by C. C. Hunter
“Look at me, damn it! Look at me!”
I keep my gaze locked on the road. He slams a fist on my dashboard. If he wasn’t dead that’d hurt like hell.
“It isn’t fair,” he yells. “Listen to me!”
No, it isn’t fair. But I’m remembering what Hayden looked like, so withered, so gaunt. So dead. Then I recall the desperate love in Mrs. Carter’s eyes.
I keep driving. I turn onto the major street heading to my house.
“I said listen!” He leans so close, yells so loud, his voice hurts my ears. His cold burns my skin and turns the air so arctic it stings my throat and lungs.
Just a few more miles. I can do this. I can. How long does it take to get frostbite?
He reaches over and yanks my steering wheel. What the . . . ?
Ghost aren’t supposed to be able to move things, but this one can. As hard as I try to regain control of the wheel, I can’t. He’s yanking it back and forth. Cars dart out of my way. Horns are blaring. Luckily, I don’t think any of the cars actually crash.
I go to slam on the brakes, but dead-prisoner guy jumps the console, sits his cold butt on top of me, kicks my foot off the brakes, and slams his on the gas. I have freezing pain coursing through me, but I manage to look around him just in time to see my car race across the median and veer right into oncoming traffic.
And leading that traffic is an eighteen-wheeler.
I, Riley Smith, at only seventeen, am going to die.
Chapter Two
By some miracle, and I do mean a miracle, my car blasts forward into a drugstore parking lot a fraction of a second before the eighteen-wheeler barrels past. His horn’s blaring, breaks squealing, burnt rubber scents the air.
Unable to breathe, I fist my hands around the steering wheel so tight they feel numb. The unnatural cold fades. Panic doesn’t.
I almost died. I really almost died. My mind broadcasts the image of the eighteen-wheeler rushing toward me. How’s it possible that I didn’t die?
Not moving, gaze locked to the front of the drugstore, I feel my lungs the size of lima beans begging for air. I inhale raw oxygen. I spot a woman standing there, staring, stupefied, as if she witnessed the whole thing. Then she turns away and gets into a bright yellow Volkswagen bug. It’s only when she drives past me that I realize I know her.
It’s the lunch lady. The weird cashier who creeped me out the first few weeks of school. The one I swear somehow knows about me seeing ghosts.
Did she somehow have something to do with . . . me not dying? That’s impossible. Right?
But so is seeing ghosts. So is a ghost being able to grab a steering wheel.
This changes everything. If a ghost can physically move stuff, that means they can . . . do anything. Oh, God. This isn’t good. Really, really not good.
• • •
I pull into my driveway and sit in the rumbling car, not wanting Dad to see me this freaked out. And I am plenty freaked out. My palms are slick with fear. My lungs only accept sips of air. I try to breathe, slow, easy. All the while trying to make sense of what happened, attempting to get my ducks in a row so I can figure out how to deal with this.
My ducks don’t like rows. A ghost’s ability to physically control my world takes the whole I-see-dead-people thing to a new level. I’m not sure I can deal with this.
I look at my phone. Jacob will be here in thirty minutes. I don’t want to go. I really don’t want to go. But I kissed him yesterday at school. I kissed him because I thought . . . I thought Hayden was gone. I thought it was time for me to start over. Hayden had pushed me to give Jacob a chance. Now I know Jacob is Hayden’s best friend. And now I also know Hayden’s alive. Or I think he’s alive.
I pick up my phone to tell Jacob that I can’t come, but he’s already texted me. I swipe and read it.
Can’t wait to see you. Will pick you up fifteen minutes early.
I hit the message box to type a reply but I see the time. He’s probably on his way.
Oh, hell.
I have to go to the party. I try convincing myself that it’ll just take time to wrap my head around the whole new ghost problem. Time to figure out my new Jacob/Hayden problem. I hit the garage opener and listen to the door groan and lift. The garage is empty.
Well, not empty. We still have about ten boxes to unload from the move. Some of them were packed up in Dallas over a year ago. Then there are all of Dad’s tools that are pushed to the side.
What’s missing is Dad’s car.
When I left for the hospital, I stormed into the kitchen and told him I was making an emergency run for some “girl things.” Girl things is a synonym for tampons. But I don’t say the word, because I think he’d die. Let’s just say Dad doesn’t excel at dealing with the feminine issues of his daughter. But he’ll never tell me no when I use the “girl thing” term. He’s probably afraid I might ask him to buy them.
I pull into the garage and get out of the Mustang.
Where is Dad?
Off drinking?
I remember the conversation I overheard in the family waiting room. I envision my father in a hospital bed like Hayden. I can’t lose him. Since mom died before I lost my first tooth, he’s all I’ve got.
Right before I reach for the doorknob, my heart thu-thumps to a new fear. A cold one. Could prisoner-ghost be in the house right now? On hyper alert, I ease into the kitchen. There’s no unnatural cold, but my eyes still go to the silverware drawer.
If a ghost can yank a steering wheel, he can throw a knife. At me.
Pumpkin, my orange tabby, greets me, doing figure eights around my ankles while offering up love-me-love-me-now meows. That’s a good sign that we don’t have visitors. The only spirit Pumpkin’s ever taken to was Hayden.
Duh, now I get. It’s because he wasn’t a spirit. Not a dead one, at least.
I pick up my cat, rub my cheek against his, and soak up the vibration of his purrs. Still holding him, I check the counters, thinking I might find a note from Dad.
No note.
Does he remember my date’s tonight? He’d been adamant about meeting Jacob. In fact, at first he told me I couldn’t go because he didn’t know him well enough. Which led to me blowing a gasket and telling him I was going. I’m not known to give Dad lip, but he was so wrong. And he proved it by relenting.
“Where did Dad run off to, Pumpkin?” My question floats in the emptiness surrounding me as I envision Dad drunk at some bar.
The bare, white-walled house has no answers. I remember the boxes in the garage. I’m pretty sure we have some artwork there that was packed up in Dallas. One day, I’m going to get around to opening those boxes and hanging some of those paintings, just so the house doesn’t feel so bleak or soulless. Maybe it might even start feeling like home.
I put Pumpkin down, pull my phone out of my pocket to call Dad. The time listed on my screen puts me in high gear. Since I’m not going for the freshly-cried look, I need to touch up my makeup. Dad better haul his butt home quick.
And I’d better decide how I’m going to deal with Jacob. I get butterfly quivers in my stomach. And not the good kind.
Swiping Dad’s number, I take the stairs two at a time while holding the phone to my ear.
It rings once. Twice. Three times. Then goes to voicemail.
I wait for the beep. “Where are you? I thought you wanted to meet Jacob when he picks me up? He’s going to be here in ten minutes. Please don’t be late.”
I hang up. Should I worry? Probably.
When I look in the mirror, my reflection, with smeared mascara, stares back. I grab a wipe and am removing the smudges when my phone dings with a text.
I pick it up.
Dad: Sorry. Had a work emergency.
Me: So, you aren’t coming home?
I stare drop-jawed at the phone. I should be thrilled he won’t be here to interrogate Jacob, and I am. But I’m also ticked after he gave me hell about going to the party.
Dad: Just send me his Mom�
��s phone number.
I gasp.
Me: You are not calling his parents!
Dad: Only in case of emergency.
Me: What constitutes an emergency?
Dad: If you’re late.
Me: I won’t be late.
Dad: Just give it to me!
A low growl leaves my lips at the thought of asking Jacob for his mom’s number. I’ll be eighteen in a few months!
Me: Why can’t you come here and meet him like you said you would?
Dad: Give me the number or don’t go!
I slam my phone on the counter and hurry to redo my mascara. When finished, I stare at the phone again. “Are you even at work?” I mutter. “Or are you out drinking?” The thought twists my stomach.
I think about asking Jacob to drive by the funeral home and see if Dad’s car’s there. But then what? If it’s not there, I won’t want to go with Jacob. And even if he is there, I’d feel obligated to explain to Jacob about my reasons for checking on my Dad. And the whole my-dad-may-or-may-not-be-an-alcoholic thing isn’t first date material.
It strikes me then that I shared it with Hayden. Hayden, who I never really dated. Hayden, who stole my heart even though I thought he was dead. Hayden, who I pray isn’t going to die. Closing my eyes, I whisper into the empty room, “Please come see me.”
A vision of him in that hospital bed threatens to re-smear my mascara. And just like that I’m back to really not wanting to go anywhere with Jacob. But my doorbell rings, and I know it’s him. I grab my bag, stuff my phone and my dad angst in my pocket, and take off down the stairs.
Ready or not, here I come.
• • •
“You look like an angel,” Jacob’s little sister says.
I force a smile. “Thanks.” I remember Kelsey saying the sweater, the same color as my hair, kind of gave me an otherworldly look. I’m not really comfortable with that look.
“Mom?” the five-year-old girl yells and runs out of the living room. “Jacob’s girlfriend is an angel.”
Oh, boy.
I’m not sure if it’s the angel or the girlfriend part that has my palms itching.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Riley,” Mrs. Adams says, walking into the room. She’s tall and willowy with light brown hair. His father’s hair is darker, like Jacob’s.
“There are sodas and snacks on the table, please help yourself,” his mom adds.
“Thanks.” I follow Jacob into the dining room, but what I want him to do is lead me right out of the house and drive me back home. I’m worried about Dad—what if he had a wreck driving home. I’m worried about Hayden—what if he comes by the house and I’m not there.
I’m worried about dating Jacob—what if he learns the guy I really like is his best friend? His comatose best friend.
The big farm table at the center of the dining room has all sorts of chips and dips on it.
“What do you want to drink?” Jacob asks.
He’d been shocked when Dad hadn’t been at the house. I acted like it wasn’t a big deal, but the way he looked at me said he knew I was lying. Probably because I warned him Dad might come off a little overbearing.
“Just water,” I say. The ride here felt awkward. I tried to keep up my end of the conversation, but I know I fell short. Oddly enough, Jacob was a little quiet, too.
I texted Dad Jacob’s number and the address of the lake house. If he calls Jacob, I’m going to be so pissed.
Jacob reaches into a cooler and pulls out a bottle of water. “Do you know Tommy? He’s in auto tech with us.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Well, he’s coming. And Dad’s friend James has a daughter, Brandy, who’s a year younger than us, who’s also coming. She’s really nice.” He hands me the water. It’s cold and wet against my palm. “Oh, and Dex’s coming. He’s bringing a girl. He called me when I was driving to your house and asked if he could bring her. He wouldn’t tell me who it was. He said I’d be surprised.”
I remember Jamie, Jacob’s old girlfriend, was hitting on Dex. “It’s not Jamie, is it?” Considering Jamie blames me for breaking up her and Jacob—which isn’t true—it would make this night even harder.
Jacob makes a face. “Hell no. He doesn’t like her. Do you know who I think it is?”
“Who?” I try to work up enthusiasm.
“Kelsey,” he says.
“Wow. He likes Kelsey?” Since I know Kelsey has a thing for Dex, this is good news.
“I don’t know for sure, but whenever he’s at my house I catch him looking over at her place all the time.”
As much as I wish it were true, I know it’s not Kelsey Dex is bringing. She’d have called me. We’ve become the no-secrets kind of friends. Well, not all secrets. I can’t tell her about the ghosts. Though I think she’s a little suspicious. We met through her dead grandmother, after all.
“Jacob,” Jacob’s father calls from the kitchen. “Can you start a fire in the pit? Everyone should be arriving soon.”
“Sure,” Jacob calls back. “Come on,” he says.
It’s almost dark. As we move out and toward the backyard, Jacob puts his hand around my waist. I try not to flinch. But I want to. I’m so confused. About him. About us. About why Hayden would push me off to his best friend.
When we get to the fire pit, he turns, faces me, and fits his other hand on my waist.
He lowers his head. So close I can count his eyelashes. I should be feeling all sorts of thrills. I’m not.
His lips move even closer. “You’re quiet tonight.”
“Just dad trouble.” I try to claim an inch, but he reclaims it.
“What kind of trouble?” Concern makes his words rumble.
“Normal crap,” I say, but it’s a lie. And I feel terrible. Not for lying. Terrible for not wanting this thing between Jacob and me. Terrible because I kind of led him to believe I did want it. And I wanted to want it.
Jacob leans in as if to kiss me, but I see someone standing a few feet from us and I pull away
Jacob looks back as if to see what caught my attention.
But he can’t see it. Only I can.
Hayden. He looks so much better than the boy in the hospital bed. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t frown, but I see emotion in his eyes. And I recognize what it is. He’s jealous.
I feel awful. I feel angry. How could he be jealous? I never would’ve given Jacob a chance if Hayden hadn’t . . .
Hayden turns and walks back toward the cabin.
“What is it?” Jacob watches me watch Hayden leave.
“Can I . . . can I use your restroom?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
I run to catch up with Hayden. He disappears at the door.
He’s not in the living room, but several other adults are there. I move toward the rooms in the back. In one of the bedrooms, Jacob’s younger brother and another boy are playing video games. They wave, I force a smile and leave. I spot the bathroom, but I walk past. The next room is all dark. From what I can see it’s Jacob’s parents’ room. I don’t see Hayden going in there. The room at the end of the hall is open, and the lights are on. I take small, quiet steps.
At the doorway, I peer inside. There’s no one in there. I’m about to turn around when I catch his scent. A spicy, earthy aroma that is uniquely Hayden. I ease in.
I look around. “Hayden?” I whisper his name.
No one answers back.
“I need to talk to you. Please.”
Nothing.
Feeling as if I’m trespassing, I go to turn around, but when I do I see the bookshelves lined with trophies and pictures. Every picture has Jacob in it. Most of them of a younger Jacob. But it’s not his face that draws me to the shelf. It’s who is with him in at least four of those frames.
Hayden.
I pick up the photo, and just like that I’m taken back to when Hayden and I danced in my room. When being so close to him took my breath away. We’d discovered that we’d both gone to the same summer
camp, Piney Woods, when we were young. I’d even found a picture in my album that I’d taken of him and a group of other kids.
He accused me of being the blond, blue-eyed girl he’d danced with at one of the camp dances. He’d stepped on her feet, and she went down. Supposedly everyone at the camp started laughing. Hayden had been embarrassed, mostly because he really liked the girl. As crazy as it sounds, I wanted to be her. I wanted to be the girl who had a past with Hayden.
I stare at the photo. Both Jacob and Hayden are in soccer uniforms. They are laughing, living in the moment. Hayden’s alive.
Hayden deserves to be here now. Still playing soccer, still dancing, still taking girls’ breaths away. Even if it’s not mine.
“Hey.”
I jump at the sound of Jacob’s voice and I quickly put the frame back on the shelf. His footsteps move behind me.
“Sorry.” I run my fingers over my sweater, as if to wipe away the guilt.
“It’s okay.” He points to the picture I just set down. “That’s me and Carter.” His voice is raw-sounding. “The guy who’s in a coma.” I hear him swallow. “He used to come up to the lake house with us every time. Hence the reason I don’t really like coming here anymore. I feel him here more than anywhere else.”
I look at Jacob. Emotion darkens his eyes.
“We were thirteen. His stepfather, Coach Carter, was our coach on the soccer team. We called Carter Speedy that year. He could run like the wind.”
I remember Mrs. Carter telling me that Hayden needed his friends. “Do you ever go see him?”
He shakes his head. “I tried. I couldn’t stay in there. He looks . . . bad. It hurts.”
“But maybe . . . maybe you being there would help him wake up?”
Jacob inhales, and the sad sound thickens the air in the room. “No. I saw Coach Carter today at the grocery store, right before I came to get you. He said . . . he said they were just waiting for Carter’s mom to accept he’s gone. Then they’ll cut him off the machine that’s breathing for him.” Pain colors his tone.
The same pain seeps into my pores, and I see Hayden’s chest go up and down with the forced air in his lungs.