Chapter 39
Morgan
It’s ironic, learning life lessons from a ghost. Yet Zach’s words set in firmly with me and Sawyer, making us better behaved for the remainder of the hour-long drive.
We chat like old friends. Sawyer details more of his recent full-time return to pottery. I confess to forgetting my purple coleus in error, not to insult him. He promises I can come over to retrieve the plant before I leave.
We even play road-trip games with Zach. We spot license plates—Georgia, Washington, Nevada. Even my soon-to-be new home state. On the off-ramp to San Onofre, incredibly, we find Iowa. Zach cheers.
We watch the sun rise over the highway. My mood lightens with the morning sky. It’s surprisingly easy with Sawyer to forget my resentment, my wounded indignation.
Not my regret, though. I wish I could take back what I said to him.
Sawyer does have unfinished business. Every day must feel unfinished for him.
Unlike our ghosts, what’s missing from his world is something he can never regain, not with Kennedy gone for good.
He’s had to construct his new life on the shattered foundation of his old one.
I understand the fear it’s left in him. I feel it in the bruise forming on my chest where he flung out his protective hand. An instinctual reaction betraying how unimaginable loss is never unimaginable for him.
But even more than that…I think it meant he might still care for me.
Yes, I know wanting to save someone from vehicular peril is not exactly equivalent to writing wedding vows. But in that moment, Sawyer’s instinct was for me. It’s not nothing.
I still care for him, I know I do. Despite everything, I do. I just don’t know if it’s enough, not with what he’s been through. What we’ve been through. Zach or no Zach, Kennedy or no Kennedy, I’m pretty sure we’re both haunted now by forces far more powerful than the paranormal.
It’s why I’m leaving LA. Why I have to leave.
When Sawyer pulls the van into the sandy parking lot for San Onofre State Beach, I remember to focus on the now, not my impending departure. Make the most of our time here, like Zach said.
Our destination is intuitively obvious—the group of vans in one corner of the parking lot just like ours.
I feel my heart quicken the way it did when I discovered Zach’s keys.
This time, this place…I’ve cherished my freedom in my decades of living everywhere, but I haven’t often felt like I was where I was supposed to be.
It’s nice.
Zach doesn’t hesitate when Sawyer parks. The ghost glides through the wall of the van. “The swells are excellent already,” he announces from outside.
Smiling, I reach for my seat belt.
Sawyer’s hand on mine stops me. I look up, finding his gaze pained.
“Morgan, I—” he starts.
“It’s okay,” I preempt him. “Me too.”
He nods, his relief visible. The inescapable tension in his posture relaxes a little.
“You make a pretty good seat belt, you know,” I say.
Sawyer glances to where my shirt reveals red splotches on my skin from his forceful restraint. New mortification shadows over his features. “I’m sorry,” he exhales. “I was so scared.”
Reaching for the passenger door, I shrug. “I wasn’t,” I say. “Not with you.”
Outside, San Onofre State Beach meets us in morning splendor.
The shoreline is stunning. Not much has changed here for centuries, I would guess, except for the surfers enjoying the “excellent swells.” Perfect light blue sky opens over the stretch of sand, the cliffs rising from the water with low grass covering their sculpted plateaus.
The wind whispers over the coastline in the chilly morning.
While Sawyer is stepping out of the van, one of the surfers leaving the water pauses, seeing us. He picks up his pace, jogging in our direction while beckoning to friends on the shoreline. When he nears us, I hear what he’s calling out.
“Ana!” he exclaims. “Guys, Ana is here!”
More surfers join him. Soon, everyone has assembled, surrounding us. Or rather, Zach’s sky-hued van, Ana.
Zach watches the group, rapturous. They look like him, I notice. Not like relatives, but in the more important ways. They’re his people. They share his sunlight-sharp, immediate exuberance.
“Everyone is here,” Zach marvels, looking at each of his friends in turn. “Rick, Ben, Ashley, Layla, Otto. Wow, we all really grew up, I guess!”
The group’s regard moves from the van to us. I understand the curiosity on everyone’s faces.
I stretch out my hand toward the first person Zach mentioned. “Rick, right? I’m Morgan. This is Sawyer. We’re friends of Zach’s. He told us about the Perfect Weekend. We wanted to make sure to bring his van—um, Ana,” I say, “and Zach’s board out one last time.”
Tears well in the widening eyes of the group. I prepare myself for their questions. How did we know Zach? Why did he never mention us? Why didn’t someone else, someone he told us about, drive his van out to the Perfect Weekend?
The woman Zach called Layla steps forward. Without warning, she crushes me into a warm hug.
“Sorry if you’re not a hugger,” she says into my shoulder, sounding not sorry. I smile. “You just must have been really good friends of Zach’s,” she says. “Which means you’re our friends now.”
I hug Layla back, feeling tears of my own moistening my laughter. It’s impossible how instantly I feel like I’ve known the Perfect Weekend crew for years.
I guess it’s not the only impossibility of Zach’s presence in my life, though.
“Yeah,” I say wetly. “We were really good friends. Zach loved all of you guys so much. He told us how excited he was for this weekend with you all. How glad he was you’d brought the tradition back.
He really wanted to go.” While I can’t tell them about his unfinished business, I can make sure they know just how important they were to him.
Zach smiles fondly. “Ask Ben how his kids are, and ask Ashley if she picked a wedding date yet,” he requests. “Oh, and did Otto move to Boulder?”
I withdraw from Layla’s embrace and look at the man next to Rick. “You’re Ben,” I say. He nods. “How are your kids?”
Ben sniffles. “They’re good,” he chokes out. “Really good. My daughter is into skateboarding. I think surfing will be next.”
Zach laughs. “Hell yeah.”
Sawyer steps up to my side. Like in Harrison’s Hardware, his presence immediately steadies me. Solid, like the warming stone of the cliffs surrounding us. “And, Ashley,” he says to the woman next to Rick. “You have a wedding coming up?”
Ashley beams. “Next summer. On the beach. Wish Zach could be there,” she says, her voice wobbling.
Layla wraps her arm around her friend’s shoulder. She really is a hugger. “He’ll be there,” she reassures Ashley, who nods like she’s reminding herself.
I notice Sawyer watching their interaction with fresh pain clouding his features. I remember how he confessed to withdrawing when Kennedy died. The memories he regrets losing, the parts of Kennedy he never shared. The friendships he let vanish when he retreated into his haunted house.
I wonder if this is one of the ethereal gifts Zach might give Sawyer. When I’m gone from LA, maybe Sawyer will reach out to friends or family. Maybe he’ll realize overcoming grief is easier when you manage it the way you might clear out a monstrous garden—with help.
“We’ll bring a piece of him with us,” Layla says to Ashley.
Zach straightens in inspiration. “My board!” he suggests.
I hear my cue. “You could take Zach’s board if you want,” I offer. “I know it’s not the same, but it would be a piece of him.”
Ashley looks up in wondrous disbelief. “Really?”
“Zach wouldn’t have wanted it any other way,” Sawyer says to her quietly.
Zach nods. I don’t know if I’m just projecting or if Zach looks less insubstantial, more human. Like his ghostly form is responding to the fulfillment of his final wishes.
Recalling my last assignment from Zach, I look at the man who hasn’t spoken, standing next to Layla.
“Otto,” I venture. “Have you moved to Boulder yet?”
For some reason, everyone cracks up. Self-conscious, I look at Sawyer, whose confusion matches mine. Zach, for his part, is no help, grinning gleefully.
“Um, sorry if Zach was mistaken,” I say.
“No,” Rick replies. “No, Zach was right. See, dude?” he chides Otto. “Even beyond the grave, he knows you need to pull the trigger! It’s been years! Do it for Zach!”
The chorus comes up from the crew—“Boulder! Boulder!” When they fall into rhythm, Zach joins in, first hesitant, then louder, though none of them can hear him.
Or maybe they can. Maybe he’s a pop song stuck in their heads, a rattling in the cabinets of their hearts, a motionless earthquake in the sand under their feet.
Otto laughs, raising his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay!” he concedes.
Grinning, Layla looks at us. “Hey, Morgan, Sawyer. Do you guys surf?”
Sawyer shakes his head.
“I don’t know how,” I reply.
“I can teach you if you want,” Layla says. “You could use Zach’s board.”
Zach’s eyes round. He steps right in front of me, looking giddy. “Please,” he implores. “Please take my board out, Morgan. Maybe”—he realizes—“maybe I can go with you. One last ride.”
I hesitate. I hadn’t planned on learning new water sports today, but…how could I deny Zach his Perfect Weekend dreams?
“Let’s do it,” I say. The group cheers. Zach fist-pumps. I guess I’m taking a ghost surfing.
I psych myself up—eighty percent of my recent living locales have been landlocked, and honestly, I’m sort of scared of the endless, powerful roll of the waves, the unflinching drag of the current.
Standing on the shore, though, I think of what really scares me.
In the past months of my haunted life, my most frightened moments haven’t been spooky supernatural occurrences or ghostly manifestations.
They’ve been times of sharing the weight of grief or wondering whether I’d ruined someone’s life or giving my heart to someone unexpected.
Sometimes fear is the ghost of love. The shadow drawn by the enormity of what it means to care for someone.
Zach needs this. So, for him, I’ll get scared.