Page 31 of Dead Set on You
I open my mouth to answer.
Of course I want to knowwhy. Why do people drink and drive? Why did the accident happen on the most important night of my career? Why is Rafael the only one who can see me? I’ve thought about thewhys all morning. Just haven’t found an answer yet.
“Evie.” Rafael halts.
I almost crash into him but manage to stop, close enough I can track the trickle of sweat along the length of his neck. Whispers of silver in his chestnut curls.
“You’re asking the wrongwhy,” he says.
There must be something happening in this alter-form that’s making me heat at the intensity in his gaze. It’s like he can see me andintome. I’m convinced of it. I’m irritated by it.
I take a step back, needing some space. “Whichwhyshould I be asking?” I prop a hand on my hip, curious to hear what Rafael Vela has to say.
His features smooth out, the anger-slash-frustration erased from his face in one blink. We might be back to we-have-answers level two. I hold my breath, but Rafael shakes his head.
“For someone so smart, you make me wonder if I know you at all,” he says.
I want to argue. No one knowsallof me. Not Gemma or Dana. Not any of my exes. Least of all him. Opening up topeople means opening up to hurt, and hurt’s been trailing me since I could walk.
Since the nights I lay in bed, curled around Annie, whispering silly stories to distract her from the pain in her stomach—the kind we later learned was her blood sugar crashing. Since the nights our mother left us alone for hours, heels clicking unsteadily across the floor as she left with her boyfriend-of-the-month. Since the times I called 911 from our neighbor’s house because our mother wasn’t around, because she never would, because she said Annie was “being dramatic.”
So, yes, allowing someone in takes a lot. And I once had let Rafael in. Stupidly.
I push the memories—the past—away. “Explain.”
Rafael leans in with those big, all-consuming eyes, as if he purposely wants to disarm me further. Joke’s on him, though. It’ll take more than three thousand pounds of car to make me succumb to his tricks, so I arch a brow in challenge.
“If I woke up as a spirit stuck outside my body, the question I’d ask iswhy?”
“Oh” is all I manage.
CHAPTER EIGHTSEVEN DAYS AFTER (STILL IN A COMA, THANKS FOR ASKING)
We sit in Rafael’s truck—one he bought after his third promotion. I’m surprised it’s not been keyed by the countless Violets he’s no doubt left brokenhearted over the years. I’ve imagined taking a key to his overpriced, gas-guzzling baby a time or two, but I havesomeboundaries when it comes to our rivalry.
“Thought of anything?” His question cuts through the quiet hum of the AC.
Palms out, I reach for the vents but feel nothing. None of the cold air. None of the sun’s warmth. Apparently, afterlife physics means I can walk through walls but not enjoy central air. Figures.
But none of this stops the chaos happeninginside, where everything’s a hot, confusing mess with zero explanation—nowhyfor my predicament and definitely nowhyfor Rafael’s question.
Because I don’t know why spirit me would have been separated from physical me without me actually moving on to wherever it is spirits go next.Heaven,Great-Aunt Julia would have said while she was alive.It’s where we all go when God calls us home.
Wherever you are, Great-Aunt Julia, my invite must have gotten lost in the mail. If there was an invite at all. The last time I stepped into a church was on the second-worst day of my life, and it’s been fifteen years since.
So, if why I haven’t moved on is a matter of missing church and learning some big lesson, I’m probably stuck here for a while. I shudder at the thought of haunting the world forever … but that can’t be my ever after, right? I mean, I don’t go to church, but I’m not an entirely terrible person. Did I pay someone to move Rafael’s truck to another parking structure three months ago? Sure. Did I enjoy his five-hour-long search? Also, sure. But that can’t be why I’m here, can it?
I’ve tried to balance my more questionable actions withgood. I rarely lie. I almost never curse. I’ve never stolen, despite having been homeless for months at a time. I’ve fostered dogs and mentored girls. I would never admit this to Rafael, but I once bought all the Girl Scout cookies he brought in to work (okay, I did it twice—I don’t lie—because his nieces are very, very cute).
None of this leads towhyI’m stuck here.
Great-Aunt Julia would pat my head and tell me to pray on it. I think I might be a little late to the prayer party, given I’mthis.
“Since when do you bite your nails?” Rafael asks. I feel his gaze.
Despite not caring what he thinks, I drop my hand from my lips into my lap, curling my fingers into a fist. “It’s a habit I picked up postmortem,” I offer with a sharp smile.
“You’renotdead.”
