Page 66 of Ghost

Abby

As a teen I was preached to about what types of boys to avoid. My parents weren’t overly strict, but they wanted me to succeed in whatever endeavors I chose. Success, in their eyes, couldn’t be achieved unless I selected the right man to be at my side.

If I chose the wrong man, I’d be destined for failure. Or, so they led me to believe. Nonetheless, I was attracted to bad boys. The kids who were always in trouble. The boys who fought after school. The hellions who were ostracized by everyone else in school for their actions or beliefs. The kids who wore black, sat alone in the lunch room, and wore a scowl from first period until the dismissal bell rang.

Those were the boys I liked.

No, no, and hell no was my father’s common response to my expressions of attraction to the opposite sex. As I grew older, I developed much more than a fascination with bad boys. They were my only desire. I blamed my attraction partially on my father’s insistence that I avoid those types, and, in part because he was a staunch pacifist.

When I was in first grade, a man bumped into my mother while we were waiting in line to be seated at a restaurant. The collision was an accident, but it all but knocked my mother on the floor. When the man regained his footing, he looked at my mother, and then my father.

He was big and rough-looking. He wore a messy beard and a baseball cap, and his jeans had holes in them.

His brown eyes then looked my mother up and down. He reached for the bill of his cap and grinned. “Nice tits.”

I understood what he said, but at the time, I didn’t comprehend the magnitude of it. My parents fought about it during our meal, with my mother asking why my father hadn’t said – or did – anything when the man ran into her, or when he made the remark.

My father explained that nothing was worth fighting for. Men shouldn’t fight one another, they should learn to love one another, he said. It sounded like a good explanation at the time, but as I grew older, I realized exactly what my mother meant.

I didn’t take a vow to never fall in love with a pacifist, but my subconscious mind must have, because I was attracted to the exact opposite man my father was. I desperately wanted to be the significant other to a man who had the ability – and desire – to stand up for me. During my younger years I dreamed of being in a similar situation as my mother and having my beau make clear what was acceptable behavior.

Porter and I were walking side by side toward the movie theater’s ticket counter when I saw him. I clung to Porter’s side and diverted my gaze, hoping to go unnoticed as he walked past us. I considered saying something to Porter, but by the time I thought of what to say, it was too late. He paused several feet in front of us, turned to face me, and stared.

“Abby.” His voice floated to us on a cloud of desire. “Oh my God, it’s you.”

“Who’s that?” Porter asked under his breath.

“One of life’s bad F-ing choices,” I said. “Keep walking.”

I acted as if I didn’t see him or hear him. After we’d taken a few strides, he turned, took a few quick steps and intercepted us.

Crap.

“Abby, I never heard back from you after the last time we saw each other,” he said. “What happened.”

Luke Westham was a professional football player for the former San Diego Chargers. The team had recently been moved to Los Angeles, and my hope was that Luke went with them, for good.

He was an obsessed fan of my YouTube channel who had emailed me relentlessly over a six-month period. I finally agreed to meet him for a cup of coffee. That was all it took for me to decide he was a wacko. Ten minutes into our meeting, he was talking about getting married and having babies.

I couldn’t get away from him fast enough. The strange messages that followed caused me to block his email address and block him on social media. It didn’t prevent him from setting up alternate Facebook profiles and email addresses – with false names – and contacting me through them.

He was one of my worst nightmares. In fact, getting rid of him completely was number one hundred and eighty-four on my list.

I put on a face of surprise. “Oh, hi. It’s Luke, right? I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“I never heard back from you,” he said, his tone bitter.

Yes, you did. I told you I’d get a restraining order if you didn’t leave me alone.

I swallowed my desire to spew proof of his mental instability and choose to go a safer route.

“This is my boyfriend, Porter,” I said.

He gave Porter a dismissive look, and then looked at me dreamily. “When do you want to get together? I miss seeing you.”

“You only saw me once,” I snapped back. “For ten minutes. Three years ago.”

Porter cleared his throat. “Excuse us, please. We’re running a few minutes late.”