Page 18 of Ghosted
“No, but actuallywhat the fuck?!”he yells from his rumpled position on my floor. The air drops in temperature until I lock my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. He sits up and scrambles away from my couch to the middle of my living area, passing through my coffee table while he does so. He stares up at me, panting hard.
“Okay, um… I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this, and I’m clearly messing it up. But you’ve, um… passed on,” I fumble out.
“What?”
“Like, you’ve gone over the rainbow bridge.” I make a rainbow motion with my hands to punctuate.
“Isn’t that for dogs?”
“Dead ones,” I say, nodding.
“Are you calling me a dog?”
“What? No! I swear I’m usually better at this. I’m so sorry, but you’re dead, Dean. You passed away sometime within the last three weeks,” I say, biting my lip against the urge to make more euphemisms.
He shakes his head in disbelief. “No, that can’t be right. I’mnot dead. I’m right here,” he says, pointing his thumb at his chest emphatically.
“Youare, but your body’s not,” I try to explain, feeling once again like I’m royally screwing this all up. He runs his long fingers through his hair and even slaps himself on the cheek a little, then raises an eyebrow at me. “Okay well, explain why you couldn’t grab my phone or sit on my couch then,” I say, exasperated at his stubbornness.
He opens his mouth to argue, but snaps it shut and works his jaw a few times. “I… I don’t know,” he says finally.
“Look, I know this must be hard to come to terms with. I’m sorry you’re learning this right now, and that I haven’t done a better job at breaking the news to you. I swear I’m not usually so bad at this,” I say quietly.
We sit in silence for a while, and I do my best to let him process. Hell,I’mtrying to process that he’s dead. I feel like an ass because I’ve been so mad at him for not messaging me back, but he’s obviously had other things going on. I try not to let the wave of grief overtake me. I only knew him for a short period before he passed, but he was truly such a cool and special person. It feels like a punch in the gut to know that none of his family or friends will ever get to see him again. A light snuffed out before the candle was even halfway burned.
He looks at his hands, turning them this way and that, and for the first time, I wonder if ghosts see the shimmering too. “I’m really dead, aren’t I?” he asks quietly. His gaze shifts to mine, and I can see the anguish and confusion written in his expression.
“You are,” I say, matching his tone. Pure honesty is usually the best protocol in these situations.
His form flickers in and out rapidly, and I feel the room dropa few degrees. Goosebumps texture my skin, and I rub my arms to keep warm. It takes a lot of energy to stay in a corporeal form, and he’s what I’ve previously deemed as a baby ghost—new to the world of haunts and existential dread. So his battery is fairly small right now. I’ll be surprised if he can stick around for more than a few more minutes. With that in mind, I say, “Look, you’re probably feeling drained, so it’s okay to let yourself go. You need to rest. I promise we can keep chatting when you’re feeling up to it.”
He stands and comes over to me. “How will I find you again?” he asks when I look up at him. He reaches out a hand as if to touch my cheek but stops at the last second. I feel the barest hint of energy crackling over my skin where his hand hovers. He drops it and flexes his hand by his side.
“You will,” I say simply.
I’ve noticed that once a ghost finds me, it’s easier to do so again. The hardest part is finding me for the first time. It’s like stumbling upon a dinghy in the vast ocean. But once you’ve gotten to it, you can hook a safety line and wander as far as you want. You’ll always be able to find your way back. With that reassurance, he flickers out, and I’m left reeling in the silence.
ELEVEN
Later that night,I’m shoving my feet into my favorite pair of Chelsea boots when I hear ahonkoutside. I blow out an annoyed breath because Wren is so impatient. She literally just texted me, “here,” a minute ago. I grab my small crossbody bag off its hook by the door and head out, locking up behind me. As soon as Wren sees me reach the bottom of the stairs, she bleats her car horn again, making me jump out of my skin.
Once an annoying little sister, always an annoying little sister.
I dash grumpily through the rain to get to her car. Her dark maroon lips stretch into a wide grin when I plop myself unceremoniously into her passenger seat. “Gotcha,” she says, beeping her horn one last time. I sigh and buckle myself in. I’m doing my best to hold it together, but I’ve only had a few hours since Dean blinked out. I’m feeling every emotion all at once. Horrible sadness that he’s dead. Selfish relief that he didn’t ghost me. Confusion and shock that he’s gone. Determinationto help him figure out why he’s still here. And I’m trying to figure out how to shove all of that in a box so Wren doesn’t sniff it out like the emotional bloodhound she is.
It’s her turn to drive us to Mom and Dad’s for family dinner; I always hate when she drives. Where I am overly cautious, she is overly daring. She loves to make a game of on-ramp chicken where she sees how many cars she can get past before finally merging onto the freeway. I loudly recount how many people I’ve seen who have died in car accidents while she blasts The Ramones and sings along without a care in the world.
Mom and Dad moved a couple of towns over after Wren moved out. They wanted to downsize and live closer to where Dad works. Their new place (it’ll always be new to me, even if they moved over five years ago now) is located in a quaint little suburb where everyone has nice grass and large, established trees dominating their front yards.
Wren bumps onto their driveway and cuts the engine of her ancient Prius. I send a silent thank you to whoever’s listening that we didn’t die on the way here and restrain myself from kissing the ground. We scurry to the front door to get out of the drizzling rain. Wren barrels inside, protecting her freshly flat-ironed hair, and begins shedding her outer layers to deposit them on the coat hooks. I follow her inside and do the same, appreciating the warmth of our parents’ home and the scent of freshly baked bread.
“What is with you tonight? You’re more grumpy than me, and that’s saying something,” Wren says, eyeing me as we make our way down the hallway.
“I’ll tell you later,” I reply quietly before we round the corner into the kitchen. I didn’t want to tell her about Deanbefore we got here, because then she wouldn’t stop talking about it, and it would be an inquisition from my whole family. I’m still trying to process everything, and my well-meaning parents will ask more questions than I know how to answer. By the end of the night, we’d be trying to find his birth certificate online, and I’m not ready for all that.
“Are those my girls?” our dad asks, broad back turned to us as he oversees the stove. He looks over his shoulder, round cheeks ruddy from the heat of the stove.
“It sure is,” Mom says, rounding the island to give us each a kiss on the cheek and a hug. When she hugs me, I can’t help but squeeze a little harder than normal. I’m in need of some comfort after the week I’ve had. She takes my lead and gives me an extra-tight hug, pressing a kiss to my temple.
