapter twenty-eight
With the tension heavy in the air and an unsettling knot tightening in my chest, I reluctantly make my way to work. Each step towards the studio feels like a step closer to a battlefield I’d rather avoid. The morning’s conversation with Ethan still echoes in my mind, a cacophony of unresolved anger and frustration. The words we exchanged felt like shards of glass, sharp and painful, and the thought of facing him again today makes my stomach churn.
I glance at the sky, hoping the weather might offer some reprieve, but it's as if the gray clouds are mirroring my mood, heavy and oppressive. The sidewalks are crowded with people going about their day, their chatter a distant hum compared to the storm brewing in my thoughts. I try to push the images of our argument out of my mind, but every corner I turn seems to replay our heated exchange.
The studio door opens with its usual chime, a sound that normally signifies a warm welcome but today feels like an ominous prelude. Inside, the space is filled with the usual hum of activity—needle buzzing, soft rock music playing in thebackground, and the occasional murmur of clients discussing designs. The scent of ink and antiseptic hangs in the air, a sharp reminder of the artistry and professionalism that typically defines this place.
I offer a tight-lipped smile to Sydney, who is busy answering calls and managing appointments. She gives me a distracted nod in return, her attention divided between the phone and the computer screen. I make my way to my station, each step feeling heavier as I try to prepare myself for the day ahead. The walls of the studio are adorned with vibrant artwork and tattoos in progress, but today, the colours seem muted, and the energy feels subdued.
Sitting down at my station, I set out my tools with methodical precision, trying to focus on the familiar routine. Yet, every sound and movement seems amplified—footsteps approaching, the clinking of metal, the rustle of clients flipping through design portfolios. My mind keeps drifting back to Ethan and the confrontation we had this morning. The anticipation of possibly running into him makes every creak of the floorboards or murmur of conversation feel like a prelude to an unavoidable clash.
As I gaze at the wall at the personal mementos and snapshots that are displayed, there’s a framed ultrasound picture—mine and Laelia’s baby scan. It’s a small, intimate detail that seems out of place in the studio’s usual display of art and designs.
Unable to resist, I cross the room and gently take the picture from its spot on the wall. The frame is cool and smooth in my hands as I carefully examine the scan. The baby’s tiny form is barely discernible, but the picture evokes a profound sense of new beginnings and the life that’s yet to come for me and Laelia. The simple, handwritten note beneath it—“Our little miracle”—is a tender reminder of the life that’s growing and the future that’s being built.
14th April 2023
Tick-tock, tick-tock goes the clock on the wall. Each second feels like an eternity. Laelia checked in fifteen minutes ago, but it feels like I've been sitting here for hours. I know we arrived early—both of us too excited to wait any longer to see our little one, to learn everything we can about them—but the anticipation is gnawing at me.
I shift in the chair, my elbows resting on my knees, my foot tapping a relentless rhythm against the cold, sterile floor. My nerves are starting to get the better of me. Every second that passes feels heavier than the last. I'm not the one carrying the child, yet somehow, I'm the one who’s more nervous. I can't help but think that women, like Laelia, are so much better at handling these things.
A gentle hand touches my arm, and I turn to face Laelia. Her eyes, filled with warmth and understanding, meet mine. "There’s no need to worry, everything’s fine. Take a deep breath and relax. Maybe read a magazine," she suggests, nodding towards the rack beside me.
I try to take her advice, but the idea of a magazine isn't exactly appealing. Instead, I scan the room, hoping something will distract me. The walls are a pale pastel, offering little comfort. There’s no art, no decorations, just the bare essentials. The chairs are simple, the kind you find in any waiting room, designed more for function than comfort.
The room is almost empty, just a few people scattered around. The receptionist is multitasking, typing away on her computer while answering the incessantly ringing phone. An elderly couple sits nearby, the wife’s hand gently resting on her husband’s, her voice soft as she reassures him that everything will be okay. Across from me, a mother cradles a young boy in her lap, his skin dotted with what looks like chickenpox. My mind briefly wanders to our own child, hoping they’ll be healthy and happy, imagining what they'll look like, what kind of personality they'll have.
In front of me, a TV screen occasionally displays a patient’s name, directing them to a room and doctor. I keep waiting for Laelia’s name to pop up, but the screen remains stubbornly indifferent. The only real entertainment I have is my phone, with its usual games—Candy Crush, Temple Run, Angry Birds. But even those can't hold my attention right now. The magazines beside me are all outdated, relics from January 2023, as if time stopped for this waiting room months ago.
Suddenly, a small beep pulls my attention back to the screen.Frank O’Neillappears, instructing him to go to waiting room two to see Dr. McCrea. I watch as the elderly couple stands. The wife extends her arm, offering support to her husband as he rises. He takes her arm with one hand, his cane with the other, and together they shuffle towards the door that leads to the doctor's rooms.
“One day, that will be us,” Laelia whispers, drawing my gaze back to her. She smiles, her eyes softening. “We’ll be in love, giving each other support, caring for one another well into our elderly years. Although," she teases, "I think you might be bald by then.”
I shake my head with a grin. “If I’m bald, shoot me. My hair is one of my pride and joys.”
She laughs, a sound that never fails to lift my spirits, and rolls her eyes. “I thought I was your pride and joy.”
“After my hair, yes.” I chuckle, earning a playful nudge from her, and we both burst into laughter.
Another beep from the screen catches my attention. This time, it’s Laelia’s name:Laelia Jayne Marie Thorn, Room 5, Dr. Anderson.