7. A Squabble

Chapter seven

A Squabble

Georgie

The psychic works out of the beachy cottage where she lives. It looks like any other house on the street except for the neon crystal ball motif buzzing in the window and the four black cats lounging on the porch.

Even with Alfie, my anxiety peaks being back here, but seeing Neil's ugly ass car isn't in his driveway across the street alleviates some of it. One of our three regrettable dates was dinner at his place. That's how I learned about his fear of ghosts.

I asked what it was like being neighbors with a psychic. He told me his family has a history of being haunted by ghosts. He didn't like it when I laughed, thinking he was joking, and believed having a medium so close kept ghosts away from him.

After all his appalling behavior, I had forgotten about this conversation until telling Alfie about his fears. And now, here we are: knocking on a psychic's door while very friendly cats rub against our ankles.

The woman who opens the door has her curly blonde hair held back with a colorful bandanna and is wearing a simply cut dress with stars, witch hats, and brooms. It looks like a muumuu straight out of Walmart's pajama section leading up to Halloween. Crows feet and years of smiling line her face, but her blue eyes have a youthful brightness in them.

She greets us with a voice that is somehow both husky and twinkling, like if a Valley girl smoked a pack a day for decades. "Welcome, beautiful souls, I'm Cherish."

After explaining our plan to Cherish, she gets up from her meditation pillow—Alfie and I are on matching ones in her living room—and lights a stick of incense. She wafts the smoke with a flourish of her hand and inhales loudly before hitting a bronze singing bowl.

The bowl chimes and Alfie looks at me in question. I shrug, equally confused. She sighs heavily upon returning to her seat. "I don't want to make a mockery of my gifts in the way you're suggesting. I asked the spirits—"

Alfie throws down a fat roll of cash wrapped together with a red rubber band that makes both her and my jaw drop.

"So, tomorrow morning you said?" she singsongs and snatches the wad of money with a delighted smile. Alfie flashes me a wink while she inspects the roll with wide eyes.

"Yep, tomorrow," he says, standing, and the two of us rise with him. He shakes her hand. "I'm glad the spirits agreed."

She sees us out and, before closing the door, throws out with a cocky grin, "I would have done it for free, by the way. I hate that whiny, little bitch."

I thought getting Cherish on board was going to be the hardest part of our plan, but apparently it's acquiring french fries at seven-thirty a.m. I called three local spots before finding a Jack in the Box twenty minutes away that served fries in the morning.

We park around the corner from Neil's house, and Cherish lets us into her backyard, french fries in tow. Alfie pops another one into his mouth, and I slap him playfully on the arm. "Hey, stop that or we won't have any left."

Being only a few blocks from the beach, the air is misty and salty. I even hear seagulls not far away.

Cherish ushers us inside and shows me to her attic. She's already pulled down the ladder, and I climb up, only slightly nervous about what mystic mysteries I might find up here. Turns out, she isn't much of a hoarder and the attic is barely half full of neatly labeled boxes. It may be surprisingly tidy, but cobwebs still lace the rafters. On my way to the small, shuttered window looking over the street, I walk through two, giving me the heebie-jeebies.

From my hideout, I watch Alfie dash across the street with a hoodie pulled low over his face. He throws two bags of french fries into the open convertible. Given the low crime rate and drought, Neil isn't the only person who doesn't close his convertible overnight.

I can't help but giggle as french fries are scattered all about the interior. Mission accomplished, Alfie ducks behind the boot of the car where Neil won't be able to see him from his house.

Crouching down, he looks directly up at me. He pulls down his hood and gives me a wave. I doubt he can see me through the shutter slats, but I still wave back, feeling like I'm in an 80's rom-com and he's throwing pebbles at my window. I only get giddier when he makes a heart with his hands and smiles.

But giddy doesn't feel adequate to describe this warm, fluttering feeling. It's like being high but with a clear mind, a constant rush of dopamine and serotonin.

I suddenly sober as I ask myself, Is this what love feels like?

A smile spreads on my lips because . . . I think it might be.

Alfie

It doesn't take long for the planet's most relentless animal to find the french-fry-strewn car. I only have to wait crouched behind the convertible for a few minutes. Soon, there's more seagulls in his car than there are at the remains of a beach barbecue.

I push up and down on the trunk until the car starts rocking and the alarm goes off. Once it's blaring, I sprint back to Cherish's and dash inside.

Adrenaline pumps through my body as I scurry up to the attic and find Georgie kneeling in front of the small window. "Only a few of the squabble got scared off by the alarm," she says excitedly.

"Excuse me, squabble ?"

"That's what a group of seagulls is called."

For some reason, the fact that she not only knows that but uses it in a sentence is fucking adorable. I can't help but grab her full cheeks and crash a kiss onto her lips. I pull away breathless. "I like you a fuck ton, Georgie girl."

Her cheeks blush and pinch with a smile. "That's good because I like you a shit ton, Alfie boy—oh, there he is!"

She presses her face against the shutters, and I do the same.

Neil is in nothing but some saggy boxers as he races down his front steps, frantically clicking and holding out his key fob. He manages to turn off the alarm but then stands there paralyzed as he takes in the squabble of seagulls that have consumed his car.

"He looks terrified." Georgie giggles when he takes a tentative step toward it.

He does a stupid little dance, stepping forward then back again and again until he gets enough courage to reach the driver's side door. He throws it open then jumps back like he was expecting flames.

"God, he really is an idiot," I scoff. Did he expect them to file out the door in single file? He shouts in frustration and throws his key fob into the car. That only sends one or two flying.

"I'm going out!" We hear Cherish call out below us.

I rub my hands together. "Now the show really begins."

She stumbles down her porch and into the street with her arms out and head thrown back, her whole body shaking as if possessed. She doesn't even break character when a driver has to skid to a stop to avoid hitting her and lays on their horn. Once in Neil's driveway, she throws her arms straight ahead and rushes to the car as if dragged by some invisible force.

Georgie can't tear her eyes away. "This is way better than I was expecting."

"Seriously, if this whole psychic thing doesn't work out, she has a real future on Broadway."

Neil yells, but I can't make out the words from where we are. Cherish goes to him and collapses, forcing him to catch her. Her eyelids flutter and her lips move, but I can't hear what she says. I don't need to, though, as the horrified expression on Neil's face tells me she's successfully delivered our message from the spirits:

"Stay away from Georgie Martin or else."