THATCHER’S GIFT TO ME cost him. His energy is almost depleted as he leads me through a portal to my prism. But I don’t feel tired—I feel full and vital.
And guilty.
What I shared with Thatcher was deeper than anything I ever shared with Nick. Nick and I had fun. We sought thrills, we laughed, we joked, we made out. I love him. I don’t doubt that, but what I feel for Thatcher is a whole different level. Maybe it’s the plane we’re on, maybe it’s because we’re no longer alive so we don’t have all our other senses to rely on, to give us the physical complements that I had with Nick, so we have to go deeper for a connection. I can’t believe how much I care about Thatcher.
I still have feelings for Nick, but I have to let him go.
I’m incredibly aware now that bringing peace to those I love will mean leaving Thatcher. I’m filled with contradictory desires. I want to help the people who mean everything to me while finding a way not to leave Thatcher alone. Once my goal was to find a way to stay on Earth. I couldn’t bear the thought of being without Nick, Carson, my father.
But I know they’re suffering. I have to ease their pain. Especially Nick’s.
Nick was the love of my life. Thatcher is the . . . I don’t think I’m ready to admit that he’s the love of my death, but he’s very important to me. While I know he doesn’t want me haunting by myself, the things I need to say to Nick, the way I need to connect with him in order to let him go—
I can’t do that with Thatcher watching over my shoulder. I don’t recall ever seeing Ella with a Guide, so once we learn how to haunt, like riding a bicycle, the training wheels must come off. And Thatcher taught me what I need to do—with my dad, he showed me how to bring the sense of peace not only to the person I love, but to myself.
I can do this. I need to do this. And I need to do it alone.
I pace the floor, concentrating on the images of Nick that now haunt me—the empty bottle, the bitterness on his face, the way he talked to Carson. I have to see him.
I won’t do anything crazy, I reason. I’ll just test things out a little bit, decide for myself how I can best haunt Nick. Thatcher has given me faith in the unconscious process by letting me see my father. And being with Reena and Leo and the others—well, they’ve shown me things, too. I know so much about how everything works now—I understand more. I can reach Nick this time, surely, one way or another.
When I step through my portal, I have to let my eyes adjust. It’s getting dark outside, but I can hear leaves under my feet as I step along an uneven path—I seem to be in the woods. When my view sharpens, I recognize that I’m near Cotter’s Pond, a little body of water in Nick’s neighborhood.
I blink a few times before I see his rumpled form on the ground, leaning against a tree trunk. I move closer to him, relieved that his chest is rising and falling.
I crouch down next to him and his eyes snap open. He flips on a flashlight.
“Nick,” I whisper.
He doesn’t react to my voice but he slowly stands up, stretches his arms over his head and yawns. The corner of his gray T-shirt pulls up and exposes the left side of his stomach. Before I can stop myself, I’m standing, too, reaching over to touch his waist, to skim my fingers over his skin. And I remember so well how his body felt, how soft his skin was in all the right places, the little bit of hair on his stomach, how warm his chest was against mine, that I do make a connection—I touch him.
In that moment, emotions rush at me, flooding my heart with a surge of adrenaline and wistfulness and passion. I want to linger here, to put the world on pause, to stay frozen in our skin-on-skin contact. I didn’t know how delicate this type of moment was until it was gone and I had to fight so hard for each one.
And I realize that I’ll never know what Thatcher’s skin feels like. I’ll never have with him what I had with Nick. Part of me is clinging to the past and part of me wants to consider the future.
Nick flinches, looking spooked.
Come to think of it, spooked is the perfect word for his expression. My heart drops—I felt everything; I felt my love for him.
And he felt afraid.
“Nick,” I whisper.
He doesn’t realize that I’m here. I hear Thatcher’s voice echoing in my head, telling me that touching is the wrong way to haunt, a poltergeist’s mistake.
Nick brushes the dirt off his jeans and kicks a couple of beer cans at his feet.
I want to scream at him: This is not you.
We had an amazing kiss in these woods, when he took me for a walk one Saturday afternoon. I was the one who made it happen. He reached out for my hand to help me over a fallen branch, and I took it and pulled him close to me. His lips tasted like peppermint. I could feel his grin as we kissed in the late-afternoon sun. And when we finally parted, he said, “Thank God. I was waiting for that all day.”
I smile just remembering it, but this scene looks nothing like that one. Nick is sad and stumbling, surrounded by empty cans and the stink of a life unraveling. Because of me.
His phone buzzes and I look over his shoulder as he checks the text.
It’s from Austin Getts, a guy we’ve never really hung out with. He’s kind of a stoner. “McCann’s in 30 mins,” it says.
Tim McCann throws legendary parties. The big-house-on-the-hill, teen-movie-worthy kind.
When Nick bends down to pick up his empty six-pack, I’m grateful that he’s enough himself not to leave trash in the woods. But I’m still worried as he begins to head back to his car. And I’m determined not to leave his side tonight, not until I bring him peace. Until I let him go.
As Nick gets into his Camry, I pass through the door and slide into the passenger seat. “Nick, call someone to come get you. You’ve had too much to drink.”
He looks in my direction, and for a split second, I think maybe he’s heard me. But then he reaches through me toward the glove compartment. Energy ripples between us, like when you’re in a pool and someone swims by you and stirs up the water, but Nick doesn’t notice my presence. He grabs his iPod plug-in and sets it up, choosing Neutral Milk Hotel. Then we back up out of the driveway.
“Nick, please.” To my surprise, he’s driving straight, so maybe he hasn’t had that much to drink. Still, he shouldn’t be on the road. Maybe if I can reach him, he’ll pull over.
“Since when do you meet Austin Getts at a party?” I ask.
No answer.
“You look good,” I say. “Your hair’s getting longer.”
His eyes narrowing like he’s concentrating, Nick stares straight ahead at the road.
“I thought you didn’t like your hair long in the summer—last year you said it made your neck too hot.” An image flashes through my mind: I’m pushing aside the fringe of Nick’s hair, when it was getting long, to kiss the back of his neck. We were down by the docks last summer, and his skin was tan from the sun—it tasted like salt water because of the breeze. The way he looked at me that day, it made me feel powerful and wanted and loved—because this was my Nick, and I knew that he felt it, too. The way we belonged together. The way we just fit.
But we don’t fit anymore. I think of Thatcher. I have memories of him now. Not as many, but they’re still strong and vivid. I’m trapped between two worlds.
Tears start to sting the corners of my eyes. I have to let this one go. I have to let Nick go.
I stare at the dashboard for a minute while “In the Aeroplane over the Sea” plays. I think about the texts that I saw in Nick’s room, and I wonder again what they meant. What secrets did Nick have from me?
That doesn’t matter now, I tell myself. I have to pull it together and make this haunting work.
Some part of me wants to ignore the fact that I’m the dead girl in the front seat; I want to believe that I’m sitting here with my boyfriend on the way to a party. But he’s not acting like my Nick at all. I study his face, trying to see what’s changed. His eyes are more sunken and his skin is sallow. He’s grieving, I remind myself, but it’s more than that.
It’s so quiet in the car, the silence thick and heavy. Nick reaches into the center console and pulls out a small bottle of Jameson, like those little ones on planes. At the stop sign near Tim’s neighborhood, he unscrews the tiny cap and drinks it down in two gulps.
“What’s happening to you?” I ask him, my voice quiet.
His eyes are glassy, and if I thought there was a chance he’d realize I’m here, it’s wiped away now. He’s not in tune with anything around him, let alone the ghost of his dead girlfriend in the passenger seat.
When we pull into the giant circular driveway, I see that there are already dozens of cars parked haphazardly on the sprawling lawn.
I follow Nick to the front door and enter my first postmortem social gathering.
The grand, sweeping staircase is already littered with teetering underclassmen who sit along its steps, stare out into the grand foyer, and watch the jocks funnel beer over the marble floor.
“I’m open!” shouts Nick as he walks into the fray and grabs the funnel-and-tube contraption from a wobbly Rich Langley.
And then sweet, not-a-big-drinker Nick holds the tube above his mouth and funnels the can of beer that the soccer boys pour into his throat without spilling a drop.
“Yeah, Fisher!” they shout, clapping him on the back.
Who is Nick becoming?
Shaking my head, I follow him into the kitchen. This is the kind of party where Carson and I definitely would have made an appearance, if only to gossip about people later. The short skirts and the long, blown-out hair all swirl together as I move through the house. I hear Leila Donninger fake-laughing at Mike Rutiglia’s bad joke, and the shrill sound hurts my ears. Faces rush past me with caked-on sparkle, making pink cheeks shine with cheer even as black-rimmed eyes betray darker emotions.
Most people seem to avoid the spot where I’m standing, maybe by instinct or some unseen energy that I’m holding here, but others stumble right through me. When they do, I feel a slight tingle, soft and barely perceptible. I know the Living feel nothing—they don’t pause or even change expression—and I’m aware again of my complete invisibility, my nothingness to them.
Danny Boyster pushes by Gina O’Neill, and I watch her face fall as he sidles up to Morgan Jackson, who’s wearing a pink halter top with a low, sequined neckline that shows off her huge chest. The halter top is tucked into a tiny white skirt that would prompt Carson to say, “Pull that down before someone sees Christmas!” because it comes just under the curve of her behind. She grins and brushes against Danny while Gina turns away and flashes a bright smile in the other direction—but her watery eyes tell another story. I hear her whisper, “Morgan is such a slut,” to Molly Raider, but the pain of rejection in her voice is obvious.
Everyone seems nervous, on edge, somehow more desperate than I remember. I wonder if that’s because I’m watching them from the outside. Did I use to be like this? It all looks like such a waste of energy to me now.
I realize that getting caught up in Gina’s drama made me lose track of Nick, and I do a quick walk-through of the living room again before I wander upstairs to try to find him. In the second-floor hallway there’s a line for the bathroom because Tim is stingy about that—he lets partygoers use only one bathroom, even though the house has, like, six.
I pass through a door into an empty room with a four-poster bed and ivory crown molding. I imagine it’s called “The Peach Room” because all the walls have a pink-orange glow.
Then I hear the toilet flush and a door open, and I realize that there’s a connecting bathroom here and someone’s been smart enough to find it.
I peek around the corner and watch as my best friend leans toward the mirror and reapplies her favorite lipstick—Chanel’s Muse—with a deft hand.
“Carson.”
Her glossy brown hair is pulled back into a purposefully messy updo and lined with fish-tail braids. She’s wearing a strapless seersucker dress and white sling-back Tory Burch sandals—her tan shoulders and browned legs seem to glow against the pale colors of her outfit. She looks so pretty.
Smiling at her reflection, she blots her lips with toilet paper. Jessica Furlow is in here, too—she and Carson go to youth group together.
“Thanks for making me get out of my house,” says Carson.
“It’s good for you,” Jessica says, and I feel a pang of regret that I’m the reason Carson isn’t living her normal life. I have to admit that there’s also a pinch of jealousy—Jessica can help her move on from losing me.
“This is good for you, too.” Jessica smiles as she hands Carson a bottle of Miller High Life, and my best friend hesitates for just a second before she throws her head back and takes a swig. She coughs a little and says, “I don’t even like it much.”
I smile. So Carson.
“You’ll get used to it,” says Jessica, which kind of annoys me. But I’m not here to begrudge Carson a drink after she’s lost her best friend—me.
I follow them out into the peach room, and then back to the main throng of the party. Jessica stops to talk to someone, but Carson walks gracefully down the stairs, around the girls who line the steps. She smiles at their compliments on her ensemble with signature sweetness. “Aw, y’all are so nice! Thank yooou!” I can tell by her tone that she’s a teensy bit drunk. The swig she took upstairs was apparently not her first.
When Carson wanders into the kitchen, she takes in the scene without breaking her stride. There’s a tray of Jell-O shots, and Austin Getts is mixing brownie batter with some of his friends. They’re laughing hysterically, and I know that if I were alive, I’d be able to smell the pot that they mixed into the batter.
“Hey, Fisher!” Austin shouts. “We’re about to bake, man.”
He puts down the bowl and moves to the sliding glass door next to the kitchen, opening it a crack. Then he starts chuckling and comes back inside.
“Fisher’s already wasted,” he says.
Carson balls her hands into fists and marches outside. I’m right behind her.
“Nicholas Fisher!” she shouts, and it’s her no-nonsense voice—the one that could snap me to attention almost as quickly as one of my father’s military-style commands. Nick’s condition has obviously served to sober her up.
“Hey, Cars,” Nick slurs. “Come have a drink with us.” He has his arm around Gina O’Neill, which makes me stop for a moment, frozen in the doorway. But he’s drunk. He’s just being friendly. Nick holds out a red plastic cup, his hand wobbling back and forth.
“You must be out of your mind,” she says, walking closer to him.
“Aw, don’t be pissy just because that little séance of yours didn’t work,” he says.
Carson rolls her eyes. Then she leans back, like a wave has hit her. “You reek! How much have you had?”
Nick looks up at the sky like the answer to her question is out there in the darkness. “Let’s see,” he says, letting go of Gina as he counts on his fingers. “I think I had three beers at home and then something in the car. . . . And I’m pretty sure this is my third round of jungle juice so . . . seven?”
He lets out a loud, sloppy laugh and starts to reel forward. As Gina steps away, Carson moves in and holds him up, draping his arm around her shoulder.
I cringe, hating to see Nick like this.
“Good Lord, you’re trashed!” Carson is staring at Nick angrily, and her fish-tail braids are loose with undone pieces now. “What is the matter with you?”
Nick lets out a burp in Carson’s face, and she fans her hand in front of her nose.
“Gross,” she says. “Do you think Callie would want to see you like this?”
I see Gina flinch. Good. Part of me is happy that Carson mentioned me, that I’m still there with them somehow, even if it’s just in their memories. But another part of me is just plain worried. I mean, we all started drinking last year, but just for fun, just to get a little buzzed. Nick is drinking alone now, I know, and getting completely plastered at this party. Everyone else seems to think that’s fine, and I feel a rush of affection for Carson, who knows this is not okay, that this isn’t Nick.
“Wake up!” she shouts, slapping Nick on the arm as his eyes droop closed.
He opens his eyes wide and says, “I’d give anything if you’d just shut up.” Then his head tips forward and his body follows—I try to reach out, to summon enough energy to catch him, but he falls right through my arms, crashing to the deck as he blacks out.