by Sarah Beard
“You sound like you know from experience.”
I move my plate to the bar and sit on a stool. “Death is part of the human experience. And I’m human.” Or was, anyway.
She sets her plate beside mine, but before sitting down she grabs her mom’s plate. “I’m going to take this into her office.” She starts walking away, then twists and adds, “If she’s too immersed in her story, I may have to prod her to eat. So … sit tight for a minute.”
She disappears down the hall, and I look at my sandwich, realizing that I don’t even know if this body is capable of digesting food. I’ve never seen Charles eat while materialized. But that doesn’t mean it’s not possible or even necessary. In fact, now that I think about it, the beginning of hunger pains are pinching my insides. Or maybe it’s nerves.
Avery returns and sits beside me, plucking a blueberry off her plate and putting it in her mouth. I pick up my sandwich. Just to be safe, I start small, tearing off a bit of bread with my teeth. It tastes great, chewy and soft, like French bread should be. I take the next step and swallow, waiting for something to happen—I don’t know what—maybe vomiting or asphyxiation or spontaneous combustion. But nothing happens. So I take another bite, bigger this time. And it goes down as easily as the first.
Now that I’m confident eating won’t turn me into a gremlin, I return my attention to Avery. I can’t believe I’m sitting beside her, eating a sandwich we made together. She’s close enough that I can feel warmth radiating from her skin. And she smells amazing, like coconut and some other fruity scent.
All the death talk should make an easy transition into the things I really want to talk to her about. But I can’t exactly turn to her and say, “You don’t need to take my death so hard. My life wasn’t really worth living anyway.” Not only would it sound totally creepy, but she can’t know who I am. No, I’m going to have to be creative about this. Deliver my message in a roundabout way.
I look around her mom’s condo. I’ve seen the decor before. Sailboat paintings and knickknacks, and a wooden yacht club plaque. I study it now with feigned interest, as though I’ve never seen it before. “Do you love sailing as much as your mom?”
She finishes chewing, then says, “It’s her passion, not mine. I think she gets a lot of writing inspiration on the waves. But we usually take a family trip to the Channel Islands at the end of the summer before school starts.”
“Are you going this year?” With her aversion to the ocean, I don’t see why she would. But if I can get her to explain why, it will steer our conversation in the direction I want.
“I’m not sure.” She rolls a blueberry between her thumb and index finger. “A lot of things have changed since last year.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “Like what?”
Her fingers go still, and she gazes down at her blueberry as though it’s a crystal ball showing her the answer to my question. Whatever she sees darkens her expression into something pained. Her lips part, and just when I think she’s going to voice her thoughts, she slides on a cheerful façade. It may fool other people, but through the tiny cracks, I can still see her pain.
She smiles in the way she usually does right before making a joke. “My sister dyed her hair black, and I don’t think my mom will let her on the boat when she no longer looks like a California girl.”
I give her a courtesy smile, then gaze at her and wait for a real answer. She doesn’t give it to me, though. She eats her blueberry and says, “What about you? Do you sail? Wait—let me guess. You surf.”
I try to tell myself that it’s okay she’s not ready to open up yet, that I can be patient. I shake my head. “I’ve never tried it.”
Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “Why not?”
“Just haven’t had the chance.” I saw the ocean only once when I was alive, on the same day I drowned in it.
Her brows come back down and pinch together. “Don’t you live around here?”
I’ve never had a conversation like this, where I’ve had to construct my answers so that they’re both truthful and vague. “No—I’m only here for a little while.”
She picks up her sandwich, but doesn’t take a bite. “Well, you can’t visit SLO county without giving surfing a shot. If you catch even one wave, you’ll be hooked for life.” Her expression sobers, and I glimpse that pain in her eyes again before she blinks it away. “I know someone who could give you lessons. His name is Tyler, and he works at the surf shop at Avila Beach. Just go in and tell him I sent you.”
“I might just do that.” Or not. I should probably avoid Tyler so I don’t end up accidentally throwing my fist in his face.
A cell phone on the counter starts vibrating, and Avery reaches for it and looks at the screen. “Sorry, I have to take this.” She takes the phone into the living room. I try not to listen but can’t really help it when there’s nothing else to listen to. It sounds like someone is asking her for a favor, because Avery is saying, “Yeah. I probably could.”
Beth returns to the kitchen and pulls a glass from the cupboard. The beach’s humidity has done a number on her curls, and they’re springing out of her scalp like a jester’s hat. She looks at me. “Did you know Avery makes the most amazing chocolates?”
“Does she?” Of course I already know she works in a chocolate shop. I even sampled the chocolate once before I died.
“If you go to the surf shop like Avery suggested,” Beth says, apparently having eavesdropped on our conversation, “you should stop by her father’s chocolate shop, the Chocolate Couture. Avery works there. She’ll give you some free samples.”
Avery comes back into the kitchen, moves her plate to the sink, and then looks at her mom regretfully. “Dad needs me at work.”
“Avery,” Beth chides. “It’s your day off.”
“I know, but … he needs me. They’re slammed today, and he had to fire one of the new summer employees for giving out a bunch of free chocolate to his friends.”
Beth huffs. “So much for the perfect day.”
Avery turns to me and smiles a little. “You’ve probably been itching for an escape anyway. Do you want a bag for the rest of your sandwich? You didn’t eat very much.”
I look down at my food, which is almost untouched. I guess I was too focused on Avery to eat. “Sure,” I say, standing.
As she bags my sandwich, I stand there hoping I’ll have more time with her. Maybe I’ll visit her at the chocolate shop tomorrow like her mom suggested. Or maybe I’ll visit her later today, in case I don’t have a tomorrow.
She walks me to the door and hands me the paper bag. “Thanks again for helping save the crab.”
I nod as I walk through the doorway and turn back to her. “Thanks for the crab sandwich.”
She smiles, and it actually touches her eyes. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe.” There has to be something else to say, something meaningful in case this is the last time she sees me. I open my mouth, willing the perfect words to come out. “Well … it’s been real.”
She nods, waves, and then shuts the door.
I stand there a moment, like I’m waiting for her to open it back up, even though I know she won’t.
It’s been real? That’s what I went to all this trouble to tell her? It’s been real. Brilliant. I sigh and look down at Charles’s ring. It could be minutes before he notices it missing, or weeks. There’s no way of knowing. So I need to make the most of my time here. Avery’s going to be heading to work soon, so I turn and start walking in that direction, intending to take her mom’s suggestion to get some chocolate samples.
he air is extra clear after last night’s rainstorm, and from where I’m driving, I can see the ocean below, rippling shades of blue and fringes of white foam. My chest aches at the sight of it, so I move my sun visor over the side window and focus on the road instead.
Up ahead, a boy is walking on the shoulder of the highway. He’s tall, and his platinum-blond hair glows like a beacon in the sunlight.
I know that hair. I just said good-bye to it on Mom’s doorstep fifteen minutes ago. I slow down and pull up behind him, lowering my window and leaning out. “Car trouble?”
When he turns and sees me, his eyebrows rise, and the corner of his mouth follows. “You could say that.”
“Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
He comes to my window and lays his hand on the door. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to pick up strangers?”
More than once, Dad has told me not to pick up strangers. Probably because when I first got my drivers license, I did it all the time. A lot of people don’t like to pay for parking near the beach, so when I’d see them struggling with their surfboard and beach bags, I’d pick them up if I was already on my way there.
Kai is less of a stranger than all the others I’ve picked up. However, thanks to our crab rescue, I do know for a fact that he’s carrying something sharp.
I stick my hand out the window and open my palm. My forearm touches his hand where it rests on my door, and I feel a little zing. “Hand over your pocketknife, and I’ll give you a lift.”
He grins and produces his pocketknife, dropping it in my palm. I curl my fingers around it and tuck it in the side pocket of my door.
“Hop in.”
He circles the car and gets in. His legs are so long he has to slide the seat back a foot, and even then, his knees almost touch the glove compartment. The last person to sit there was Paige, and she’s half an inch over five feet. And very proud of that half inch.
“Where to?” I ask as I get back on the road.
He hesitates, as if he’s not really sure. “Just stay on the highway. I’ll tell you when to turn.”
“So,” I say, cringing a bit, “I’m sorry about my mom. She gets a little carried away sometimes.”
“I think she’s nice. Passionate, but nice.” He’s looking down, to where the sun is glinting off his ring. He’s wearing a wristband that matches the ring—silver with a stone-like vein. I wonder where he got them, and if they mean anything special, but it feels like such a nosy question to ask.
“This probably isn’t exactly an ideal vacation day for you,” I say instead. “First, getting harangued by an overzealous screenwriter, and now car trouble.”
“Actually, it’s been a great day. And anyway, I’m not on vacation.” He glances at me, then back to his ring. “I came here to work. For a little while.”
“For the summer?”
He purses his lips. “I hope so.”
Even though I only just met him, I hope so too. He seems like someone I’d like to get to know better. “Where are you working?”
“I … I’m not sure yet.”
“So you’re still looking for a job?” I almost tell him to apply at the Chocolate Couture to replace the guy Dad fired yesterday, but I would never hear the end of my sister Sophie’s teasing if I brought in a cute guy for Dad to hire. “What kind of work are you looking for? Maybe I know someone who’s hiring.”
The lines of concentration deepen between his brows as if he’s making a mental inventory of his skills. “I’m good with my hands. Fixing things. And I spent last summer working in a vineyard.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place, then.” I make a sweeping motion with my hand, as though I’m Vanna White presenting a grand prize of vineyard-wrapped hills.
He nods in agreement. “I’m sure I’ll find something.” My window is still down, and he lowers his too. The humid air rushes in, swirling around us, pulling pieces of hair free from my messy bun. He gazes out the window at a passing orchard, watching rows of apple trees fly by. Then he sticks his hand out the window and spreads his fingers to catch the wind. He closes his eyes, like he’s savoring the sensation. And I find my own hand slipping out the window to do the same.
After a minute, he opens his eyes and looks at me. “I wouldn’t have guessed white.”
“White what?”
He tugs gently on my sleeve. “For a chocolate shop uniform.”
My heart gives a little lurch at his touch. “My black apron is on the back seat.” I slide a hand over my stomach, like I’m touching an imaginary apron. “My dad’s shop is like a fine restaurant. Black and white uniforms, stuffy decor, and gourmet chocolates you can’t find anywhere else. And at least with white, stains can be bleached.”
He goes back to catching the wind, appearing to contemplate this. “Wouldn’t it be nice if people could be bleached too?”
I give a breathy laugh. “You mean like your hair?” I can’t quite get over how white his hair is, and how it makes a stark contrast with his dark lashes and eyebrows.
His hand goes to his hair, and he meets my smile. “I didn’t do this. It just … happened.” And then his expression stills, grows serious. “What I mean is,” he says slowly, “what if whenever we were stained, or hurt, scarred, there was some magical liquid that would just … wash it all away?” He says this like he knows there are things I wish I could wash away. Of course he knows, because what person hasn’t done things they regret, or have wounds that never seem to heal? I wonder which of his stains he wishes could be washed away.
“Some people like their stains,” I say. “They wear them like a badge. Proof that they’ve lived and survived. I think some would choose not to use this magical liquid, even if it were available.”
“Would you?” he asks.
I consider his question. What would it mean to have all my pain washed away? If the hurt from my parents’ separation was gone, would it bring them back together? No—it would only change me so I wouldn’t be bothered by it anymore. And what about my grief over the death of the boy who saved my life? It would be a relief to not feel it anymore. But would I keep searching for his identity if it didn’t hurt so much? Probably not. And his family would never know what became of him. But maybe they wouldn’t care, because they would use the magical liquid too. Our entire society would be full of apathetic, uncaring people. Because it’s what hurts us that makes us human. It’s the pain that makes us compassionate.
“No,” I say after careful deliberation. “The price would be too steep.”
“What if it were free?”
“Nothing is really free.”
He seems to ponder my words for a long moment, then frowns and nods in agreement. At least I think he’s agreeing, until he says, “Maybe things are just harder to see when they don’t have a price tag.” His words swirl around with the air in the car until I see my exit approaching.
“How much farther am I taking you?” I ask. “My exit’s coming up.”
He scratches the back of his head like he’s really not sure where he’s going. “Go ahead and take it.”
I take the exit and head down the ramp. “Where am I taking you anyway? Home?”
He shakes his head. “I’m still working on that too. I only got here this morning.”
“So you don’t have a place to stay?” At the bottom of the ramp I turn right and pull over.
My concern seems to amuse him, because there’s a glint of humor in his eyes when he says, “I have a place. I just haven’t found it yet.” He pulls the handle and swings the door open. “Thanks for the ride. I can get out here.”
“But there’s nothing around here.” The shops on the beachfront are still a mile away, and in the opposite direction, waves of orchards and vineyards stretch endlessly. “At least let me take you to the beachfront.”
He gets out and looks around, like someone at a fork in the road, debating whether to go left or right. “I think I’ll visit some of the vineyards, see if they need help.” He shuts the door, and I feel panicky, like it will be the worst thing in the world if he walks away and I never see him again. But he doesn’t walk away. He gazes at me through the open window for one, two, three breaths. There’s a strange charge in the air, like a thunderstorm is hovering overhead, but the clouds above us are white and wispy. He rests his arm on the passenger door and leans toward me. “Can I come see you later?
At the chocolate shop?”
I nod, trying to pace the up-and-down bobbing of my head so I don’t appear too eager.
“Maybe we can get some dinner when you get off work. That is, if I find a job before then, and get paid. I’m sort of short on cash.” He shuts his eyes and grimaces, like he regrets this admission.
“It’s okay,” I say, biting my lip to keep my smile in check. “I could pay or—”
He shakes his head. “I’m not going to be one of those guys your mom was complaining about. If I can help it, I’m keeping chivalry alive and well.”
“I’m a twenty-first century kind of girl. And I have a healthy savings account.”
“And I’m a twenty-first century kind of guy with a healthy ego.”
So much for keeping my smile in check. I feel it spreading across my face with abandonment. “Dutch?”
“American. I’m buying.”
I slide my gearshift into drive and stifle a laugh. “Come by later. We’ll figure something out.”
His gaze lingers on my face for a moment longer, and then he nods and straightens, waving before he turns and walks away.
The Chocolate Couture is packed when I walk in, tourists come to top off their lunch with something indulgent. As I step into the bustle, a familiar peace washes over me. Cold air falls from the vent above the entrance, but inside the shop it always feels warm to me. Maybe it’s the walls that are painted the color of melted caramel and cherry ganache, or the sweet air, as though the dust motes are coated in sugar.
Paige wonders why I spend so much time here. It’s because the only time I feel truly calm is when I’m immersed in busy work. Work is where I can forget about heroes who can’t be identified, parents who can’t be reconciled, and a longing for an ex-boyfriend that can’t be satisfied. I can get lost in the flurry of tasks, in tastes and aromas, in customers’ euphoric expressions when they taste something I’ve created. But today, something is on my mind that I don’t want to leave behind. Kai. His great smile, and his empty pockets, and our penciled-in plans for tonight.