6

I BEND AND FLEX MY LEGS to make sure they’re not still melting or whatever it is they did right before I was pulled into that memory. A sharp sting punctuates each movement, so I stop even though the numb tingling sensation spreading through my limbs doesn’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon. After a few labored blinks, my eyes slowly focus on the jagged line of the snow-covered riverbank below me. My feet are angled in first position—heels together, toes pointed out—making the tips of my Mary Janes hang over a broken, unguarded portion of the covered bridge.

How did I get up here?

That self-preserving instinct that should tell me to jump back to safety doesn’t kick in. Guess a ghost doesn’t need that instinct.

I run my hand over the cracked edges of the broken wood on either side of me, sliding through where splinters jut out. This must be where I fell. My eyes move to the river and the spot on the rocks where my body landed, then back to my feet. My shoes are scuffed and there’s a tear on one of the heels. I poke at the broken strap on my right shoe with my left toe. I’m surprised by how torn-up they look; they seemed in good enough condition when I put them on yesterday. The shadows shifting in gnarled patterns against the frozen water below impel my feet to scuffle farther over the edge.

For a moment, I try to remember what it felt like to fall from this height. Am I capable of such a drastic leap? A gust of wind jerks the yellow caution tape stretched across the broken rail back and forth with a clipped, harsh clap that snaps me out of my river-induced trance.

In a blink the damage to my shoes is gone, along with any insight about that night. Confusion and guilt from that last memory consume me. Why was I defending Caleb Turner? Bigger question: Why was I flirting with Caleb Turner? I have to be remembering wrong.

I want to believe that, but the subconscious doesn’t lie.

I force the Caleb-flirting memory away by swapping in memories of flirting with Ethan: mussing his hair so the spikes stuck out in a silly way, stealing his Doritos at lunch, nudging his shoulder as I passed his desk in Spanish.

Suddenly, I’m in his bedroom. I don’t know if it’s that ghost-a-porting thing I did earlier or if I merely ran so fast, so distractedly, that I arrived before I knew I’d left. Right now, I don’t care.

I spin around, scanning the room. His bed is empty, covers pulled to one side. His laptop sits unplugged on his desk. I can’t remember the last time I saw that thing powered down. The shirt he was wearing this morning is balled up on the floor next to his hamper. He’s not here.

I blow through the door, ignoring the weirdness of literally going through it, and go up the basement steps. The whole house is still. His parents must be asleep. I check the kitchen, then walk into the living room where his golden retriever is curled up on the floor next to the glass-topped coffee table.

“Where’s Ethan, Wendell?” I ask.

A faint rustling sound disturbs the quiet. Wendell tilts his head toward the hallway and whimpers. I rush to the noise—my feet moving impossibly fast—and halt in front of the den. The burgundy leather couch is covered with wrinkled flannel sheets. There are two empty glasses on the end table and a half-eaten plate of toast on the floor.

I pull my eyes away from the makeshift bed and see Ethan standing at the wall of built-in shelves. He’s holding a vinyl copy of In Rainbows in one hand; the other hand is hovering over the needle of his dad’s old record player. There’s a second of muffled scratches before the thrumming piano chords start.

The pulsing in my chest that’s stronger now that I’m near Ethan morphs into a pinching pain that causes tears to spring to my eyes. He’s staring at the album cover, tracing the lines of text like they’re the lyrics to the song. Our song. The slow, soothing rhythm fills the room and awakens months, years of kisses and touches and I love yous. They swirl around me, transporting me to the past, to my life.

Before I can think to fear the possibility of dissolving through him, I reach for his arm and sigh when the expected pain doesn’t come. Instead I feel revived and buzzing with warmth. My iridescent hand looks so unreal resting on his bicep. His shoulders tense and he reaches to lift the needle on the player, but something stops him.

“Cassidy.” His voice is so quiet I’m not sure I heard right. “Cassidy,” he says again.

I squeak out, “I’m here.” His face is turned away from me, jaw clenched like he’s holding back tears. There are so many things I want to say to him, to ask him, but I stay quiet because saying them to deaf ears seems like the saddest thing in the world—sadder than his breaking our promise and listening to our song without me.

He turns with a raised hand that knocks mine off his arm. I gasp, savoring the heated rush his touch ignites. He props his elbow on one of the shelves and lets his head crash into his palm. His face tilts toward mine, and I wish more than anything—even more than to be alive for real again—that he would kiss me. That I could feel his soft lips and taste the spearmint flavor of his breath. That this whole messed-up day has been a dream and I will be awakened by his kiss. I close my eyes, hoping, waiting …

“You’re dead.”

I open my eyes and the heat drains from me. Ethan’s backed into the corner with his fists pressed to his forehead.

Did I imagine touching him again?

“You’re not here. You’re dead.” He repeats it like a mantra.

“I am here, Ethan.” My voice catches.

He shakes his head and digs his fists in deeper. “Stop!” he yells. “I can’t—you can’t be here. It makes me … it means I’m … I’m hallucinating.”

I look over my shoulder to see who he’s talking to, but no one’s there. I stare at him until he looks up. “Ethan? Can you … can you see me?”

He slams the heel of his hand into the wall. “Stop that!”

I look around the rustic den to see if maybe Wendell has wandered in. He hasn’t. I walk toward Ethan with slow, measured steps. “Who are you talking to?”

His umber eyes lock steady on mine even though the rest of his body is trembling. He answers firmly, “You.”

My mouth drops open and I freeze midstep. He’s not supposed to answer me. I’m supposed to be invisible. I stare unblinking for what feels like an eternity.

He coughs a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “I’m crazy, straight-up certifiable.”

“No.” My arms ache to reach out to him, but I don’t dare. “I—I’m real … ish.”

He narrows his eyes at me. His trembling lessens. “I don’t believe you. My mind created you because I miss you too much.”

“No, Ethan, I’m here.” His thick eyebrows scrunch into a tense line. “Okay,” I continue, “tell me to do something.”

“What?”

“If I’m a figment of your imagination”—I stumble over the words—“you’d be able to control me, right? So tell me to do something.”

He thinks a minute. “Levitate.”

“Something I can do,” I harrumph.

He takes another minute. “Sing the school fight song.”

A sob-laugh bursts from my mouth. I shake my head. “Uh-uh. You know I despise all fight songs on principle.”

“Holy crap.” He backs away from me with one shoulder anchored to the wall and stumbles onto the couch. “How … is this possible? You … I touched you—you touched me!”

I reach for him but his stunned expression stops me.

His eyes roll up and down my form, deciding whether he believes what he sees. He leans forward, rubbing the sides of his face. “How?”

“You’re the only person who can see me. I’ve been home and to the morgue. I saw Aimée and Madison. No one noticed me. Only you.”

“You were at the morgue?” There is so much pain in his voice—pain that I caused.

“I didn’t mean to…”

He looks at me with an unreadable expression. “Mean to what? A lot went down last night. Might want to be more specific.” I cringe at his gruff tone.

“You’re mad at me.” He was. I remember that. At the party, we fought. But what about?

“Does that matter anymore?” Neither of us says anything for a long time, and the melody of our song fills the space between us. “Why didn’t you stay with your body?” he finally asks.

I meet his eyes and the only thing I want to say is I came back to be with you, I stayed for you. But I have no friggin’ clue why I stepped out of my body, and lying to him seems impossible.

I drop my head and see his toes curled into the plush taupe carpet. His feet are bare. I wonder if he’s cold. For once, I don’t feel cold, not around him.

I take a tentative step closer as he opens his mouth to say something.

“Ethan, sweetie, are you still awake?” Ethan’s mouth snaps shut at the sound of his mom’s voice. He throws me a frantic look, then rushes out of the den.

I hear his mom tell him he looks tired and that he should try to sleep in his own bed. Mrs. Keys is one of those concerned moms who are always worried her kid isn’t getting enough of some random vitamin she read about. My mom used to be like that. Lately she hasn’t been home enough to notice my vitamin consumption or much of anything else.

I wait a few minutes after the door to his parents’ bedroom clicks shut, then slowly step into the hall. Ethan’s leaning against the wall at the far end near the kitchen with his arms and legs crossed.

“So … you’re a … ghost?” He tests out the word.

I don’t answer. What do you say to that?

He squints at me like I’m a really faraway billboard he’s trying to read. “If you don’t say something I’m going to assume you’re not real.”

“I am real, Ethan.” My voice comes out a whisper.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” he mutters. “You were in my bedroom this morning, right?” I nod. “I thought I was—”

“Hallucinating,” I finish.

“Yeah. Still kinda do.” His expression turns curious, and he slowly strides toward me. He reaches out a cautious hand and gently grazes my cheekbone with his fingertips. A warm sensation spreads through me and over to him. I can see it in the way his muscles respond. He feels it too.

He exhales a long breath. “You are real.”

I lift my head to meet his eyes because I’m not sure if the my-girlfriend-is-a-ghost realization has freaked him out more or calmed him down. We gaze silently at each other for an immeasurable, amount of time. I’m afraid to speak, worried I’ll break the spell. His warm fingers explore my collarbone and neck as he leans closer.

I want to close my eyes, lean in to him, and kiss him like it’s the first time, but my eyes won’t obey. They drink him in: the slight peach coloring under his sun-kissed complexion, the square line of his chin, the deep tawny color of his eyes that picks up the golden highlights in his brown hair. There’s a subtle change in the set of his jaw and he blinks, dissolving the moment.

“This is incredible. I thought I was never going to see you again and now after everything…” He backs away. “I must be going crazy.”

“You’re not crazy. I mean this”—I gesture to my iridescent body—“being a ghost is crazy, but it’s not in your head.”

“Says the apparition that only I can see.”

I start to laugh. There is absolutely nothing funny about this, but I can’t hold it in. I’m too relieved that he can see me to worry about whether my reaction is appropriate. I place my hand over my mouth. When I look at Ethan again he starts laughing too. We yuk it up for a few seconds, but the silence hangs heavy once we stop. The pulsing in my chest picks up pace. I press my hand over the spot that echoes the beat of my long-gone heart.

“Why are you here?” he whispers.

“I don’t know.” I look away from him because he deserves a better answer than that, but I don’t have it. “Do you know”—my voice wavers—“what happened to me?”

“I wasn’t on the bridge when you fell, Cassi.”

“Who was?” I ask eagerly.

His voice hardens. “You tell me.”

“I … I can’t … I don’t.…”

“You don’t remember?”

I shake my head. Ethan peers skeptically at me. He used to believe everything I told him, no question. What changed?

“Why—” I start to ask about the argument I vaguely remember having with him less than twenty-four hours ago but I chicken out. No matter how much I want to know, the prospect of the answer terrifies me. “Why are you sleeping in the den?”

“You.” His expression shifts and his mouth inches up into a rueful smile. “I kind of thought you were haunting my bedroom.”

I open my mouth to tell him I’d thought the same thing, but another thought strikes me. “Do I have a reason to haunt you?”

The look in his eyes makes me instantly regret asking. “You think I…?”

I slump to the floor a few feet away from him with a sigh. “I have no idea what to think, Ethan. I don’t even know how I died, and now I’m back and no one can see me but you. There has to be a reason I’m here otherwise it’s a massive waste of cosmic energy.” I push my hands through my hair, gripping at the roots. “I wish I could remember.”

“Why’d you do it?” he asks.

“Do what?” I meet his eyes. Does he think I jumped on purpose too?

He opens and shuts his mouth like he’s not sure what to say. “Why’d you go to the bridge?”

I want so badly to answer his question, do whatever I can to make this easier for him, but I don’t have any answers. I’m so overwhelmed by his question and by the lingering heat of his touch, that tears fill my eyes.

His face gets steely for a moment, but it doesn’t last. “Don’t cry.”

It’s an impossible request. My emotions are in overdrive. Fear and sadness and relief and confusion and guilt clash in a postmortem mess.

“Cassi, please.”

A new round of tears falls. He’s the only person who calls me Cassi.

“Please don’t. It makes this so much harder. Don’t…” He kneels in front of me and captures my face in his hands. I’m not sure, but I think I hear him murmur, “Go.”

Don’t go.

He inches closer—impossibly closer. His breath, warm on my lips, stirs up whispers of kisses that will live forever in my memory. As his hands slip from my skin, the warmth ebbs and murky river water drips down my sides pooling in my shoes.

No, no, no! Not now.

I get to my feet and step away from Ethan before the water can overflow onto him. I’m scooping up handfuls and tossing them away, but the flow gains and gains until I’m so drenched I can’t feel the cold anymore.

Stay, I tell myself. Stay with Ethan.

I strain to see him through the deluge, but it’s too late. I’m already gone.