The Summer I Wore His Ghost

The summer I bombed the exams that were supposed to define my future, I ran away to a small coastal town and fell in love with my landlord.

At the peak of it, I wanted to run away with him for good.

It didn't happen.

My fault. I found the secret he kept locked in his room.

Turns out, I was just a stand-in. A ghost.

We shattered like glass.

Years later, I’m back in that same town, knocking on his door again.

I watch the color drain from his face, watch his eyes start to burn, and I state my purpose.

"I'm planning a wedding," I say. "And I'm here to buy something from you."

1

The silence stretched for two seconds, thick and heavy.

He wrestled his emotions back into their cage, but when he spoke, his voice was a raw, terrible rasp. "Buy what?"

Under his searing gaze, I managed to remain calm. "An engagement ring."

"I was told you were the designer."

I held up my phone, showing him the picture. A natural red crystal and a shimmering opal, clustered together on the band to form a half-wilted poppy. Under the gallery lights, it was hauntingly beautiful.

The piece was titled Addiction. Bloom.

The moment Chloe saw it, she knew it had to be her wedding ring. But the gallery's response was firm: Private collection. For exhibition only.

Chloe, however, has a peculiar talent for obsession.

It was an entry from a design competition years ago. The designer had licensed it for shows, but never for sale. After pulling a dozen threads, I found my way here.

Returning to this place… it was impossible not to think of him.

The designer's name was Rhys Atherton.

Funny thing is, I don't know any Rhys Atherton.

But I know a man named Rhys.

2

The summer I met Rhys was the worst summer of my eighteen years.

I’d failed the exams that were supposed to be my ticket to a good university. The Grant family decided to ship me off to a program in Europe. My family—the family that had taken me in—had arranged a marriage between their son, Caleb, and Chloe. My long-simmering, secret love for him died a quiet, unremarkable death.

And Caleb, bless his heart, played the part of the warm, supportive older brother, telling me to just go along with the plan.

He had no idea I was in love with him.

He had no idea that I’d nearly killed myself studying, all for the chance to stay in the country, to stay near him.

He knew nothing.

Every step I took toward him, he took one back, gently pushing me away.

So I told them I wanted a graduation trip first. A final summer to myself before I disappeared. It was a useless rebellion against his gentle suffocation, a desperate attempt to create some distance. And the first step was physical.

Rhys was the owner of the guesthouse I rented in Port Blossom.

My first impression of him: he looked like trouble. Shaggy, dark hair that fell into his eyes, sun-kissed skin, and a smile that flashed impossibly white.

When I first arrived, I couldn't sleep. A lingering side effect of my academic flameout. I’d find myself down on the beach at three or four in the morning, just letting the cold salt spray hit my face.

He didn't seem to sleep either. He’d be out there on the sand, collecting shells, and would always materialize beside me out of the darkness, striking up a conversation. We’d talk about everything and nothing until the sun came up, and then he’d drag me into town for breakfast before letting me go back to my room to finally crash.

On the fifth night, he finally broke. "Kid, you're killing me. I can't keep pulling these all-nighters with you."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "How about this? You go back right now, get some real sleep. Meet me here tomorrow at ten, and I'll show you a good time."

I was skeptical, but I did it.

Just then, the wind blew his bangs from his face, and I saw him clearly for the first time. He was actually incredibly handsome.

The next day, true to his word, he took me fishing, surfing, kayaking.

That night, I was exhausted and asleep by nine. The four-a.m. beach walks became a thing of the past. This became our new routine.

I found out later he thought I was suicidal.

It was funny, in a bleak sort of way. He, who seemed to have given up on living, was worried someone else wanted to die.

I discovered his own tendencies one night when the water heater in my bathroom broke. I knocked on his door, but there was no answer for a long time. When he finally opened it, the smell of blood hit me. I caught a glimpse of bloody tissues in his trash can, and a jolt of shock, then panic, went through me.

Later, as he was fixing the valve, his shirt got soaked. Through the thin, wet cotton, I saw them: a crosshatch of scars, old and new, running up his arms. I froze.

He didn't seem like the type...

Or maybe, he just seemed too normal all the time...

I remember my brain short-circuiting. The first words out of my mouth were painfully direct.

"Are you on medication?"

"What?" He frowned, as if he'd misheard me.

I reached out, my hand closing around his wrist. "We're going to the hospital," I said, my voice shaking but firm.

And he went. He actually went with me, saw a doctor, got a prescription, and even started therapy.

That's when we started dating.

Was it pity? Of course not.

Until that moment, he had been the one taking care of me. His concern for me went far beyond any landlord-tenant relationship. I think my heart had already started to lean toward him during those sleepless nights. But it wasn't until I saw the full scope of his pain, etched into his skin, that the feeling became so strong I couldn't ignore it anymore.

Just like now.

3

Rhys fell silent, then stepped aside, letting me into the house.

The layout was almost exactly as I remembered it from three years ago—impersonal, monochrome, relentlessly dull. Back then, I had been endlessly curious about him. Why was he sick? Why did he have no friends or family to speak of? What did he do all day? What was his life before this? His house felt like an extension of that mystery, a place full of secrets. But whenever I asked, he would just brush it off with a few words. Ordinary. Nothing special. Boring.

I was so desperate for answers I’d bring him every ridiculous rumor I heard in town.

"They say you killed someone. That you did time. Is it true?"

I knew he wouldn't get angry with me.

And he didn't. He just glanced at me, a roguish grin spreading across his face. "It's true. I was married, too. Had a wife. She ran off with another guy while I was in the joint." He let out a deep, theatrical sigh, as if recalling a great tragedy.

I was stunned. I hadn't expected such a harsh history and immediately felt clumsy and tactless for bringing it up.

Then I heard a choked laugh. I turned, and he was clutching his stomach, his laughter now open and unrestrained.

I stared, completely bewildered.

When he finally caught his breath, he reached out and flicked my forehead. His voice was low and smooth, impossibly alluring. "You're so easy to fool, kid."

The way he looked at me then… it was against the rules.

I must have been under his spell, because the words just tumbled out of my mouth. "Rhys, I don't care about your past."

"Why don't you... take me with you? Let's run away."

For one, I hated the way the townspeople whispered about him. For another, I wanted to escape the Grants. I'd thought it all through. Rhys was a good person, he was good to me, he was handsome—he was perfect. Going with him was a winning bet.

He stared at me for a long time after I said it. "You can't just say things like that."

"I'm not. I'm serious."

He ignored me.

I pestered him about it for a month, the argument finally ending in his bed.

"Are you just playing with me? Is this not serious to you at all?"

He propped himself up on an elbow. "Kid, I treat you like you're royalty. How much more serious do you want me to get?"

"Then run away with me."

He pressed his fingers to his temple. "What was the first thing you said?"

Confused, I repeated myself. "Are you just..."

"Yes," he said, cutting me off. Without another word, he hauled me out of the bed, pushed me out of his room, and locked the door.

"..."

It was humiliating. The first time in my life I had ever offered myself to someone, and he'd literally thrown me out.

I’d been in Port Blossom for nearly three months.

Every message from Caleb had gone unanswered.

On his way to come find me, he got into a car accident.

I was with Rhys when Caleb's mother called. There were no flights back, so Rhys drove me the six hours to the hospital himself.

The sun was blinding that day. I felt like I was moving through a dream. When I finally stumbled into the hospital, the first thing I received was a sharp slap across the face from Mrs. Grant.

Caleb was in surgery. I knelt on the cold floor outside the operating room.

I knelt until a doctor came out and announced the surgery was a success. As Mrs. Grant rushed past me, I tried to stand and follow her into the room. My legs were completely numb. I staggered, falling straight into a familiar pair of arms.

I realized then that Rhys hadn't left.

"Why are you still here?"

Rhys steadied me, a faint smile on his lips. "You asked me to run away with you, didn't you? I couldn't just leave you here."

He helped me toward the hospital room, but we were stopped by Mrs. Grant's icy glare. He was pushed out. And so was I.

Shut out of the room, I forced a bitter smile and looked at Rhys, who seemed at a loss for words. "No need to ask," I said, trying to sound casual. "I'll save you the trouble. I'm not her real son."

I was adopted from an orphanage by the Grant family. This kind of treatment was nothing new.

After Rhys took me back to Port Blossom, we didn't speak about that day. By some unspoken agreement, we buried it. He even started packing his bags, seriously talking about "running away" with me.

If I hadn't accidentally seen the photograph in his desk drawer, I probably would have followed him like a fool.

And maybe being a fool would have been better.

But in that moment, standing in front of Rhys, I suddenly found my pride.

The photo showed a younger Rhys, his arm slung around another young man's shoulders, both of them beaming at the camera.

Staring at that face—a face that looked so much like mine—my mind went blank.

I finally understood. My own words from before were complete bullshit. I don't care about your past. I cared so damn much it was killing me.

We had the biggest fight of our lives.

Well, it was mostly me. I threw the picture at him, demanding an explanation, over and over.

He just stood there, silent as a stone.

Finally, my heart turned to ice. I delivered the verdict on our ridiculous, short-lived romance with a cold laugh. "He's dead, isn't he? So I'm his replacement?"

More silence.

"Is that why you were so good to me? Or was it pity? I must seem pretty pathetic to you, huh? Pretty pitiable."

Still silence.

I kicked the coffee table, sending it crashing into the wall. "Rhys, you asshole. I'm done. I'm not playing this game anymore."

And just like that, we were over.

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