Page 52 of The Narrow

“You’re... unexpected,” I say, searching for the right word. “It’s like... everyone learns the rhythm of things. Like learning how to walk. Once you learn how to do it you don’t have to think about it anymore. So you can walk without paying attention. And it’s the same way with talking to people. Most people go through the motions for most of the day. But you do everything deliberately. You think about it. It makes me feel like I know you, the real you. Even when you’re lying.”

“I don’t lie to you,” she says. It feels like a kind of confession itself.

“You never promised to tell me the truth.”

Her look is still intent, still one of deep focus and attention.Shedoesn’t let a single moment slide by lightly. She lives every one of them. “I mean, I never decided not to lie to you. It just happened. I wanted you to know who I was. More than anything, that’s what I wanted. And so every time I thought about lying, I didn’t, because then you’d know some other version of me. A fake version.”

“There’s nothing but fake versions of me,” I say. I look away. “I lie to everyone.”

“Except me,” she says.

“Except you,” I acknowledge.

“Then this is our truth,” she says. She reaches up, trails her fingertips along my jaw. Like everything she does, it’s slow, deliberate. So that there’s no chance at all to imagine it’s anything but intentional. That it means anything other than what it does. “I think I would like that.”

“Like what?” I ask. Not because I don’t know, but because I need to be sure.

“You, kissing me,” she replies.

I would. I would kiss her right now and run my hand through her hair and be surprised at how short it is. I would taste her lips and know that I am getting that bright red lipstick on mine and not care. I would breathe in the soft scent of her and feel her hands on my neck, my waist, my cheek—

But the door at the bottom of the stairs opens.

“My mother,” she says with a grimace. “We were going to spend the morning together after she got breakfast.” Her hand escapes mine and she stands, smoothing her uniform skirt, not looking at me.

I sit there with my heart beating fast and my mouth dry and wish I hadn’t wasted those extra ten seconds. “I should probably get to class anyway,” I say. Clear my throat. Stand. “I’ll see you later, Delphine.”

“Del,” she says. “You called me Del earlier. I like it. I think I’d like it if you called me that.”

“Del,” I repeat.

She darts toward me. Her kiss catches the corner of my mouth—not a proper kiss, just a farewell between friends, but it’s enough. For now, it’s enough.

“I’ll see you soon,” she says. It sounds like a promise.

“See you soon, Del.”

18

IT SHOULD FEELstrange to go back to normal life after what happened—the ghost and the almost-kiss, which between the two of them take up just about every available brain cell. But it turns out to feel more familiar than anything. I make the right expressions and say the right words and don’t tell anyone about the memories that consume me.

There doesn’t turn out to be much chance to see Delphine—Del. Not alone, at least. Her mother is always with her, or I’m in class. Or looking for Grace.

I sit each night on the steps out front, waiting well past dark. But it doesn’t rain, and the nights stay cool, clear, and quiet. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or grateful that Maeve does not reappear.

As for Grace, she felt more real when I thought she was a ghost. It’s strange that someone could leave so little evidence behind when they’re gone. She lived before the internet, before socialmedia and camera phones. There is no digital fingerprint to follow, and I find her family only in obituaries. Lives ended early—disease, accident, suicide. It’s as if her family was cursed. Once, I glimpse Grace herself. It’s a photograph from her aunt’s obituary, in which the older woman sits with a young girl on a bench, surrounded by a profusion of flowers. The caption readsMarian and her niece, Grace.Grace looks about nine years old and bashful. Strange to think that in less than a decade, both of them were dead.

My one bit of luck comes when I’m looking through archival photos from the country club where Grace’s family were members—the club had conveniently uploaded its archives online. Grace’s parents feature in a number of the photos. Her siblings appear in only a handful, but in one, a young man is sitting next to Grace’s sister Elizabeth. He has one of those long, narrow faces that always make their owners look like mourners or jokesters, and he’s definitely the latter. He has his hand resting ever so subtly on the back of Elizabeth’s chair, and she’s looking over at him with a smirk.

I know that smirk. And I know the puppy-dog look he’s giving her, too. I’d bet anything he’s her boyfriend.

His name is Jack Elliott. And two minutes later, I’ve found Grace’s last living relative. Elizabeth Elliott is still alive, now in her fifties and living in San Francisco, where she works as a graphic designer. Jack went into sales and wrote two thrillers in the nineties, though nothing since.

Elizabeth Elliott has a website. And it lists an email.

Sitting in my bed with my laptop balanced on my knees, I type out a hasty message, my hands shaking.

Hi—

---