And I realize that I’ll never know what Thatcher’s skin feels like. I’ll never have with him what I had with Nick. Part of me is clinging to the past and part of me wants to consider the future.
Nick flinches, looking spooked.
Come to think of it, spooked is the perfect word for his expression. My heart drops—I felt everything; I felt my love for him.
And he felt afraid.
“Nick,” I whisper.
He doesn’t realize that I’m here. I hear Thatcher’s voice echoing in my head, telling me that touching is the wrong way to haunt, a poltergeist’s mistake.
Nick brushes the dirt off his jeans and kicks a couple of beer cans at his feet.
I want to scream at him: This is not you.
We had an amazing kiss in these woods, when he took me for a walk one Saturday afternoon. I was the one who made it happen. He reached out for my hand to help me over a fallen branch, and I took it and pulled him close to me. His lips tasted like peppermint. I could feel his grin as we kissed in the late-afternoon sun. And when we finally parted, he said, “Thank God. I was waiting for that all day.”
I smile just remembering it, but this scene looks nothing like that one. Nick is sad and stumbling, surrounded by empty cans and the stink of a life unraveling. Because of me.
His phone buzzes and I look over his shoulder as he checks the text.
It’s from Austin Getts, a guy we’ve never really hung out with. He’s kind of a stoner. “McCann’s in 30 mins,” it says.
Tim McCann throws legendary parties. The big-house-on-the-hill, teen-movie-worthy kind.
When Nick bends down to pick up his empty six-pack, I’m grateful that he’s enough himself not to leave trash in the woods. But I’m still worried as he begins to head back to his car. And I’m determined not to leave his side tonight, not until I bring him peace. Until I let him go.
As Nick gets into his Camry, I pass through the door and slide into the passenger seat. “Nick, call someone to come get you. You’ve had too much to drink.”
He looks in my direction, and for a split second, I think maybe he’s heard me. But then he reaches through me toward the glove compartment. Energy ripples between us, like when you’re in a pool and someone swims by you and stirs up the water, but Nick doesn’t notice my presence. He grabs his iPod plug-in and sets it up, choosing Neutral Milk Hotel. Then we back up out of the driveway.
“Nick, please.” To my surprise, he’s driving straight, so maybe he hasn’t had that much to drink. Still, he shouldn’t be on the road. Maybe if I can reach him, he’ll pull over.
“Since when do you meet Austin Getts at a party?” I ask.
No answer.
“You look good,” I say. “Your hair’s getting longer.”
His eyes narrowing like he’s concentrating, Nick stares straight ahead at the road.
“I thought you didn’t like your hair long in the summer—last year you said it made your neck too hot.” An image flashes through my mind: I’m pushing aside the fringe of Nick’s hair, when it was getting long, to kiss the back of his neck. We were down by the docks last summer, and his skin was tan from the sun—it tasted like salt water because of the breeze. The way he looked at me that day, it made me feel powerful and wanted and loved—because this was my Nick, and I knew that he felt it, too. The way we belonged together. The way we just fit.
But we don’t fit anymore. I think of Thatcher. I have memories of him now. Not as many, but they’re still strong and vivid. I’m trapped between two worlds.
Tears start to sting the corners of my eyes. I have to let this one go. I have to let Nick go.
I stare at the dashboard for a minute while “In the Aeroplane over the Sea” plays. I think about the texts that I saw in Nick’s room, and I wonder again what they meant. What secrets did Nick have from me?
That doesn’t matter now, I tell myself. I have to pull it together and make this haunting work.
Some part of me wants to ignore the fact that I’m the dead girl in the front seat; I want to believe that I’m sitting here with my boyfriend on the way to a party. But he’s not acting like my Nick at all. I study his face, trying to see what’s changed. His eyes are more sunken and his skin is sallow. He’s grieving, I remind myself, but it’s more than that.
It’s so quiet in the car, the silence thick and heavy. Nick reaches into the center console and pulls out a small bottle of Jameson, like those little ones on planes. At the stop sign near Tim’s neighborhood, he unscrews the tiny cap and drinks it down in two gulps.
“What’s happening to you?” I ask him, my voice quiet.
His eyes are glassy, and if I thought there was a chance he’d realize I’m here, it’s wiped away now. He’s not in tune with anything around him, let alone the ghost of his dead girlfriend in the passenger seat.
When we pull into the giant circular driveway, I see that there are already dozens of cars parked haphazardly on the sprawling lawn.
I follow Nick to the front door and enter my first postmortem social gathering.
The grand, sweeping staircase is already littered with teetering underclassmen who sit along its steps, stare out into the grand foyer, and watch the jocks funnel beer over the marble floor.
“I’m open!” shouts Nick as he walks into the fray and grabs the funnel-and-tube contraption from a wobbly Rich Langley.
And then sweet, not-a-big-drinker Nick holds the tube above his mouth and funnels the can of beer that the soccer boys pour into his throat without spilling a drop.
“Yeah, Fisher!” they shout, clapping him on the back.
Who is Nick becoming?
Shaking my head, I follow him into the kitchen. This is the kind of party where Carson and I definitely would have made an appearance, if only to gossip about people later. The short skirts and the long, blown-out hair all swirl together as I move through the house. I hear Leila Donninger fake-laughing at Mike Rutiglia’s bad joke, and the shrill sound hurts my ears. Faces rush past me with caked-on sparkle, making pink cheeks shine with cheer even as black-rimmed eyes betray darker emotions.
Most people seem to avoid the spot where I’m standing, maybe by instinct or some unseen energy that I’m holding here, but others stumble right through me. When they do, I feel a slight tingle, soft and barely perceptible. I know the Living feel nothing—they don’t pause or even change expression—and I’m aware again of my complete invisibility, my nothingness to them.
Danny Boyster pushes by Gina O’Neill, and I watch her face fall as he sidles up to Morgan Jackson, who’s wearing a pink halter top with a low, sequined neckline that shows off her huge chest. The halter top is tucked into a tiny white skirt that would prompt Carson to say, “Pull that down before someone sees Christmas!” because it comes just under the curve of her behind. She grins and brushes against Danny while Gina turns away and flashes a bright smile in the other direction—but her watery eyes tell another story. I hear her whisper, “Morgan is such a slut,” to Molly Raider, but the pain of rejection in her voice is obvious.
Everyone seems nervous, on edge, somehow more desperate than I remember. I wonder if that’s because I’m watching them from the outside. Did I use to be like this? It all looks like such a waste of energy to me now.
I realize that getting caught up in Gina’s drama made me lose track of Nick, and I do a quick walk-through of the living room again before I wander upstairs to try to find him. In the second-floor hallway there’s a line for the bathroom because Tim is stingy about that—he lets partygoers use only one bathroom, even though the house has, like, six.