Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
SEVEN DAYS AFTER (STILL IN A COMA, THANKS FOR ASKING)
We sit in Rafael’s truck—one he bought after his third promotion.
I’m surprised it’s not been keyed by the countless Violets he’s no doubt left brokenhearted over the years.
I’ve imagined taking a key to his overpriced, gas-guzzling baby a time or two, but I have some boundaries when it comes to our rivalry.
“Thought of anything?” His question cuts through the quiet hum of the AC.
Palms out, I reach for the vents but feel nothing. None of the cold air. None of the sun’s warmth. Apparently, afterlife physics means I can walk through walls but not enjoy central air. Figures.
But none of this stops the chaos happening inside, where everything’s a hot, confusing mess with zero explanation—no why for my predicament and definitely no why for Rafael’s question.
Because I don’t know why spirit me would have been separated from physical me without me actually moving on to wherever it is spirits go next. Heaven, Great-Aunt Julia would have said while she was alive. It’s where we all go when God calls us home.
Wherever you are, Great-Aunt Julia, my invite must have gotten lost in the mail. If there was an invite at all. The last time I stepped into a church was on the second-worst day of my life, and it’s been fifteen years since.
So, if why I haven’t moved on is a matter of missing church and learning some big lesson, I’m probably stuck here for a while.
I shudder at the thought of haunting the world forever …
but that can’t be my ever after, right? I mean, I don’t go to church, but I’m not an entirely terrible person.
Did I pay someone to move Rafael’s truck to another parking structure three months ago?
Sure. Did I enjoy his five-hour-long search?
Also, sure. But that can’t be why I’m here, can it?
I’ve tried to balance my more questionable actions with good.
I rarely lie. I almost never curse. I’ve never stolen, despite having been homeless for months at a time.
I’ve fostered dogs and mentored girls. I would never admit this to Rafael, but I once bought all the Girl Scout cookies he brought in to work (okay, I did it twice—I don’t lie—because his nieces are very, very cute).
None of this leads to why I’m stuck here.
Great-Aunt Julia would pat my head and tell me to pray on it. I think I might be a little late to the prayer party, given I’m this.
“Since when do you bite your nails?” Rafael asks. I feel his gaze.
Despite not caring what he thinks, I drop my hand from my lips into my lap, curling my fingers into a fist. “It’s a habit I picked up postmortem,” I offer with a sharp smile.
“You’re not dead.”
“Halfway there.”
“You don’t know that,” he insists.
I let him have that one because my ghostly expertise is still loading, because I don’t know much of anything at this point. Nothing that makes logical sense, at least. Great-Aunt Julia thought we all went to heaven, but the sweet woman was clearly wrong.
“I think I have an explanation,” I offer, leaning on the only spiritual knowledge I ever learned.
“Explain.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” I offer as preamble, shifting so I can face him fully.
My dress hikes up my thigh, and I dig my fingers into my palm to keep from tugging it back into place. An hour ago, I was asking him to feel me up, so showing him a little skin shouldn’t bother me, but it does. All things Rafael Vela get under my skin … which leads me to my explanation.
“Hell. I’m in hell.”
Rafael doesn’t so much as blink. “What?”
“This is hell.” I gesture to his truck, to the outside. I don’t point to him, because that would be too on-the-nose. If I haven’t made it to Great-Aunt Julia’s heaven, then this must be the alternative. I’ve died, and Rafael is my perpetual punishment (because I clearly didn’t buy enough cookies).
“Let me get this straight,” he says, leaning his back into his seat and leveling a narrowed gaze at me. “You think you’re in hell, and I’m the only one who can see you?”
“Yes … minus the burning fires.” I mime flames with my fingers.
Rafael pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a deep, frustrated sigh that makes me bristle. “If this is your hell, then why am I the one who can see you?”
He’s the devil is a plausible explanation, but one that might result in him going back up to the hospital room to finish the deed (if my current theory is off the mark). I imagine his tanned finger wrapping around my pale neck and squeezing.
Shaking the image from my mind, I clear my throat. “Maybe you’re dead too?” I say tightly, momentarily petrified by the thought of being stuck in perpetuity together.
He mutters a string of Spanish. Another heavy sigh. A dark look. “Being on the other end of this, I understand if this is traumatic for you,” he starts, speaking to me like a child who needs to be talked to slowly. “But I can tell you for certain, this isn’t hell.”
I swallow a knot of annoyance. “Oh, is that right? Who died and made you an expert on all things heaven-and-hell?”
“For one, lots of people.” Rafael holds up one finger, the tip of it bearing a white scar. “And two, you’d probably have to be dead to be in hell.” Another finger pops up beside the first.
My annoyance flares.
And because I need answers, I focus on his words instead of his tone or his fingers. I consider my comatose body, kept alive by medical equipment. Alive. He has a point. Not that I’ll admit it.
“All right. What’s your theory?” I ask. “About what’s happening?”
Rafael rolls his shoulders and takes another deep breath. “That I’ve taken too many meds.”
I snort.
Rafael’s eyes snap to mine.
“What?” I scowl.
“The flesh-and-bone Evie Pope never made such sounds,” he muses, tapping his finger against the steering wheel.
“I can assure you I’m one and the same.” Give or take some bones. “You don’t believe me?” I push, needing an answer.
Rafael does what he’s done all morning—and not once in years—and ignores me as he reaches for the center console and presses a button. The screen lights up; the truck purrs to life. My nerves short-circuit.
A different kind of distress—some would call it a phobia—kicks in as he shifts the truck into drive. I grind my teeth against the rush of anxiety. Breathe.
Hands pressed against each other, I count through four Mamma Mias and direct my thoughts from the moving vehicle to something more productive than giving in to my fear. Like my situation and dissecting the why on my own because he’s not been helpful.
Although I hate to admit it, Rafael might be right.
This may not be my hell, and it’s most certainly not Great-Aunt Julia’s heaven.
Arriving at either of those places would mean it’s game over for me, but I’m still here.
Which means it’s not over over, only like a little bit over.
And what if that means I still have a chance to go back instead of moving forward or upward or whichever direction I’m destined to go?
What if I can find a way to get this ghost me into the hospital bed me?
The thought makes me jerk up and gasp, “Ohmygod.”
“Are you seeing the light?” Rafael’s voice makes my ears perk in his direction.
Scowling, I slowly twist to face him. He watches me with amusement while the truck idles at a stoplight. “You’re infuriating,” I say.
“I think you mentioned that in the Publicity Today interview.”
“Ha. I told them you were incorrigible.”
“Was that before or after you told them you’d mentored me?”
I felt quite proud when that bit of information made it into the final published interview.
I remember the day Rafael read it. Sipping my coffee, I watched from my desk as he scanned the piece.
His eyebrows danced as he read about how I’d taught him a lot of what he knew, and I experienced a giddiness only he could make me feel. Only torturing him made me feel.
A satisfied smirk tugs at my lips, so I quickly fix my face into a scowl. “Were it not for all of my work on the Betton account, you wouldn’t have gotten that promotion before me.”
Rafael tenses, amusement fading. “If you say so.”
He gives me nothing to fight against—just the maddening silence from this morning.
I attempt to push the memory of our first major account back into where I store all rage-inducing memories, but the hurt is still there.
Achy and all-consuming, if I let it. Almost three years of friendship, of thinking we were in it together, that we had each other’s backs.
Rafael helped me think like one of the guys, and I helped him pursue accounts like someone with an actual plan.
I took up golfing (Rafael’s idea) and, for a short—unfortunately unforgettable—time, smoking cigars (my idea).
He took up organizing projects in folders and even used a planner—for two weeks.
He challenged me to stop overthinking and go for it, and I challenged him to talk less and observe more.
He made me see the benefits of networking, and I helped him see the benefits of really knowing what our bosses wanted.
And along the way, we spent countless hours together and he became someone who was more than a colleague—a friend.
Until he had me cut from the Betton account.
Because after almost a year of prep, he decided he didn’t need a colead.
So, when I relied on him implicitly, he took it away—not only the account, but also the sizable commission and the stability that would have come with it.
The opportunity to move from the rat-infested basement I was renting to somewhere less hazardous.
The chance to work fewer hours and maybe, finally, catch my breath.
I cried into a tub of ice cream that night …
and came back the next morning, ready to play the game his way. I haven’t looked back since.
Always forward. Until now, that is.