Oliver let out a low whistle. "This ought to be interesting. She bought a board game."
I felt relieved to hear him sound like his normal self. Part of me had been concerned that he'd still have that hostile attitude I'd seen last night, especially because he'd been MIA that morning.
"Fun and games," I said, holding up the game box and the pizza pox underneath it. "And sustenance, but that's more for me and less for you. I do have to say, the upside to having ghostly roommates? I can get whatever pizza I want."
The Scrabble box floated up from the pizza box and hovered in front of me. "Don't you already own this game?" Cyril asked.
"Bronte—" I bit down on my lip.
My eyes swung around the room, even though I couldn't see anything.
"You didn't want to use Bronte's copy without her permission?" he offered.
I nodded.
The game box floated over to the dining table. "Fair enough. I'll start setting the board."
"Take it into the bedroom," I instructed, already heading that way. "We can play on the bed."
I moved into the bedroom and slid the pizza box onto the bedside table. In a surprising turn of events, the room was clean for a change. Funny how homicidal ghosts watching you for months on end makes your apartment feel dirty and only a deep, Clorox clean makes you feel better.
Sitting halfway on the bed, I realized the Scrabble box hadn't floated in after me. I got up and stuck my head out of my room to see it hadn't moved. "What's the holdup?"
Cyril sounded flustered. "Stella, we can't—I'm sure you don't mean—it's just that—we couldn't—"
"Cyril?" I frowned. "What's wrong?"
A wave of coolness washed over me. I shivered in the doorway as Oliver's voice came from behind me. "He's nervous about coming into your bedroom."
I waved a hand dismissively. "It's fine. You've been invited."
Cyril's voice rose an octave, causing me to jump in surprise. "We are ghosts, not vampires! And men do not enter a woman's bedroom for...for...for fun and games!"
He let out a garbled mess of distressed words and sounds as Oliver snickered.
His voice rose another octave. "That's not what I meant!"
"It's just Scrabble," I said.
"It's improper!"
"Only if you spell bad words."
He let out another anguished cry of sounds too twisted to be words. Then he cleared his throat and tried again. "Why can't we play out here? At the dinning table?"
I waved over my shoulder. "Because the bed's in here."
Cyril spluttered out a word I couldn't make out because of Oliver's booming laughter.
"There are pillows and blankets. I'll be more comfortable on the bed," I said.
Oliver's hand came down on my shoulder, the tingling chill of it lingering. Laughter filled his voice. "This is priceless. We should have game night more often."
My eyes danced between the living room and my bedroom. Not that I could see anything—I hated that I couldn't see them. "I really don't understand the problem here."
"Yes," Oliver chimed in mischievously, "what does seem to be the problem here?"
"Nothing," Cyril snapped. He took in an audible breath. "I'm coming."
The Scrabble box didn't move.
Sighing, I went and took it from him. "Cyril, it's fine. You've been in my bedroom before."
"Really?" Oliver chuckled. "Do pray tell, Cyril."
"Those-those were different," Cyril protested. "You were oversleeping, and would therefore be late for your work, and I only stepped in long enough to wake you, and I left quickly afterward, and the other times you—"
"Cyril," I interrupted, holding up a hand to silence him. "Get in my bedroom now."
Oliver chuckled as I spun on my heel and marched into my bedroom. I began setting the board up on my nicely made bed, putting it in the exact center and giving them plenty of space to sit around the edge. Not that they really needed it. But I thought they might appreciate the gesture.
I figured Cyril had finally braved the perils of entering my room when Oliver snickered again. "Glad to see you made it."
"Oh shut it," Cyril snapped, causing Oliver to laugh uncontrollably again.
I smiled, relieved the strained atmosphere from last night wasn't holding a repeat performance. Finished setting up the last pieces of the game, I moved to be closer to the pizza box. "Have you two seen us play Scrabble before? Or do I need to go over the rules?"
"Not necessary," Cyril said, his voice coming from the corner of the room. "I am familiar with the rules."
"As am I," Oliver said thoughtfully. "Well then, ladies first, Stella?"
Holding a slice with one hand, I positioned my pieces on the board with the other. "B. O. O. K. Book."
Then we were off. Oliver went next, followed by Cyril, and then it was my turn again. And the lesson I learned that night? Do not play Scrabble with ghosts and expect to win. They've had years to build their vocabulary. Each game inevitably wound down to Cyril vs. Oliver, with me barely making a dent in their points. After a few games of this, I bowed out and just focused on keeping score.
That being said, it's rather entertaining to watch two ghosts play Scrabble with each other. The pieces move on their own and insults are hurled at nothing.
Oh, and I also learned that Cyril and Oliver can be quite competitive with one another.
I should have seen that coming. They were men, after all. But they really got into it. And I do mean they really got into it.
They were tied at three wins apiece when I started to feel drowsy. I leaned back against the pillows at the head of the bed to get more comfortable as they started.
I think I started losing track of their points halfway through that game.
But then the yelling jerked me awake.
"Of course we have to go again!"
I bolted upright, the notepad and pencil sliding from my lap and to the floor. Blinking, I looked around. But, of course, I couldn't see anything.
"You've woken her," Cyril said, that icy coolness back in his voice.
"You should have just done the damn rematch," Oliver snapped. The Scrabble tiles began to rattle. "You can't just leave off like that without giving me the chance to even the score."
"I told you we could do it later."
"We will do it now!"
The tiles rattled harder.
I slid my feet to the floor and stood. My eyes focused on the game pieces. "Guys, is everything ok?"
They stopped immediately.
Silence stretched.
"It's fine," Oliver snapped.
And a moment later, Cyril sighed. "He's left."
"What happened?"
"You'd fallen asleep," he whispered. "I merely suggested we postpone another game until later, to give you time to rest."
I looked toward my open bedroom door. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I shouldn't have suggested something competitive. "Sorry. I thought game night might be a good way for everyone to unwind a bit. I didn't mean to make things worse between you."
"There's no need for you to apologize. You've done nothing wrong—in fact, this suggestion and your motivations were thoughtful. Thank you for that."
"I didn't help though."
"You did help. And don't worry about Oliver; he'll be fine."
We both ignored the blatant lie he'djust told. And the uncertainty in histone.