Ghosts Between Us (ManxMan)

Chapter 8: Lingering Ghosts (Keaton Pov)

Keaton stared at his phone as the bill reminder faded from the screen. His parents' voices swirled in the background, recounting their cruise trip in vivid detail, but their words felt distant—just noise to fill the air. He tried to stay in the conversation, tried to focus, but every now and then, memories of last night crept back in, stealing his attention.

Cole.

Keaton sighed, leaning back against the couch, eyes half-closed as his parents carried on. Why do I care so much? It wasn't like they'd done anything significant—just talked, laughed, drank wine. He hadn't even expected Cole to stay, let alone... the way they'd woken up together, Keaton's arm draped around him, Cole tucked against his chest. It felt natural—too natural.

But the moment he'd turned to look, Cole was gone. Just like that.

Keaton shifted uncomfortably in his seat. I should've known better. I'm not good enough for someone like him. The last time he'd let his guard down like this, it had been with his ex—the one who'd ghosted him without a word, leaving him spiraling for months. The thought of Cole disappearing the same way gnawed at him, a pit of worry forming in his stomach. He tried to push it down, but the silence from Cole, the absence, kept crawling back into his mind.

A flash of Cole's laugh from the night before surfaced—soft, genuine, as they clinked their wine glasses together. The warmth of his body pressed against Keaton's lingered on his skin, an echo of last night. It wasn't just nothing. Was it?

"Key! Did you hear me?" His mother's voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present.

"Huh? Yeah, sorry, Ma," Keaton muttered, sitting up straighter, though his mind was still somewhere else.

His mother gave him a sideways glance, but continued talking. Something about the hotel staff being rude, how the room didn't have a window, and his dad almost getting into an argument with the concierge. His father chimed in, correcting the details, turning it into some kind of verbal ping-pong match between the two of them.

Keaton nodded along, offering small grunts of agreement, but his mind was elsewhere. Stop thinking about Cole. It was stupid to obsess over someone who had probably already moved on.

Still, the memory of Cole's scent—something woodsy, maybe sandalwood—lingered. Keaton couldn't shake the way his arm had fit around Cole, the surprising comfort of waking up like that. But then again, maybe it meant nothing. Maybe Cole had left because... I wasn't enough.

He needed to get out of here.

"I'm going to take out the trash," Keaton announced abruptly, standing up and making his way toward the kitchen.

His mother looked up, mid-sentence, but didn't protest. "Okay, sweetie."

The kitchen felt suffocating as Keaton grabbed the trash bag, his eyes flicking toward the fridge. The empty bottle. He'd forgotten to get rid of it earlier. For a moment, he stood there, staring at the fridge, knowing he should deal with it now. But the thought of opening that door, of seeing the evidence of last night, made him feel sick.

He shook his head and pushed the thought aside. Later.

He hoisted the trash bag over his shoulder and stepped outside, the cool morning air hitting his face like a wave of relief. For just a second, the fresh air cleared his mind. He dumped the trash in the bin, shaking off the frustration of forgetting about the bottle.

As Keaton walked back to the house, his stomach twisted with dread. They're talking about me. He didn't even need to hear their words to know. It was always like this—whenever they thought something was off, whenever they suspected he was slipping again, they'd have hushed conversations, always worried about him. They still don't trust me.

He opened the door and stepped inside, the sudden silence confirming his suspicion. His parents had stopped talking, their eyes quickly averting as soon as he walked in.

Keaton rolled his eyes. Probably whispering about the wine bottle.

"I'm going to sleep," he muttered, his voice flat. He didn't even wait for a response as he made his way toward the kitchen, the weight of the morning pressing down on him.

In reality, he wasn't going to sleep. He was going to crawl into his room, put his headphones on, and drown out the noise in his head. Drown out the memory of Cole.

He flipped the kettle on, his hands moving on autopilot as he grabbed a fresh tea bag. Chamomile. His go-to. He pulled the honey from the cupboard, the sweet, earthy aroma filling the air as he waited for the water to boil. His parents were still in the living room, pretending to watch the movie, though he knew their attention was on him.

The fridge door loomed in his peripheral vision. Don't look. Just grab the oat milk.

Keaton reached for the fridge door, pulling it open quickly, his eyes barely registering the two bottles inside. He grabbed the oat milk and shut the door before he could think about it for too long. There. Done.

The click of the fridge door closing brought a small sense of relief. He poured the oat milk into his tea, mixing it with honey and hot water before setting the carton down on the counter, purposefully leaving it out. Mom will put it away. I don't need to look in the fridge again.

He grabbed the oversized cruise mug his mother had given him earlier, its ridiculous size and tacky design bringing a faint smile to his lips. She always knew how to bring him a small bit of comfort, even if she didn't realize it.

As Keaton walked toward his room, mug in hand, his mother's voice called out from the couch. "Enjoy your tea, Tea Key."

The name hit him like a wave of nostalgia. Tea Key. He hadn't been called that in years. It was a childhood nickname, something that felt safe and familiar. He paused in the doorway, the small smile lingering on his face.

"I will, Ma. Thanks," he said softly.

His father's voice chimed in behind him. "He's not fifteen anymore, Nikita. Let him be a man."

Keaton turned away, the small smile still there, though his heart felt heavy. Maybe I'm not fifteen anymore. But I don't know what I am right now.

He walked into his room and shut the door behind him, the weight of the morning pressing down like a lead blanket. The chamomile tea steamed on his bedside table as he flopped onto the bed, spreading out like a starfish. His hand reached for his phone, the familiar guitar riff of "Zombie" by The Cranberries playing softly in his ears.

But no matter how hard he tried to lose himself in the music, he couldn't shake the feeling of Cole's scent—the warmth of him pressed against his chest, the weight of his body tucked into Keaton's. The sensory memory flooded back like a punch to the gut, and Keaton's eyes snapped shut, trying to block it out.

He's gone.

But the memory wouldn't leave him.