Chapter 8 #2
Because the only way forward might be by going back … and using him to help me.
“I understand that this will probably go against your Evie instincts, but I’m hoping you can help me,” I blurt as Rafael steers the truck onto Lake Shore Drive.
A black SUV allows him to merge onto the busy road, and Rafael accelerates with ease.
Momentarily frozen by terror, I grasp the edge of the seat, but my hand moves through it.
I swallow a frustrated sigh and curl my hands into one another, savoring the solidity of the grip.
Of course my hands are useless, but my ghost ass stays planted just fine.
I’d ask questions, but the universe isn’t exactly playing Team Evie.
The thing is, not a lot scares me—I was raised by a narcissist—but there’s something about being in a vehicle with someone else in charge of what happens, of how fast and where we go, that makes me feel unmoored. Helpless. A little sick.
I force myself to steady my breathing.
Rafael doesn’t miss any of it. To my shock, the truck slows. “Evie instincts?”
“You know—the knee-jerk inclination to thwart me and take things from me?” The words slip through my lips. His jaw clamps down and flexes, and I inwardly kick myself.
“You have an interesting way of asking for help,” he says, his hands tightening around the steering wheel as he navigates the truck between lanes and cars. Even if he’s not speeding, my breathing hitches. If I didn’t die by a car the night outside the Aviary, perhaps this ride will be it.
My heart pitches against my ribs, and I press my hand against my chest. Distantly, I think I hear the beeping of monitors. Feel a dull throbbing at the base of my skull. Sounds fade. The road blurs.
“Hey.” His voice pulls me to the present moment. “I was kidding about going toward the light.”
I blink and straighten. “It was so tempting,” I say airily, shaking off a panic attack—and potential fainting.
The truck stops at a red light, and I relax long enough to remember I need something from him, something I won’t get playing Evie vs. Rafael. I need a better tactic. Like seeing Rafael as a client, not an opponent. Someone to win over.
While it pains me to ask him for help, he might be my only option.
“As I was saying …” I start.
The light turns green, and Rafael accelerates, following behind another car too closely for my liking.
“Maybe you …” My voice falters. I can’t look at the road.
This is the point where physical me would be barfing into a bag.
Ghost me battles waves of nausea. “You might feel inclined to help me,” I manage through clenched teeth.
We turn onto Michigan Ave., the truck finally slowing. I force air into my lungs.
“What can I help with?” Rafael asks.
Watching the road. Not getting us killed. “Getting me back into my body, preferably,” I say, but I can’t bring myself to look at him … and it has nothing to do with the traffic and everything to do with my situation.
I never ask for help, least of all from Rafael. The last time he “helped,” it left me with low-key PTSD—and a deep mistrust of all things male, dimpled, and Vela. How do I convince him to help when I haven’t convinced myself?
“I know this is a little—a lot—surreal, but you’re the only one who can see me.
As you might imagine, it makes my options very limited.
” I attempt to keep my voice level and detached, even as I’m feeling walls crumple around me.
Feeling bits of Evie Pope become exposed to the one person I’ve built them to keep out.
“And you want my help?” He sounds surprised and unsure, and we might be feeling the same things.
“Uh-huh.” I barely hear myself.
I feel Rafael’s eyes on me, but I can’t look at him. He’ll see right through me.
“You don’t want my help,” he says.
Don’t I know it.
The truck rolls through the city. The sun’s bright against a clear-blue summer sky.
Buildings stretch tall above the city. People buzz past, their cell phones plastered to their ears.
Tourists huddle around a busking duo. The world is so achingly alive, and the desire to stay in it is crushing. Rafael’s silence more so.
“I really need it.” Needs trump wants.
Another stretch of silence—and it’s enough to get me to look. His features reveal nothing. No stretching of his toned muscles or smiling into dimple territory. Not even a sign of the tic in his cheek.
“I mean it,” I add, feeling like I need to try harder. Still nothing.
Okay, he’s playing tough ball. I’ve played tough ball since the day my mother disappeared for a week, leaving Annie and me to fend for ourselves.
We were nine and seven years old. Annie took care of the both of us, even though she was the one who needed taking care of—already getting sick more often, already carrying more than any kid should.
Somehow we didn’t fall apart or starve. We danced and sang and wished on shooting stars.
We would move to the big city—Chicago, because Great-Aunt Julia brought us here once—and buy the prettiest dresses.
Annie would become a singer, and I would be a dancer. We’d make our biggest dreams possible.
I need to do whatever I can to keep that dream alive. I owe it to Annie to fight.
I have one bargaining chip left, and it’s the most important, the one I’ve been busting my ass for years to earn and then protect from Rafael.
And if I hesitate—remotely give the decision a second thought—I’ll talk myself out of it, backtrack to ground zero, where there aren’t other answers or options.
Taking a steadying breath, I say, “If you help me get back into my body, I’ll drop out of the running for the director role.
I won’t fight you for it. I’ll tell Dana it’s all yours.
” I swallow. “Well deserved, even.” Even though the words burn my throat, my voice is clear and firm.
Everything I’ve worked for in exchange for another chance at life.
But these are the types of deals you make when you’re in hell and dealing with the devil.