The Ghost
A ghost story about the scariest thing that can happen to a girl (being ghosted by an older man from Hinge)
By the time the paramedics arrived, he was almost dead.
Blood on black leather. Moonlight on crushed metal. Sweat. Smoke. Petrol mingling like bad perfume in the September night.
He tried praying to God. He tried thinking pure thoughts. He tried. He tried. He pictured the girl with the bleached blonde hair.
Nick tasted like red wine, the kind we’d been eagerly necking at the bar down the road. I didn’t like red wine much. I preferred vodka and coke, but I wanted him to think I was grown up, so I swallowed it down until my cheeks were flushed and the evening blurred a little around the edges.
He kissed me like he was using his tongue to look for something inside my mouth, but I didn’t mind. Because all this — the wine, the kiss — made the alleyway feel like the centre of the universe. Like we would turn the corner and stumble onto something beautiful like the Trevi Fountain or the Notre Dame, not the dull suburban street my parents lived on.
I remember thinking then that I was falling in love. I decided this was good for two reasons:
1. I had never been in love before.
2. I could invite him to my party next weekend and introduce him to all my friends, proving to myself and everyone else that I was, in fact, not destined to die alone. Quite the opposite. Not only could I attract a man, I could attract an older one who — even with all his life experience — thought I was cool and clever and interesting enough to keep around.
When he slipped his hand up my skirt, it crossed my mind that this would be the first orgasm from someone I actually loved. This was thrilling, despite not being particularly subversive.
I wouldn’t tell him I loved him yet. I wouldn’t be clingy or intense otherwise he would think I was a silly little girl, not a sophisticated woman who drank red wine and let him finger her in alleyways.
As we lay in bed later, my heart pounded and I was scared he would hear it — even though part of me wanted him to. Part of me wanted him to know everything. I wanted someone to know me so completely and still want me anyway. Instead, I got compliments and forehead kisses and waited for those three words that never came. Nick turned his old hand over in mine. He said he wanted to take me to the blue lagoon in Iceland, and I believed him.
“This was nice,” he said, his hand on my waist as we stood in the doorway of my parents’ house saying goodbye. “Let’s do it again soon.” He kissed my forehead. He closed the front door.
That was the last time I saw him.
Sometimes I can still feel his fingerprints in the small of my back. When I stand on the same spot by the door. Or when I toss and turn in my empty bed and remember what it felt like for him to fuck me.
I lie awake drafting the scathing text I will send him four weeks from now before I block him for good. I will call him an immature piece of shit. I will say no wonder women his own age don’t want him. I will call him a fucking loser.
Once I have worked my way through a colourful index of insults, I think of what I’ll do if he replies. Perhaps work has been really busy, or he lost his phone, or someone died. He will beg for my forgiveness. He will show up at my front door with a bunch of roses from Marks & Spencer. I will pretend to be mad. I will say how dare he treat me like that. I will make him think he’s lost me for good. But I won’t be able to hide my smile. I will be kind and understanding like the perfect girlfriend and then we will joke about it all and make love madly while my parents are out at work.
I had considered cancelling the party altogether. What use was a party amongst all this mess? I had wanted to draw the blinds and refuse to eat and write terrible poetry for my close friends Instagram story. But by the time this morning arrived, the night had an inevitable weight to it. In every universe, there was always going to be a party tonight. It was as though the gods themselves had willed it.
After all, this party is happening in that fortuitous window where I’m allowed to be as reckless as I want because I’m heartbroken. Tonight will be a purification, a baptism of sorts.
My phone buzzes and I reach for it straight away, misplaced hope still beating its wings inside my chest. That familiar adrenaline rush each time the screen lights up. But it’s always an email, a group chat, or the bank telling me I’ve gone into my overdraft again.
I fight back the urge to reach out to Nick again. I’ve already triple texted, and Kate said I should have never messaged him at all. She said it’s better to let men come to you. She said you should never pay or plan a date. You should wait for them to make the first move. Every time. But I didn’t buy into all that TikTok ‘feminine energy’ bullshit.
The message on my phone says; What’s your address? Friends on their way to the party. My party. The one I’m throwing just because I can. Because, unlike Nick, I’m still in my 20s. I can still party every weekend if I want to. I am so young and so hot and so free.
I traipse to the shower, queuing the few songs on my party playlist that decisively aren’t about love but about parties and drugs and sickening, sparkly don’t-need-a-man girl power. Afterwards, I smudge silver glitter across my eyelids and apply a slick of black eye liner. I unearth a small Ziplock bag from my bedside drawer, dig a key into it then sniff.
I look in the mirror to check for powder around my nose. I’ve seriously never looked better. If Nick saw me now, he wouldn’t be able to resist. I imagine him showing up tonight and begging me to take him back. I think about ignoring him from across the room. I think about getting off with one of my friends to make him jealous.
There are no wrinkles on my face yet, but I can picture where they will stake their claim in a few years’ time. I raise my eyebrows and give a big smile. I think about getting preventative Botox. One day those lines will be permanent. One day I will be Nick’s age and men in their 40s will still date women in their 20s. And I will know that I have been complicit in it all. Did the guilt belong to me or to him?
I had often wondered who the fool would be. The whole sordid thing was pre-destined for embarrassment. Either he was the sleazy old man using me for my body and stealing my youth or I was the gold-digger with daddy issues.
In the eyes of the world, I would always be the young, naïve fool or the malicious, materialistic whore. Which one am I really? Well, it depends on the day of the week. I fake the big smile I will give guests at the front door.
My phone vibrates again and my heart skips.
