Chapter 35
Sawyer
The summer heat is punishing.
I’d forgotten how it felt to toss and turn in too-hot sheets, to take lukewarm showers, to shove my sweaters into the farthest corner of my dresser. I’ve had to delve deep into the supply of old T-shirts I’ve barely worn in the past five years while Los Angeles swelters in ninety-degree sunshine.
It’s not just the climate I find stifling. The house is…different. Everything is different. It’s like with more emptiness, the space has become more suffocating. More like a tomb.
I would find the feeling ironic if I could have a sense of humor about my situation. Instead, I ignore the deeper problems like I ignore the purple coleus on the studio windowsill.
Sweating through my wardrobe of necessity, I hustle downstairs to meet my takeout delivery.
My days consist even more now of solitary routines.
Cooking, home maintenance, pottery. Repeat.
Repeat. Repeat. Food deliveries offer pitiful interruptions from the monotony I have more or less embraced, like I’m some future postapocalyptic refugee.
When I open the door, I’m almost hoping the DoorDash driver took long enough for my pad Thai to have gone cold, given the weather.
Hand still on the doorknob, I stop.
On my doorstep is not my dinner delivery.
Zach stands in front of me. He’s semitransparent, as usual, but through his ghostly form, I see—
Morgan.
“Hey, man! I missed you!” Zach exclaims.
I can’t stop staring through his translucent edges. “Zach, hi,” I reply. “Is…something wrong?”
Of course something’s wrong! my grief-won pessimism screams at me. I don’t fight it. There’s no other reason Morgan would ever deign to return here, right? There must’ve been some sort of ghost emergency. My heart skips a beat—the earthquake. Was there another Zach attack? Was Morgan hurt?
I resist peering closer around my spectral friend. I don’t need to. Morgan steps aside grudgingly. She looks uninjured—in the physical sense.
There’s no mistaking the reservation in her eyes, like fog finally settling over the golden light I found in them when I was close enough to have the chance. She does not look pleased to see me. She looks closed off.
Fine. Resentment kicks on in me. Yes, I didn’t react perfectly to my fiancée essentially dying on me for the second time. Yes, I blamed Morgan instead of blaming myself. Forgive me.
In my minimalist boho tomb, I’ve had plenty of time to magnify my mistakes. I know I didn’t handle Kennedy’s final disappearance gracefully. But if Morgan really cared for me the way I very fucking obviously care about her, she would have had more grace for me.
I’m still pissed she didn’t tell me what Kennedy’s real unfinished business was. I know why she didn’t; it’s just…not only did Kennedy’s departure hit me out of nowhere. Now I know the last week I ever had with Kennedy, she was hiding something from me.
With Morgan’s help.
How can I not resent the woman standing in front of me?
Above it all, and hardest to confront, I hate how my feelings were exposed by tragedy ripping ragged edges in my life once again. I hate that the way Morgan found out I love—loved—her was Kennedy leaving. Why couldn’t I just have one uncomplicated, normal thing in my life?
It doesn’t matter now, I remind myself when Morgan crosses her arms in uncomfortable confrontation. It’s dead and buried, like Kennedy. The look on Morgan’s face says everything.
“I found Zach’s car keys,” she states.
Surprise makes me falter in my diligent defiance. The week I spent with Morgan hunting for Zach’s lost keys was one of the most hopeful I can remember. The opposite of grief-won pessimism. Chasing possibilities with Morgan around Los Angeles felt like…
Like life.
Now Morgan holds those hopes in her hand. Literally, I notice. Metal glints from her fingertips.
“Zach wants you to come with us to go search the van,” she continues.
Zach coughs pointedly. “We want you to come with us,” he says. “It’s not just me.”
Morgan glares at him. Zach either doesn’t notice or, more likely, doesn’t care.
I look slowly to Morgan. Yes, I’m wondering whether Zach’s positive spin holds even a hint of accuracy. “If you want me to come, then I’ll come,” I finally say icily.
Now it’s me who earns Zach’s exasperation. He rolls his eyes indulgently, his surfer’s hair flopping to one side. “Guys, no one is going to die if you admit you miss each other,” he chastens us.
Silence greets his choice of words.
“Bad joke. Sorry,” Zach demurs.
Not even ghost puns can pull Morgan or me from our stern standoff. Neither of us looks at each other.
“I think I’ve admitted enough,” I say, unable to keep from hearing my own anguished voice in my head.
I love you. The way I spoke those words, they sounded like the sort of confession that leads to a guilty verdict and a gallows sentence, not…
I don’t know what. I don’t know what I ever imagined with Morgan.
She scoffs. It irritates me.
“More than some, anyway,” I add, sharpening my voice with accusation.
It works—momentarily. Morgan shrinks from my insinuation, then finds her fight. “You look flushed, Sawyer. Maybe it’s time to install some AC. Or wait, no,” she snaps. “Wouldn’t want something in this house to actually change.”
Zach steps into our fraught midst. “I think lots of great constructive feedback is going around. Nice work, you two,” he says enthusiastically with very forced patience. “Let’s think about those points on the road.”
Morgan remains faintly visible past him. I drag my eyes from her.
“I’ll come with,” I declare. “For Zach.”