by C. C. Hunter
“Jacob?” a voice says at the door.
I turn around, and it’s a pretty red-haired girl.
“Hi, Brandy.” Jacob introduces us. “Brandy’s a junior at Bradford High,” he tells me.
“Oh, you’re the girl who overheard Jamie and her friend talking about putting drugs in Jacob’s locker, aren’t you?”
I’m a little surprised she knows this.
Jacob glances at me and rubs his hand on the side of jeans. “Uh, her and her parents came over that night and I mentioned it to her.”
I nod. He seems worried I’ll be upset that he told her this. I’m not.
Someone calls out Jacob’s name from the front of the house. “I’ll be right back.” Jacob leaves. I feel slightly awkward in Brandy’s company.
“So you’re new in town?” Brandy asks almost as if she senses the awkwardness too and wants to push it away.
“Yeah. Moved here in December.”
“You like it?” she asks.
“Yeah. It’s okay. It’s hard to move.”
“I bet.” Her gaze shifts to the picture of Hayden and Jacob on the bookshelf. Then she glances back to me. “Jacob told me how Jamie and her friends were total bitches to you. Even gave you a black eyes.” She pauses and then says, “Jacob’s parents and mine are old friends and they hang out a lot. So I met Jamie at some of the barbeques. I never liked her.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I think she’s an acquired taste.”
Brandy laughs. “That’s putting it nicely. I can really see her putting drugs in Jacob’s locker just to get him in trouble. There’s just something mean about her. I’m glad you told him about it. He said he went to the counselor.” She frowns. “It might be wrong, but I kind of wish she’d do it, just so she’d get in trouble.”
Footsteps near the door, and Jacob walks back in. “Dex is here.”
We all walk outside. Brandy’s really nice, but I see the disappointment in her eyes when Jacob stands too close to me.
• • •
By nine that night, Jacob drives me back to my house. Yeah, I lied again and said Dad had told me to be home early. Lying is becoming a bad habit. I feel like shit because of it, too. But after seeing Hayden, seeing what I think was jealousy in his eyes, and learning that everyone has given up on Hayden, all I want to do is go home and hug a pillow and cry. But damn it, I refuse to believe he’s going to die. If I can talk to him, maybe . . .
Jacob walks me to my front door. My gut says he’s going to try to kiss me, and I don’t know how I’m going to stop it, but I have to.
I like Jacob, I do. I’m even attracted to him. He’s hot, I’d have to be blind not to notice that. But there’s a part of me that’s stuck on Hayden. My heart. Hayden has my heart. And if he dies he might just take it with him.
“Sorry tonight wasn’t that much fun,” Jacob says.
“It was nice. You have a great family and friends.”
“After talking to Coach Carter today, I’ve sort of been bummed.”
“I understand.” More than you know.
Dex had brought a girl named Michelle from eleventh grade. She had her hands all over him, which made me almost as uncomfortable as sitting next to Brandy, who had her eyes all over Jacob.
I especially hate seeing Dex like this because I know Kelsey likes him. Not that Kelsey would act on it. Like me, she has all sorts of issues.
But I know she’ll ask me if Dex was there. I can’t lie. A friendship can only withstand so many lies, so many secrets, and I’m almost at that quota.
Telling her about touchy-feely Michelle will be hard. Oh, she’ll pretend not to care. She works at acting tough more than I do. But it’ll hurt her, and I’ll be the one serving up the pain.
Jacob leans in as if to kiss me, I lift my hand. His lips come against the back of my fingers.
I feel those lips curve downward. “Since you kissed me at school, I thought . . .”
Yeah, I’d kissed him. At the time I was feeling high on . . . on seeing Abby cross over. Seeing a spirit move to the other side is like a shot of feel-good adrenaline. Heck, it’d been so good I thought I had this whole ghost thing in the bag. Now with what happened with prisoner-ghost, my bag is ripped, torn. There’s nothing in the bag, least of all my confidence.
I look up at Jacob. “I’m sorry.”
“One step forward, two steps back.” His tone lacks the frustration that his eyes reflect.
“I don’t mean to confuse you, but . . . I’m confused.”
“About?” He leans in. And I can’t deny it, there’s a part of me that wants to lean against him. But in my heart I know I really want him to be Hayden.
“Everything,” I answer. “I hate to say this, but . . . you might want to give up on me.”
His lips thin. “I’m not a quitter.”
“You wouldn’t be quitting. We never really—”
“But I was hoping.” He pauses. “What happened, Riley? Did Carl contact you again?”
I don’t remember telling him my ex-boyfriend’s name. So Kelsey must have told him. Grrr. Gotta have a talk with that girl.
“He did, didn’t he?”
I start to tell him it isn’t like that, but I realize it might be easier if he thinks it is.
“I just don’t believe I’m ready. And it isn’t fair for you to keep hoping. Can’t we . . . just be friends?”
He moves in again. “Friends with benefits?” Humor plays in his voice, but I see it for what it is. A defense mechanism.
I thump him on his chest.
He grins, then sighs. “I really like you, Riley.”
“I like you, too. But I don’t think it’s fair for you to keep hoping . . . All kinds of girls are crazy about you.”
“I’m not going back to Jamie.”
“I’d be pissed if you did. You deserve better. I’m not talking about her. I’m talking about half the girls in our school, and maybe one from Bradford High.”
“Brandy?”
“She likes you.”
“No. We’re just—”
“She’s totally into you. And she’s nice. You should ask her out.”
He shakes his head. “No she’s not. It was Carter she liked. They’d just started hooking up when he had the accident.”
If I needed more proof that it was Hayden I longed for, this was it. Here I was, willing to hand over Jacob to a pretty redhead. But the idea that she liked Hayden, that Hayden liked her, that thought is too cumbersome. It doesn’t want to fit into my head or my heart.
Then I remember how Brandy looked at Jacob. “She might have liked Hayden, but she likes you now. Believe me, a girl can tell.”
He shuffles his feet and stares down as if thinking. “I didn’t exactly want this night to end with you telling me to ask another girl out. Or with you giving me the let’s-be-friends line.”
“It’s not just a line. You’re my auto tech buddy. I don’t want to lose that. I’m serious.”
Acceptance sounds in his exhale. “Fine. But it’s not going to change how I feel. Just promise me that before you let some other guy sweep you off your feet, you’ll remember I was in line first.”
You weren’t first. Hayden was.
Jacob gives my hand a squeeze and walks back to his black truck. I watch him leave, feeling better but kind of sad. He really is a good guy. He’s just not Hayden.
I put my key in the door but realize it isn’t locked. Dad’s home. I step inside, relieved that he never called the number I gave him, the one he thought was Jacob’s parents’ but was really Jacob’s. I’m barely through the door when the cold slams against me.
Crap.
I shrink inside my sweater. Seeking warmth, security. Is it dead-prisoner guy?
In the corner of my eye, I see him looming in the dining room. His orange jumpsuit is hard to miss, but I don’t look at him directly.
He starts walking toward me. I spot my dad on the sofa and I start toward him.
Fear ripples up my spine. He nea
rly killed me today in the car. What’s he going to try now?
Chapter Three
Still holding on to the belief that ignoring this ghost is my best bet, I force my feet to keep moving toward Dad, but each step requires a pound of courage I don’t own.
Dad’s asleep. His arms are crossed as if he feels the cold, too.
I try not to shiver as I walk up to him.
“Hey, I’m home,” I say. If he’d wake up, I’d feel better. I’d feel safer.
“I’m sorry,” the ghost says. “I didn’t mean to . . . I’m just so desperate.”
I still don’t look at him, but for the first time the emotion I hear in his voice isn’t all fury. There is a semblance of right and wrong in this man.
Could there be another side of this guy? I push that idea away because I’m just not ready to deal with something else. Or maybe I’m not ready to give a second chance to someone who almost killed me.
“Dad, you need to go to bed.” I see the ruffle around the sofa flutter, and a scared cat pokes its head out. I reach down and grab Pumpkin.
“Dad?” I say again. He doesn’t move. Is he drunk?
There’s a glass sitting on the coffee table. I pick it up and sniff it. It’s just water. Just to be sure, I sip it. Just water.
I give Dad a nudge. He still doesn’t budge. Not wanting to hang out with the ghost, I say, “Okay, sleep on the sofa.” I head up the stairs, praying the ghost doesn’t follow me. Praying the spirit of Hayden is waiting for me in my room.
I stop after only taking a few stairs and worry about leaving Dad with the prison ghost. I hug Pumpkin close and ease back down. I stop three steps from the bottom when I realize it’s no longer cold.
He’s gone. Thank God he’s gone.
• • •
Hayden isn’t in my room. I toss and turn in the bed, talking to him like he is. Or maybe I’m practicing for when I do see him.
But damn, my life’s one freaking mess.
It’s almost midnight when I finally give in and fall asleep. Suddenly, I’m jarred awake by my phone. I jackknife out of bed and run to my desk where I’d left it. The clock on my bedside table reads 3 a.m.
I see Jacob’s number on my screen.
What’s he doing calling me at this hour?
“Hello,” I say, trying to swipe the sleepiness from my voice.
“Is everything okay?” His tone gives the question weight.
“Yeah, why?” I push the fog from my brain.
“Where are you?”
“Home, why?”
“I . . . I just got a call. When I got to it there was a message. A message from your dad asking where you were.”
“My dad?” The question comes out too loud.
“Yeah.”
My phone beeps with an incoming call.
“Crap. I’m sorry, I bet he doesn’t realize I’m home. It must be him calling me now. I’d better go. Sorry.”
I hang up and instead of answering the call I bound down the steps.
Dad looks at me as if shocked I’m here. He’s standing in the dining room with his phone to his ear. His expression is panicked. His hair is disheveled. His eyes are bloodshot.
He hangs up and leans against the wall as if his legs are weak.
“I thought you were still out,” he says.
“Have you been drinking, Dad?” I ask.
“I was asleep and I woke up and saw the time. You scared me.”
“I didn’t scare you! How could I scare you? I’m home. I’m in bed. Asleep. Why didn’t you go upstairs and check?”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “You usually wake me up.”
“Have you been drinking?” I repeat my question, my tone sharpened by disappointment.
“Why would you think that?” He pushes off the wall as if staying on his feet is evidence.
I notice he didn’t answer. “Because you wouldn’t wake up when I got home, and because instead of going upstairs to see if I’m home you start calling people at this ungodly hour.”
“I didn’t wake up because I was tired. And I called because I’m your father and I worry.”
But I can hear his lie, it’s so loud my ears hurt. I’m so angry I want to scream. Tears sting my eyes. “Do you care so little about me that you’d do this to yourself, to me, to us? How long do you think you can hold on to this job? How long before you have an accident and either kill yourself or someone else? Do you not care what this does to me?”
“Just go back to bed!”
I feel emotionally gutted when he turns, stomps into his room, and slams the door like he’s the rebellious teen and I’m the adult.
• • •
I’m awoken by someone rolling me onto my side. They hold me in that position while something is being pushed under me. Then I’m hit by the pain. In my side. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. I force my eyes open, expecting to see my bedroom window. There’s no window. I’m not in my room? Just gray walls and more burning, searing pain.
What the . . . ?
I’m suddenly pushed onto my back. A man in a black uniform looms over me. There’s a patch on his left shoulder that reads EMT.
“Carlos,” the paramedic says. “Stay with us.”
That’s my first clue. This isn’t happening . . . not to me. This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten lost in someone else’s memory. Somehow spirits can pull me in and hold me under while I live bits and pieces of their lives. Not the good parts, either.
My stomach roils. The agony, the sting, the ache in my right side is too much. Then I smell it. The copper scent of blood.
I lift my head and see I’m wearing orange. I’m . . . prisoner-ghost.
“Can’t die.” I push the words out.
“That’s right. Hang in there.”
“His pressure’s dropping,” someone else says. “We’re losing him.”
I reach up and grab the collar of the paramedic. “Save my . . . save my . . .”
I feel numb. My hand falls. I don’t feel it hit. I don’t feel the physical pain. Just emotions. Rage. Regret. More rage. I’m dead.
I wake up gasping for air. Why did I need to see him die?
• • •
The ding of a text wakes me up at ten o’clock the next morning. It was almost five before I went back to sleep. I’m just glad dead-prisoner guy didn’t return. I reach for my phone on the bedside table.
It’s from Kelsey. How did last night with Jacob go?
I almost text back one word: Crappy. But I stop myself. I’m not up to explaining the whole Jacob-and-I-are-over thing yet. Or maybe I don’t know how to explain it without telling her the truth. Oh, you see, I just realized I’m in love with his comatose friend.
While setting my phone down, I see I had another text earlier. From Dad. An apology would be nice. I swipe it. Gone to church.
I wonder if he’s going to pray about his drinking? All sorts of emotions start taking up residence in my chest, pushing and shoving vital organs out of the way. I sit up, feed myself oxygen, and look around my room, hoping I’ll find Hayden there. Of course, most of the time when he’s here first thing in the morning, I discover him in bed with me. Him wearing a semi-naughty I’ll-share-my-pillow-with-you smile. Depending on my mood, I’d either scold him for breaking one of my rules, or I’d smile at him because he’d become one of the few good things in my life.
And yes, while we have shared a pillow, it’s not like we did anything. Well, not any more than make out. Actually, I’m not sure if any of what we did constitutes really as “making out” when he’s not really . . . all there. Oh, I could feel him, unlike any of the other ghosts, but it wasn’t like a real touch, more like a barely-there caress. The kind that makes you ache for more.
I’d give anything to feel it right now. To see him whole and healthy, the way he appeared and not like the boy in the hospital bed. I realize my need to see him isn’t just to save him, but . . . It always felt as if Hayden saved me, too. And after everything that
happened yesterday, I feel like I need to be saved.
“Please Hayden, come to see me!”
I drop back on my pillow. Should I risk going back to the hospital? If his mom is there will she start asking more questions? Decisions, decisions.
I think of Hayden. Decision made. I reach for my phone. I go back to Kelsey’s text and type. Can I come over later?
Yeah, I’m kind of wanting to avoid Dad today.
Her reply is quick. Why don’t I come there? Mom has company.
Looks as if both of us are wanting to run away from home. Kelsey hates it when her mom has overnight company. I don’t blame her, either. She’s really afraid her mom is going to ask this guy to move in.
I text: Sure.
It’s really still a win for me. If Kelsey’s here, it’ll be easier to ignore Dad. It might even be better. If Hayden shows up, I can always run to the bathroom and chat with him.
I slide out of bed and get dressed. I’m halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rings. Kelsey must have practically run here.
Hurrying down the stairs, I cut the corner and open the door. “Hey,” I say, but then my mouth slams shut, like locked shut.
It’s not Kelsey at my door.
“Hi,” Mrs. Carter says.
I can’t talk, so I just nod. Why? How? What?
“I’m worried you got the wrong impression yesterday,” she says. “I didn’t mean that you couldn’t visit my son. I’m hoping you’ll come back. I think if other people came to see him, he might . . . he’d know he’s missed. I added your name to the list of people I said could visit.”
I’m still speechless. But I do have questions. And they run amok in my brain like hungry mice chasing a Cheeto with legs.
“I heard what you said to him.” Her words have me desperately trying to remember what I told him. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I could tell you care about him. He needs someone, someone besides me to care, because right now it feels as if everyone has given up on him. His stepfather, his friends. Even a few of his doctors.”
Her eyes fill with tears, and I feel my eyes burn. I finally push out the words. “How . . . how did you know where I live?”
