But Clyde wasn’t letting go. Yet he appeared neither angry nor even a little frustrated. His quiet urgency set the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. “No, that’s exactly what it is. If you live the rest of your Friday nights at home on your bed with your dogs, watching Ghost Whisperer in that ratty bathrobe, it’s a much safer bet you won’t meet someone who thinks you’re a kook. It’s easier. But I’m here to tell you, Ghost Whisperer will be canceled someday. I know that offends your sensibilities, but even J-Love won’t be around forever. You can either replace it with some other show, or you can go out and get a life. Getting a life is a lot harder than finding something new to watch on TV. It’s work.”
She was aghast, but it didn’t keep her from defending her position. “When prospective dates think you’re crazy, when even the average female you meet at the gym finds out you think you see ghosts, shit changes. Save the speech.”
“Know what I did when you went to help that customer today while we were surfing the Net?” The smug look he gave her, right there in the middle of the sidewalk, said he’d found some fact about something he could throw at her like a fastball to back up his new life plan for her.
Delaney stuck her neck out while she shook her head. “No, Clyde, what did you do? Absorb a class in psychiatry at the speed of light so you could tell me what’s wrong with me?” She chose not to hide the sarcasm in her tone this time. In fact, she let it drip right off her words and into the space between them like puddles of melting hot chocolate on ice cream.
But he smiled wider. “Nope. I searched mediums, and forums for mediums. I’m laying bets there’s plenty of them out there. Mediums, that is. People who feel just like you do. People who have the same sorts of social problems you experience because ghosts show up at inopportune times. Don’t think you’re all that special, Delaney. You’re not the only woman with a burden to bear. Maybe you should get over yourself.”
Get over herself? Get. Over. Herself. Easy for him to say. Red flooded her cheeks and fire raced along her neck in a flush of color. “I never said I was special, demon. I said it was hard to meet people. And hey, Mr. Supernatural—why don’t you saunter up to someone and tell them you’re a real, live demon? See how well that goes down. And P.S., over ninety percent of those people you found online are all full of shit. I’ve seen some fruit loops in my time, and they don’t even see their own shadows, let alone the spirits.” She’d been to some of those forums and discovered the real shysters. She was accused of being one all the time, and yeah, it had put her off most of the human race. So the fuck what.
Clamping his hands on her shoulders, Clyde forced her to look him in the eye, and he wasn’t smiling anymore—he was intent. “Then that leaves ten percent who aren’t full of shit. Go figure. But you wouldn’t know that because you won’t even give it a chance. Why couldn’t one of those people be someone you spend some time with? Get to know. Have some goat cheese with? Get off your ass and try.”
“I hate goat cheese.” Which was a lovely defense and totally not true.
Clyde shook his head with a firm not-buying-it. “No, you hate rejection and the smallest hint of it. You don’t do it because it’s the looking for what you want that you don’t want to do. So let’s say you hook up with someone—or a hundred someones and they all call you a kook. You didn’t lose a limb—it won’t kill you. It’s just words, Delaney. You’re not afraid of words, are you? You call me enough of them. But what if there’s just one someone in that bunch who doesn’t think you’re a nut? Imagine that . . .
“This isn’t about me lying to you. This is about me giving you some hard truths from a perspective you have to admit is pretty damned accurate. It’s about indulging in the possibility you’ll end up alone, and not only letting it happen but wallowing in it. It’s so much safer, but look where alone got me. I can’t even find my cold, dead body, and I have no one who’s alive to do it for me. Some would say that’s pretty pathetic. Is that what you want?”
Her eyes rolled, and her mouth opened. “I want you to get off my ass and stop projecting your postmortem introspections about how insulated your life was on me. My life isn’t anything like yours.” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gearing up for a good smackdown. He was rubbing her raw, and it was pissing her the fuck off.
“Because my introspection’s too close to home?”
“Because it’s a retarded comparison.”
“Because it’s a comparison that’s relevant.”
She finally shrugged his hands off her shoulders with a shake. “Why do you care how I end up, Clyde? What goddamned difference does it make to you if I end up in a rocking chair at a state-run nursing home and die with the title Crazy Dog Lady?”
“Because I like you. When you like someone, you want good things for them. See? That was easy to say. Now you say it, too. I—like—you—Clyde.”
Poof, her anger was gone. Just like that, and the bubble of a giggle formed in her throat. “No.”
“Then at least admit it was hasty to call me a liar, and answer the question. Am I right when I say you’re afraid to be shot down?”
She giggled without thinking, her anger ebbing. “Look, this blank you’ve drawn—or claim you’ve drawn—is pretty suspicious. If you were me, what would you think?”