Page 41 of Dead Set on You
The car accelerates. I sprint after it—after Gem. But no matter how many marathons I’ve run, I can’t keep up. Still, I try because Ineedher. The distance stretches between us, and I push harder, faster. No feet hitting concrete. No breath in my lungs. But somehow I’m moving, maybe floating. New afterlife physics rule: Where there’s obsession, there’s propulsion.
Halfway down the next block, something in me cracks. Not bone or breath—just the kind of hopelessness that hollows you out, that makes running pointless.
I stop and double over, eyes stinging and chest tight.
Gemma’s leaving.
My best friend. My one shot at figuring this out.
I breathe through the tightness in my chest.
And like that, the first item on the Revival Checklist is null and void.
I don’t bother looking toward Ollie as my breathing evens out. He’s probably already inside their house, diving into another of his high-profile legal cases. And I’m out here in the middle of the street, feeling like reanimated roadkill.
Hours later I’m back in my apartment, surrounded by my things and humming ABBA’s “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!”
Time to regroup.
This morning was a setback, and I can do setbacks. They’re temporary, even if this one seems a little more permanent. ButI’ve tackled tougher obstacles—like surviving the first sixteen years of my life.
All I need is anewnew plan. One based on facts and logic.
Fact: I’ve been in a coma for a week, yet it was only yesterday I woke up inRafael’s apartment.
Fact:Rafaelwas the last person I was with before the accident, andheis the only person who can see me.
Fact: While he can deny it all he wants, all roads lead to (a fully clothed and completely undesirable)Rafael.
I’d buy Culture Jar breakfasts for a year if he’d admit that he’s tied to this situation. I’d give him my country club membership if he helped me out of it. And as much as it kills me (poor choice of words, given my present state), I need to go back to his loft and find a new way to get him on board. I’ll need a far more compelling argument—a stronger negotiation tactic.
Nothing’s coming to me right now, but it can’t be too hard. I have years of knowledge on the man … who is currently sprawled across his bed like a fallen angel.
The thought comes from nowhere.
I douse it immediately.
His body is a weapon—like his dimple—and I should be prepared for him to wield it. Anytime. At all times. It’s another tactic meant to—
The front door opens. I drop to all fours in fright and hide behind my sofa, like I’m the one who shouldn’t be in my own apartment. Blood pressure spiking, I tune in.
“I made it.” Cristina’s muffled voice makes me slump in relief.
“Cristina!” I jolt to my feet and rush to her, feeling better than I’ve felt all morning. “I’m here,” I say, waving.
Phone tucked between her shoulder and ear, Cristina closes the door and sets her bucket of cleaning supplies to one side as she changes out of her sneakers into her cleaning Crocs. Her dark hair, sprinkled with grays and whites, is secured in her usual tight bun, and she’s wearing faded scrubs. I want to hug her.
“Cristina.” I step in front of her. “Please, see me.”
She picks up her cleaning supplies and walks past me, talking into the phone, “No, not the candy house.” Cristina laughs, a warm, familiar sound that makes me ache. “Da. The pretty lady’s house.” The fondness in her voice means she’s talking to one of her three granddaughters. It’s usually the youngest who calls, the one who’s seven and named for her grandmother. Their relationship makes me long for things I never had.
“No, puiu,” she says, setting out her cleaning supplies. “She isn’t home yet.” Cristina’s tone changes, softening. Her face turns sad, and now I know she’s talking about me.
When she first started working for me, Cristina brought homemade treats.The way we make them back home,she said. I was reluctant to try the Romanian cornule?e—candied jelly wrapped in dough and powdered sugar. She watched me the way a bird watches her hatchlings feed. I didn’t dare tell her I was training for a marathon. So I ate the dessert … and had another and another. I must have passed some unspoken test, because Cristina started showing up with treats every week. With stories about her homeland and family. With an easy disposition and smiles.
It didn’t take long for me to look forward to the days our paths crossed, to consider her more than someone who makes a part of my life easier.
I never told her that.
