Page 4 of Kestrel & Kee

“I know you do.” I rubbed his thigh gently as he battled to regain control of himself. Andrew, who lived nearby in the attic of the new loose-leaf tea shop, appeared at the passenger window, reformed—ghosts coagulated back into shape rather quickly—looking more than a little peeved. I waved him off. He called me a lobster lover and shot me a two-finger salute before floating off to the tea shop. “And them showing up out of the blue was shitty. They could have reached out to warn you.”

“They did. I deleted the messages—unread. I don’t want a thing from them.” He scrubbed at his leaking eyes with the tips of his fingers. And then he hit me with a look which was a mix of intense pain and ire. “You know how I feel about them. You know! No one knows like you do, and yet you invited them to our home! To talk! What the fuck, Arch?!”

Oh. Oh. Oh. Words melted on my tongue. “Phil…” I started, stopped, and then swallowed the wad of guilt now lodged in my throat.

“You, of all people, know the history. You know how they shit on me. Why the fuck did you just step up and invite them in for tea?”

I wet my suddenly arid lips. Big, wet, blue eyes were fastened on me. “I…I wasn’t thinking, I guess. I just…they said they needed help. And we were in the infirmary, yelling. You were yelling, your dad was yelling, and people walking by were listening, so I…I just thought about how to diffuse things a little. Yeye would offer them tea, I thought, so I just did what I thought Yeye would do and…”

Man, I wish my grandfather and his girlfriend were here right now. I wish they were in the same state, but they’re off to visit Monique’s family down south. Lucky seniors. I’d love to be in Louisiana right now instead of being raked over hot coals by the man I love for being a moron. Because yeah, now that I was looking at it from his side, I could see his point of view.

“I’m sorry. I was trying to help,” I mumbled as I searched his gaze for any sign of forgiveness. He stared at me for so long that I began to wither inside. “Is this our first fight?”

“No. Yes. Maybe. Shit, I don’t know, Arch.” He blew out a breath that ruffled my hair, then he placed his hand on my cheek. “I don’t like this. I yelled at you. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, no, you totally had all the right in the world to be upset.”

“I just…” He caressed my cheek in that loving, gentle way of his. “You made this big decision about my family and didn’t even consult me on it. That’s not how partners work. I know you’re the star of the show. You have the skills. You possess the spiritual eye and are the exalted descendant of Kee Huang.”

“I’m not really exalted,” I muttered, shame throttling me.

“Yeye thinks so. And I do too. I love you and exalt you all the time, so handing you the power on the show and in our bedroom is everything I live for. But this was uncool, Arch. You shouldn’t have made the call without talking with me. They’re my shitty parents. I should have been given the right to say nope no way fuck all the way off we don’t care about your problems. Like they just appear in my life after years and now want to interact?! Fuck that. Because we have a show that deals with paranormal happenings, they pop into my life like unwanted genital warts to demand we help them with some spooky problem they have? No. Fuck that. I hate that I have to see them a second time, Arch.”

“I know. I am so, so sorry, Phil. I really am. I just blurted it out, thinking if we met somewhere without people listening, we could…” I fumbled about for what I’d been thinking. “I thought we could cool things down. Tea and ginger cookies work wonders. I was trying to be like Yeye and failed—miserably—and I am so sorry. I won’t ever do that again. I swear on my parents’ souls.”

His eyes flared. That was a serious vow I’d just made. He knew it, and I did as well. My culture has very strong feelings about our ancestors. If I made that pact and broke it, it would bring huge dishonor to my name. Family duty, respect for the dead, and spiritual fear meant my mother and father—who still watched over me—would be horribly offended if I ever broke my pledge.

“That’s some big promise,” he whispered, cupping my chin in his big, rough hand.

“It is, and I have some big love for you and never want to hurt you again. Do you forgive me?”

“Archie, of course I forgive you. I love you. We all make mistakes. I see that you were trying to be Yeye but hosed it up. Next time, when it’s my family shit, let me take the lead. Just for a little while. Then I’ll gladly hand it back to you.”

“Kiss me.”

He did, jerking his seat belt tight over his broad chest. He captured my mouth. I carded my fingers into his hair as the kiss grew wild, filled with emotions that bled into the moment. We slowly broke apart.

“Okay, so first fight sucked,” I whispered breathlessly.

“Big time. Let’s never fight again,” he said, his thumb gliding over my smooth cheeks. I couldn’t grow a beard to save my damn life, but Phil seemed to love that about me. That and a whole lot more.

“I’m sure we’ll fight again sometime but never about your parents. All decisions about them are your call.” I stole another kiss and leaned back in my seat, my sight locked with his. “We can skip out on this whole meeting.”

His hand fell from my face to his lap as he sighed a massive sigh. “No, we should hear them out. I mean, okay, whatever they’re facing must be big if they came to us. Maybe someone is being scared or hurt or something by a ghost.”

“Maybe. We’ll only know if we let them tell us what brought them to us, but this is your game to play. I’m just the cheerleader for team Phil.” I grabbed my banner from the floor by my feet to give it a feeble shake.

“Okay, yeah, let’s hear them out. It’s what Yeye would do.”

I nodded. Yeah, it was totally what my grandfather would do. Then if he didn’t like what they brought to his home, he would yeet them unceremoniously to the curb.

Phil gave me a reedy smile before we headed to the bookstore for a Kestrel family convo part deux. Tea and ginger cookies had better work wonders…

***

Entering the bookstore that my grandfather and I ran, I found three ghosts sitting under the stairs to our second-floor apartment in our reading nook, watching something on my laptop.

Reggie, the resident spirit, sat between the specter of a milkman and a young teenage girl with a seriously broken neck. Like Marquis Reginald Charles Richard Birkenhead, or Reggie as we called him, Eloise was murdered just outside the bookstore in the ’70s. Caleb, the milkman, met his maker when the horse pulling his milk wagon kicked him in the head. All three were locked on this street—Reggie in this shop—for eternity.