Chapter 22

The wind whipped around at a frenzied pace, the icy gusts creating small cyclones of snow that twisted and twirled along the tops of the ever-increasing snowdrifts. The storm had gained momentum over the last few hours, and it had dumped so much snow on the roads and sidewalks that it was getting hard to distinguish where they ended and the yards began. Woodsmoke filled the dense night air as families hunkered down inside their homes, seeking out warmth and comfort and a respite from the tempestuous storm that showed no signs of slowing down.

My rear tires spun as I pulled into my driveway, the Jeep struggling to get traction as it tried to plow through the foot and a half of snow. With a muttered curse, I shifted into neutral and switched over to four-high. God bless four-wheel-drive, I thought as all four tires grabbed at once and my sturdy little Cherokee cut through the snowbank like a hot knife slicing through butter. I'd probably regret driving through it later when I tried to shovel the driveway and had to chip away at the icy tire tracks my little adventure left in its wake, but at the moment I didn't care. All I wanted to do was get inside where it was warm and dry. Besides, why shovel now when it looked like the storm had no intention of stopping anytime soon.

Tiny slivers of ice hit me in the face the moment I got out of the car and slammed the door. I pulled the hood of my coat down over my forehead and tucked my chin in a clumsy attempt to maintain my field of vision while at the same time trying to keep the razor-sharp snowflakes from stabbing me in the eyes. Then I began the arduous journey of trudging through the knee-deep snow between my Jeep and the front porch. Fresh powder filled my shoes with every step I took, immediately soaking through my socks and freezing them to my feet.

God, I hated winter.

I released a sigh of relief when I finally pushed through the door and was greeted by a rush of heated air. Once again, Erik had turned on the lamps and the fireplace. The front room had never looked so cozy and inviting.

A girl could get used to this, I thought with a smile, enjoying the way my stomach fluttered at the thought of having someone to come home to again.

That warm, fuzzy feeling didn't last very long, however. Instead, I was gripped with a sudden and overwhelming panic as a loud, ear-splitting crash emanated from my kitchen. My heart catapulted into my windpipe at the same time a million thoughts raced through my mind.

What the hell was that?

I didn't even have time to contemplate the answer before a second, more deliberate crack filled the air, followed immediately by the sound of something fragile-sounding shattering on impact.

Oh, sweet Jesus. Someone just broke into my house!

I threw my coat, purse, keys, and phone onto the end table and lunged for the lamp, yanking the cord out of the wall with so much force that the brass prongs bent sideways under the pressure. Half the room dimmed from the absence of light. I tore the lampshade off and tossed it on the floor, then upended the lamp base so that I could use it as a club to defend myself if whoever was in the kitchen decided to run at me. I really needed to invest in some sort of home defense weapon, I thought offhandedly as I quietly inched my way toward the kitchen.

Yellow light stretched out from the kitchen doorway, paving a path for me to recklessly follow. Just as I reached the threshold, a shadow moved across the opening.

I lurched to a stop. Someone was definitely in there! In that second, every bit of common sense I had—the kind of sense that told me I should run away and call the police instead—went out the window as my fight or flight mechanism kicked in and centered on fight. Wielding the lamp in front of me like a broadsword, I swung around the corner and yelled in the most menacing voice I could muster, "Freeze, asshole! Don't take another step!"

Erik froze mid-swing, the sledgehammer he had in both hands suspended over his head, poised and ready to deliver another powerful strike.

"E-Erik?"

The lamp sagged in my hands as the adrenaline rapidly drained out of my body and confusion set in.

Not an intruder, then.

I glanced warily around the kitchen, trying to wrap my head around what I was seeing. Masonry dust hung heavily in the air around us, settling in a fine layer that covered the kitchen table, the counters, and the tops of the appliances. I looked down and saw the pile of broken tiles scattered at his feet and my eyes widened in utter, stupefied shock.

"What in the good-goddamn-hell are you doing to my kitchen?" I shrieked. "My floor!"

"Christine."

"No. Don't 'Christine' me!" I snapped. "When I offered to let you help with my projects, I meant help! As in assist! I didn't mean destroy my kitchen while I was gone. I can't afford to replace the floor right now—not when I'm trying to save every goddamn penny I have to get you back to Paris. Jesus, Erik! How the hell am I supposed to fix this?"

"Christine." Sometime during my rant, Erik must have put down the sledgehammer because suddenly he was standing right in front of me. He gingerly pried my fingers away from the lamp and took it from me, setting it down on what remained of my tile floor before gesturing toward the gigantic mess he'd made. "Let me show you something."

Still fuming, I folded my arms and reluctantly followed him to where he'd been working. I watched as he kneeled and swept away some of the mortar and bits of broken tile. Slowly, the hint of something brown began to emerge from beneath the debris.

"What is that?" I asked uncertainly. Unfolding my arms, I crouched down next to him and ran my fingers over the area in question.

"That, my dear," Erik proudly declared, "is the original hardwood."

My eyes darted to his. "Hardwood? As in hardwood floor?"

He nodded.

"How…?"

"It was common practice for contractors to simply lay down tile over an existing floor rather than spend the time and energy to remove the original flooring first. If the floor was level and free from defects, I suppose there was no harm in it, but I always found the practice distasteful and lazy, and anyone I caught doing that on my sites was immediately reprimanded and dismissed. I had an inkling that that was what might have happened here, and I am pleased to discover that I was correct."

My anger dissipated, instantly replaced by budding excitement that what I wanted had been there the whole time. Pointing to the floor, I repeated, "I have hardwood under there?" I needed to him hear say it one more time to make sure that I wasn't dreaming.

He chuckled. "You do indeed. Am I forgiven?"

"Yes!" I cried. Before I could think twice about what I was doing, I lunged forward and flung my arms around his neck. "Yes!"

Erik reeled backward, his body stiffening the second we made contact. He immediately stood up, half dragging me with him in the process. Realizing my mistake, I let go of him and hastily tried to put distance between us.

"S-sorry. I got excited and…."

It was then that I realized he had stripped off his gloves and discarded his overcoat and waistcoat, and now stood only in a white shirt with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. The first two buttons of his collar were undone, exposing his throat and the very top of his pale chest. It was hard not to notice how thin he was. He'd always looked somewhat gangly from afar, but oddly enough that had never seemed to detract from the tremendous amount of power and quiet confidence that seemed to ooze out of him whenever he was around. He had a slim waist and narrow hips, followed by impossibly long yet sturdy legs. The muscles in his neck and arms were trim but toned as he ran his hands down the length of his shirt to smooth out the wrinkles.

I had to put more space between us before I said or did anything else. Before he noticed how red my face was getting. We had only touched for a split-second—not even long enough for either one of us to really register what had happened—but I could still feel the hard plane of his chest pressed up against me, and all I could think about was the overwhelming desire to do it again.

"I'm sorry." I gestured clumsily in the direction of the front room. "I'm just…um…I'm gonna go shut off the fireplace. It's getting hot in here. Are you hot? No, that's ridiculous. Of course you're not hot. You don't get hot. You're dead," I rambled.

I had to get these rebellious little thoughts of mine under control. It was positively absurd to have a crush on a ghost. He. Was. Dead. Dead! And even if by some miracle his current state of existence wasn't an issue and we could have some semblance of a normal relationship, he was in love with someone else!

This has got to stop, I told myself. He's in love with Christine Daaé. They are destined to be together. And you're supposed to be the one who's helping him find her. Remember?

I rubbed the back of my neck and quickly spun on my heel toward the hallway. I'd taken exactly two steps when the house suddenly plummeted into darkness. I froze, teetering a bit because of how fast I'd had to stop, and let out a small, shaky cry. There were piles of broken tile and mortar everywhere and the prospect of having to navigate the mine field that was now my kitchen in the dark made my heart thump with intense unease.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath.

"Wait here."

There was a whisper of fabric and then I felt Erik breeze past me.

"Wait! Where're you going?" I cried, the panic in my voice evident as I realized that he'd just left me all alone in the dark.

He returned a few seconds later carrying one of the candles that usually adorned my mantel. The tiny flame sputtered in the darkness as he swept his hand toward me, illuminating a path through the debris. Oily shadows bounced off his black mask and white shirtfront and the orangey glow from the candle's flame brought a warm tint to his naturally pale skin.

"This way," he said, beckoning me forward with his other hand.

Good lord, Christine, I mused, sinking my teeth into the inside of my lower lip. If this is how he looked when he came through your mirror, it's no wonder you couldn't resist following him.

In my mind I pictured the way his eyes must have burned with danger and mystery the first time she saw him standing there and imagined the excitement that no doubt coursed through her at the prospect of following that shadowy figure into the unknown.

Erik shifted slightly to allow me to pass by him and as I did my shoulder grazed his chest. He didn't seem to notice, however. He simply handed me the candle and fell into step behind me. Feeling somewhat disappointed and with nothing left to do, I cautiously picked my way around the mess and strode down the hallway into the front room. Thankfully the fire was still going so I had no trouble making it over to the couch. I set the candle on the coffee table and plopped down, kicking off my soaked shoes so that I could pull my legs up to my chest and rest my chin against my knees.

While Erik busied himself with lighting the rest of the candles on my mantel, I allowed my gaze to linger on his slender form, remembering what it had felt like to hold him in my arms for those few, fleeting seconds.

"Would you like to read?" he asked, turning to me.

"What?" Quickly I averted my eyes, instead pretending to be completely absorbed with a piece of fuzz on my carpet. "Oh. Sure."

He gave me a quizzical look but said nothing as he handed me my e-reader and settled himself into what I had come to think of as his armchair.

"Thank you," I said in a small voice.

Erik nodded and then pick up and thumbed open his copy of Faust.

Ordinarily I would have been thrilled to spend the evening with him reading in front of the fireplace. But my thoughts were scattered, and I found it almost impossible to concentrate. After I'd read the same sentence three times, I sighed and set the e-reader down on my lap.

What was wrong with me? Had I gone completely off the deep end? Fantasizing about a dead, disfigured Opera Ghost. I mean, who did that? And then there was Jake. How could I go from a steamy make-out session with him to secretly pining for Erik, all in the span of like twenty minutes? What the hell was wrong with me?

For the first time I understood how torn and conflicted Christine Daaé must have been, loving two men and being forced to choose between them. Had she had similar feelings about Erik, and he was just too oblivious to notice them? Did they just keep missing each other's signals until it was too late? I wondered what would have happened if he'd been upfront with her about his appearance in the first place?

"What's the matter?"

"Huh?" I looked up. Erik was watching me intently. He had also let his book rest in his lap and had one long finger inserted between the pages to mark his place.

"You seem distracted. Are you worried about the condition of the hardwood floor? Because I assure you, even if the surface is scratched by removing the mortar, it will still be possible to restore it."

I smiled. "No. I trust you."

An almost imperceptible, blink-and-you'll-miss-it, shiver coursed through Erik's body. If it wasn't for the way his hand tightened briefly around the spine of his book, I would have sworn I'd imagined it.

"What's wrong, then?" he asked.

I hesitated. Naturally, I couldn't tell him the real reason for my strange behavior. But at the same time, I felt like I had to tell him something. He'd obviously been able to pick up on the subtle changes in my demeanor. Did I dare to delve more into his relationship with Christine? I hated asking questions that made him uncomfortable, but I also felt that we'd never unravel the mystery of his continued existence if we didn't bite the bullet and talk about his past.

"Actually, I was thinking about you and Christine Daaé."

One dark eyebrow lifted questioningly above the ridge of his mask. "And that's making you agitated?"

"Well, no. It's just…." Crossing my legs, I sat up straight and leaned forward slightly. "Okay, so I was wondering why you didn't come clean with her about your disfigurement after the two of you had bonded over music. You know, before you revealed yourself and took her to the house on the lake. Why didn't you tell her that you concocted the whole Angel of Music charade because you were afraid to approach her any other way?"

Erik's eyes narrowed to golden slits. "You know why." He slipped his finger out of the book and placed the heavy tome on the table before him. "I find it extremely tedious to have to explain to you that which you already know the answer to."

"I get that you hid your identity from her because you were self-conscious about your face, but—"

"Self-conscious? How insignificant you make it sound. You have no idea what it is like to have the face of a demon. To be feared and shunned and labeled as a monster before I could even draw a breath to prove otherwise. So, forgive me, my dear," he sneered, practically spitting out the endearment, "for lying to Christine about who I really was."

"You never even gave her a chance."

"A chance? There was never a chance. What you are suggesting is impossible. A foolish dream."

Look at us! I wanted to scream at him. It's not impossible; it's happening right now!

Instead, I threw back, "Is it, though? You made the decision for her and doomed yourself in the process."

Erik flinched at the harshness behind my tone. "I hardly think that you are an authority on the matter," he said stiffly. "As I recall, you weren't there to witness any of it."

"I know who you really are," I retorted vehemently, jabbing my finger into my chest. "I've gotten to know the real you. And you're not the vengeful, manipulative Opera Ghost you pretend to be. You're witty and charming and you can be quite genuine when you want to be. Is it so goddamn inconceivable for you to believe that she couldn't fall in love with the man behind the mask first? That maybe if you'd given her the chance to get to know you like I know you, your face wouldn't have mattered because she would have already been head-over-heels in love with you."

The blood that had been pumping so hotly in my veins only seconds before turned to a sheet of ice.

Shit. I hadn't meant to say it that way. It just slipped out. I froze, hoping like hell that he hadn't picked up on the dual meaning behind my words. Erik could be terribly obtuse at times, especially when it came to matters of the heart.

I watched as the fight drained out of him and he slumped back against the chair.

"You think she was in love with me when I was still her Angel?" he whispered.

I let out the breath I'd been holding. Good. He hadn't noticed then. I don't know how it was possible to be simultaneously relieved and devastated at the same time, and yet here I was.

"Yes, I do. And I think that's part of the reason why you're still here. Clearly, the two of you have unfinished business."

He shook his head. "I was so quick to dismiss anything I saw as love for the music and nothing more. I didn't dare hope for anything else. In my experience, hoping has only ever led to heartache and disappointment."

"You don't give yourself enough credit, Erik."

His eyes flicked back to me. Several long moments passed as he held my gaze, his eyes expressing the emotions he felt where his words had failed him. Finally, he glanced down at his hands and replied hoarsely, "I…I am unused to such compliments. You're a good friend for saying that. Thank you."

And poof. Just like that. Friend-zoned by a ghost.

"You're welcome."

I smiled at him warmly and then picked up my e-reader and tried to force myself to focus on the words on the screen.

XXX

Christine retired to her quarters not long after our conversation ended, leaving me alone to mull over the events of the evening in the quiet comfort of her drawing room. Truthfully, I was grateful for the reprieve. So much had happened in such a short amount of time, and I needed a moment to collect myself and take it all in.

The physical changes I was experiencing should have been alarming. I'd spent nearly a century and a half as a specter, only able to observe the environment around me but never allowed to participate in it. After spending the last one-hundred-and-forty years doomed to an isolated, lonely existence, the last few months felt surreal. I kept expecting that I'd blink and suddenly find myself back in the cellars of the opera house, and all of this would have been nothing more than a fevered dream, images borne from a desire to no longer be miserable and alone.

This stubborn, perplexing, fiery young woman had awakened something in me, something I'd never felt before. At first it had been a challenge to overcome a lifetime of wariness and suspicion, to allow myself to hope, to be happy. Happiness was an emotion that I was wholly unfamiliar with, and so, in the beginning it was difficult to recognize it for what it was. But now—now I felt as if I came alive whenever I was in her presence. And that feeling was supported by my growing ability to interact with everything around me.

While I had initially conjured up the idea to remove the tile floor in her kitchen (once I realized what lurked beneath it) as a way to occupy my mind and keep my hands busy, I'd be lying if I said that was the sole reason. No, the real reason was decidedly more selfish. I had begun to crave those few hours that Christine and I spent together every night, and in my mind, this was simply the easiest way to ensure that continued to happen.

Watching her anger dissipate and give way to elation was delightfully satisfying, but it paled in comparison to the moment when she flung her arms around me. I closed my eyes and placed my hand over my chest. I could still feel the slight pressure of her body again my frame and the weight of her arms around my neck. Her reaction caught me completely off guard, and by the time I had shaken off my stupor, the moment was over, and she had pulled away.

My first thought was that she was making feeble excuses to hide her revulsion, but I had come to know her mannerisms fairly well in the past few months and nothing about her body language indicated that she was repulsed in any way. She was flustered and perhaps a little embarrassed, but there was something else there, too, something I couldn't quite place, and its existence intrigued me beyond measure.

I glanced up, thoroughly surprised to find myself at the threshold of Christine's bedroom. It was not the first time I'd watched her sleep—she'd fallen asleep on the sofa a handful of times before—but I rarely ventured upstairs after hours, and I certainly didn't make a habit of lurking outside her bedroom door at night.

Her small form was almost completely engulfed by the gray oversized down comforter she'd pulled up to her chin, her face half-hidden against the stark white pillowcase. Gazing at her from across the way, I wondered if she was aware of all the firsts she'd given me tonight. My first embrace, however brief it was. The first time someone ever told me they trusted me. And it was most definitely the first time anyone had insisted that I was a good man.

How she saw all that in me, I did not know.

Her sharp words echoed in my ears even now, hours later. Had I really doomed my relationship with my Angel before it even started? Was I so absorbed in my own feelings of inadequacy that I completely missed the subtle cues she had given me in the beginning?

I grimaced.

I had wasted so much time and energy trying to prove to Christine that I was worthy of her love, when in reality I was driving her further away from me and into the arms of her lover. To learn that it all could have been prevented if only I'd had the courage to tell her the truth while I was still a disembodied voice was devastating.

"I'm sorry, Christine," I whispered to the darkness, hoping that somewhere out there, her spirit would hear my apology and know that I was sincere. "I made a mess of everything."

I only hoped that at some point, I'd have a chance to make things right.

I'm dying to hear your thoughts on this one. Please let me know what you think! ~J