"I was wrong before, Booth. You're not a fool."
Sally's voice was calm, but there was a glint in her eye that said she wasn't finished.
Christian leaned against a nearby brick wall, cigarette dangling from his fingers like it was holding him together.
"Appreciate the upgrade."
"You're a liar," she added.
"A clumsy one at that."
He gave a half-smile. "Story of my life."
Waking up in 1997 after living through 2017 didn't make sense to anyone, including him.
But his name was still Christian. Same as it ever was.
If he told someone the truth, they'd call it a B-movie plot. Hell, he wouldn't believe himself if he hadn't lived it.
Still, the reason Sally thought he was lying had nothing to do with time travel.
"I wasn't trying to deceive you," he said, eyes on her.
"I opened my eyes and saw this gorgeous stranger standing over me. I thought I'd died. That'd make anyone tongue-tied."
"So you're not a bungling liar. Just a bungling flirt," she said, unimpressed.
Caught between a grin and a grimace, Christian nodded.
"Can't argue with that."
He saw it then—a shimmer, faint but unmistakable. Spirit residue. Most people would've missed it.
Hell, most people couldn't see it. But Christian wasn't like most people.
He had what his old mentor called the Spirit Eyes, a trick he picked up during his time dabbling in things no one should ever touch.
That glow meant she'd been close to something ghostly. Recently.
To the average person, Sally was just a stunning blonde with sharp eyes. But to Christian, she looked like someone who'd been brushed by the dead.
That kind of residue didn't just happen. Something had left a mark on her—something from the other side.
It should've made him cautious. Instead, he felt something else: a spark of vindication. He'd been chasing this trail for years. And now, here she was—his first real lead.
Of course, he blew it.
He'd let too much slip. Mentioned ghosts hinted at things most people couldn't even dream of. He forgot that people weren't ready for that kind of talk, not even the ones with shadows clinging to them.
She laughed in disbelief, mocking him with her eyes. And really, who could blame her? If someone had come up to him rambling about spirits and glowing auras, he'd probably call the cops.
Christian let the sarcasm roll off.
"Since you've already seen through me, no point in pretending. Lovely lady, care to join me for a drink?"
Since she'd called him a liar, he figured he might as well lie with confidence.
Not that this was normal behavior for him. But then, nothing about this week was normal.
Sally hesitated. "This... alright," she said at last.
She didn't believe his ghost story. She didn't even like him. But she agreed, mostly out of politeness—or pity.
"You just woke up from a coma," she said.
"Is it wise to go drinking?"
"I've felt worse," he said.
"Could have a date with a dozen models tonight and I'd still be up for it."
She rolled her eyes. "You've got a different problem entirely—you don't even pretend to have manners."
"Even if you don't care about your health, at least care about your wallet. Call girls don't work for free."
Christian let out a low laugh. "Haven't had that experience… yet."
Then, mostly to himself, he muttered, "Damn. I've been holed up in the occult world too long. I don't even remember how to talk to women."
Sally waved him off. "If you don't care, why should I? There's a bar nearby. You're buying."
"No problem," he said, and meant it. After all these years, he was finally on to something real. He'd pay any price.
The place was called The Cider House. A dive with sticky floors and even stickier patrons.
Sally had gotten drunk there the night before, and apparently, that night was one for the books.
After a few tequila shots and a long silence, Christian lifted his glass.
"So, thanks to your setup, the director might have had quite an unusual encounter," he said.
"Should I call you Cupid, or just wickedly charming?"
Sally laughed. "If he turns out gay from the experience, he'll have a better career in fashion anyway."
Christian blinked. "That was... direct."
She shrugged. "I was a model once. I've seen worse."
He took a sip and studied her face. "So if you had the chance again, would you still turn down the director's offer?"
Sally didn't answer immediately. She swirled the wine in her glass, her expression darkening.
"Who knows?" she said.
"Give me another year of this going nowhere, and I might crawl back to him on my knees."
Christian didn't respond. He just looked away and muttered, mostly to himself, "This is Hollywood."
What really surprised him, though, was the part she hadn't shared yet.
"It's hard to believe someone like you considered suicide."
She went still.
"It's not just you. I didn't see it coming either," she said.
"I just wanted to drink. Blow off steam. But I went too far. When I woke up, they said I'd tried to off myself."
She laughed bitterly. "Honestly, I thought I'd wake up in a sleazy motel next to a stranger. That would've been the worst-case scenario."
Christian raised an eyebrow. "Depends. Was the stranger at least handsome?"
"At least you're consistent," she smirked.
"If you want to take me home from this bar, you'll need either good looks or Spider-Man's powers."
He chuckled. "Didn't peg you for a comic book fan."
"I'm not," she said quickly.
"Heard a director's adapting it. Figured I'd do my homework."
"So… you wanna play Mary Jane?"
She sipped her drink and gave a lazy smile. "If I get the lead, I'd strip naked and swing over the Brooklyn Bridge."
The booze made her bold. He respected that.
But part of him wondered how much of her recklessness was genuine—and how much of it came from whatever ghost had brushed up against her soul.
----------
"Merry Christmas," she said, holding a mug of eggnog and watching her parents with soft eyes. Her mother smiled. Her father held her mother's hand.
The warmth turned cold in an instant.
The eggnog turned to soap in her mouth.
Sally jerked upright in bed.
"Just a dream," she muttered.
But then—"where am I?"
Relief swept over her when she realized she was in her own room, her own bed. Alone.
She sighed, only to freeze.
"Wait. Where the hell are my clothes?"
She wasn't naked, but close enough. Her sleepwear was practically a memory from her modeling days.
"Sleeping Beauty's awake," a voice called from the doorway.
She turned sharply.
Christian stood there, shirtless, bandage still around his head.
"Your liquor tolerance is godawful. You cried, spit on me—hell of a night."
His voice blurred in her ears. Her pulse spiked.
She reached under the mattress.
Christian was still rambling.
"You somehow remembered your address. I dragged you home. My coat's ruined, by the way—"
He stopped. Saw the look in her eyes.
Saw the gun in her hand, pointed straight at his chest.
---
References-
The Cider House Rules - A novel written by John Irving was later adapted into a movie in 1999. (Features Sally)