Page 28 of Meet Me After Life

‘A dog.’ I pull him back down to my neck, and as I do my eyes connect with two glowing coals ensconced in the shadows across the room.

‘Yours?’ he speaks against my skin. A shiver makes my skin pebble and a thrill runs through me. My breath catches.

‘I’m not sure who’s responsible for him, actually.’ My eyes don’t break contact with Walker’s. He’s entirely established himself well within the shadows of the wall adjacent. Lurking like a predator. A dog, I’d said. No. He’s more like a wolf.

‘If it’s a stray, you should really call animal control. This close to the forest, it could be corrupted by the chickens. Nasty business.’

I’m momentarily touched by his concern for me.

‘Maybe I should,’ I say, eyes finding Walker’s again in the shadows. ‘Have someone else come and handle my dirty work.’

‘Huh, typical woman,’ he chuffs.

Wait. What? ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s just obvious you don’t have a man around.’

I could cry at the irony.

‘And why would I need that?’

‘Besides this.’ He motions to the space between us. ‘Women aren’t made to be alone; they need community. They need a leader of a household to take charge.’

Oh, and you’re going to be the one to lead me, pool-whistle?

‘Don’t you think it’s a bit infantilizing to assume the woman you’re about to screw needs someone to make the “big decisions” for her?’

‘Look, I understand all that feminism business. Yeah, we’re all adults. But we all have different roles, you know? And women just aren’t as effective in positions of power. You need a firm hand to—’ He abruptly halts as a glassy look comes over his eyes.

Henry shakes his head and blinks rapidly.

‘Where’s the bathroom?’ he asks, rubbing his eyes with the back of his fist.

My brows pinch. ‘Down the hall, on the left.’

‘I’ll be back,’ he says, standing and turning before looking back to me. He tucks my hair behind my ear. ‘Hold that position for me.’ He winks and saunters away.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ Walker asks as he seats himself beside me, he tucks his ankle over his knee. I fight the urge to watch his thighs flex as he stretches. It’s a valiant effort, but the battle is lost.

‘Obviously,’ I say. There should be a bloody lock and pin on my retinas. LOOK AWAY FROM THE THICKNESS OF THE POLTERGEIST’S THIGHS, MILLER.

‘Obviously, yes. You look positively titillated⁠—’

‘Oh, shut up.’ I don’t have to fight to look away now with the force of my eyes rolling to the mirrored ceilings. Walker’s body is canted towards me, his arm thrown behind the back of the couch, his long fingers just shy of touching my hair. Even in reflection, he’s devastating.

‘—deep in the throes of ecstasy.’

‘Shut up and get out.’

‘I’m riveted by Henry’s take on feminism. I think I’ll stay.’

‘Pervert.’

‘Voyeur.’

I shan’t be shamed on visibility by a phantom.

Walker is all callous smirks and cutting remarks. Walker the Unflappable, the cool ghost, with his perfectly combed hair and tailored suit. Unbothered, one might assume. But I’m perceptive enough to pick apart the early onset marks of discontent. The twitch in his jaw, the rhythmic tapping of his fingers to his thumb, the fact he’s straightened his already-straight suit jacket three times now in the past few minutes. Oh yeah. Flappable, alright. This guy is flapped AF.