Page 37 of Dead Set on You
The doors slide open again.
Rafael leans against the back wall, hands tucked into his pants. “Coming?”
I march into the elevator, ensuring I keep the farthest distance from him. The doors close, but the lift doesn’t move, not until Rafael’s arm brushes past mine and punches the floor number.Eight.
My nerves flare as I brace for the worst. What if I plummet through the floor? Or short-circuit the entire system with my ghost vibes? But nothing happens. The elevator moves. The floor stays solid. The cables don’t snap. I breathe—or seethe—for oh-so-many reasons, but I bite my tongue. It’s none of my business if Charlene wants to hook up with Rafael. I only wish she’d asked me first, because I know more about Rafael than he knows about himself. His cholesterol-loaded diet. His proclivity for jaywalking and absentminded humming of Disney tunes. The way he stretches when he’s sitting and standing and doing nothing that remotely resembles physical activity.
“What’s going through your Rafael-consumed mind?”
I snort at his question, feeling my neck and cheeks heat. I’m glad he can’t see my reflection in the elevator doors. “It’s not Rafael consumed, thank you very much.”
“So you weren’t thinking about me?”
“Not for one second.”
Rafael hums as the elevator lurches to a stop at my floor, and luckily for me, I don’t have to wait for the doors to open to get out. I almost fly across the hall in my attempt to get into my apartment, to be around my things, to feel a little more like flesh-and-bone Evie after the dumpster fire morning I’ve had—amhaving.
When I reach apartment 821, I don’t slow as I float through the door and the rush of cold.
Rafael’s faint command towaitis muffled—and ignored—as I take a deep breath and soak it in.
Pale-pink and beige tones. Velvet and leather. Soft and feminine. My apartment is a carefully curated reflection of me—years of effort arranged into something calm, intentional,mine. Art prints. My favorite books dog-eared and overread. A collection of records I once spent hours alphabetizing. Nothing is out of place. I have Cristina to thank for that. She’s been cleaning my apartment—and feeding me—since I hired her three years ago. And somehow, despite my week-long absence, everything looks untouched. Even the fresh daisies in the vase on my dining table. Like I never left at all, like I’m about to walk in at any moment.
The feeling is dizzying—disorienting. I take a breath. Iamhere.
My fingers ghost along the white quartz countertops as I move through my kitchen. A cookbook—one I’ve attempted (and mostly failed) to use—sits on a metal stand. Crystal wineglasses hang above a distressed-wood wine rack. The floor-to-ceiling window beside the dining area overlooks a park where most of my neighbors walk their dogs and hold playdates for their kids. And if I ever get to bucket list item #48, I’ll have a picnic there on a date.
If. If. If.
Ifs and bucket lists aside, I find my bedroom.
My king bed—draped in a white down comforter and matching quilted pillows—is exactly as I left it. Inviting. Familiar. Not connected to hospital monitors.
I hesitate, halfway expecting to fall through it like everything else I’ve tried to hold on to.
But I don’t.
I land.
Solid. Still. Somehow spared by ghost logic I don’t understand. I sigh, my gaze drifting to my nightstand for the picture of Annie, Great-Aunt Julia, and me on our first and only trip to Chicago. We’re smiling at the camera, standing on Navy Pier. The best day ever. My favorite photo.
Sighing, I close my eyes, willing the tension I’m feeling to pull a disappearing act. According to Rafael, it’s been a week since the accident, but somehow it feels like a lifetime since I’ve been here.
“Do you know the meaning ofwait?” Rafael asks from the doorway.
I snap my eyes open.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, hands tucked into his pockets, looking every bit as broody as he did this morning.
I immediately sit up. “How did you get in?”
Rafael dangles a key, the spare I leave for Cristina.
“Should have guessed you got to Cristina too,” I mutter.
His brow lifts. “Got to her?”
I don’t elaborate, because I’m trying to protect my microscopic bubble of joy before he pops it with his brooding and questions.
