Chapter 9 #2
“Door’s about to close,” Rafael says.
Charlene laughs softly. “I know how doors work, Raf.”
“I know you do.” Rafael winks at her. “Bye, Char.”
The doors begin to slide shut.
“See you around.” Charlene waves at him before she turns and walks to her car.
I stare after her. I wouldn’t have thought someone like her would be into someone like him, someone who doesn’t even bother to learn the names of all the someones he’s into.
Charlene can do way, way better, but she’s clearly been Vela’d.
I have so many questions, but mostly I want to hurt him.
“Rafael.” I turn toward the elevator—the one that’s gone up without me, with the man who’s most likely broken my neighbor’s heart. Of course he’d leave me down here.
The elevator dings.
The doors slide open again.
Rafael leans against the back wall, hands tucked into his pants. “Coming?”
I march into the elevator, ensuring I keep the farthest distance from him. The doors close, but the lift doesn’t move, not until Rafael’s arm brushes past mine and punches the floor number. Eight.
My nerves flare as I brace for the worst. What if I plummet through the floor?
Or short-circuit the entire system with my ghost vibes?
But nothing happens. The elevator moves.
The floor stays solid. The cables don’t snap.
I breathe—or seethe—for oh-so-many reasons, but I bite my tongue.
It’s none of my business if Charlene wants to hook up with Rafael.
I only wish she’d asked me first, because I know more about Rafael than he knows about himself.
His cholesterol-loaded diet. His proclivity for jaywalking and absentminded humming of Disney tunes.
The way he stretches when he’s sitting and standing and doing nothing that remotely resembles physical activity.
“What’s going through your Rafael-consumed mind?”
I snort at his question, feeling my neck and cheeks heat. I’m glad he can’t see my reflection in the elevator doors. “It’s not Rafael consumed, thank you very much.”
“So you weren’t thinking about me?”
“Not for one second.”
Rafael hums as the elevator lurches to a stop at my floor, and luckily for me, I don’t have to wait for the doors to open to get out.
I almost fly across the hall in my attempt to get into my apartment, to be around my things, to feel a little more like flesh-and-bone Evie after the dumpster fire morning I’ve had—am having.
When I reach apartment 821, I don’t slow as I float through the door and the rush of cold.
Rafael’s faint command to wait is muffled—and ignored—as I take a deep breath and soak it in.
Pale-pink and beige tones. Velvet and leather.
Soft and feminine. My apartment is a carefully curated reflection of me—years of effort arranged into something calm, intentional, mine.
Art prints. My favorite books dog-eared and overread.
A collection of records I once spent hours alphabetizing.
Nothing is out of place. I have Cristina to thank for that.
She’s been cleaning my apartment—and feeding me—since I hired her three years ago.
And somehow, despite my week-long absence, everything looks untouched.
Even the fresh daisies in the vase on my dining table.
Like I never left at all, like I’m about to walk in at any moment.
The feeling is dizzying—disorienting. I take a breath. I am here.
My fingers ghost along the white quartz countertops as I move through my kitchen.
A cookbook—one I’ve attempted (and mostly failed) to use—sits on a metal stand.
Crystal wineglasses hang above a distressed-wood wine rack.
The floor-to-ceiling window beside the dining area overlooks a park where most of my neighbors walk their dogs and hold playdates for their kids.
And if I ever get to bucket list item #48, I’ll have a picnic there on a date.
If. If. If.
Ifs and bucket lists aside, I find my bedroom.
My king bed—draped in a white down comforter and matching quilted pillows—is exactly as I left it. Inviting. Familiar. Not connected to hospital monitors.
I hesitate, halfway expecting to fall through it like everything else I’ve tried to hold on to.
But I don’t.
I land.
Solid. Still. Somehow spared by ghost logic I don’t understand. I sigh, my gaze drifting to my nightstand for the picture of Annie, Great-Aunt Julia, and me on our first and only trip to Chicago. We’re smiling at the camera, standing on Navy Pier. The best day ever. My favorite photo.
Sighing, I close my eyes, willing the tension I’m feeling to pull a disappearing act. According to Rafael, it’s been a week since the accident, but somehow it feels like a lifetime since I’ve been here.
“Do you know the meaning of wait?” Rafael asks from the doorway.
I snap my eyes open.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, hands tucked into his pockets, looking every bit as broody as he did this morning.
I immediately sit up. “How did you get in?”
Rafael dangles a key, the spare I leave for Cristina.
“Should have guessed you got to Cristina too,” I mutter.
His brow lifts. “Got to her?”
I don’t elaborate, because I’m trying to protect my microscopic bubble of joy before he pops it with his brooding and questions.
“Forget about it.” I slide off the bed and head toward my walk-in closet, the one that leads to the master bath. The one with my clothes and shoes and purses organized by color. Whites, purples, and grays.
Behind me, Rafael exhales. “I met Cristina at the hospital. She told me about her car situation—unintentionally—and I offered to drive her the other day until she got her car back. Helped her bring up her cleaning supplies. Nothing nefarious.”
I keep my back to him, glad he can’t see my face pinch. Because I’m momentarily feeling like a jerk for assuming the worst. It’s hard not to.
“Evie.” His tone makes my muscles tense.
“Rafael.” I glance over my shoulder.
He’s moved. He’s closer, standing in the doorway to the closet, jaw set and eyes devoid of their usual warmth.
A warning bell goes off. “What is it?”
“I can’t be here.”
“Then why did you bring us here?”
“To drop you off.”
“Drop me off?” My stomach performs a somersault. “What do you mean?”
He drags his hand through his hair. “I mean, I don’t know about all this. My head’s a mess. This past week has been … rough.”
“Sleep more, drink less?” I offer, aiming for some lightness. Needing it.
“Wish it were so simple.” No smirk. No amusement. Not even a flicker of it. And when Rafael looks down at his hands, I feel a new stab of panic. “But I can’t help you.”
“No.” I shake my head, panic taking hold. “You can’t back out. You made a deal.”
“There was no deal.”
Even though it’s the truth, his words are like a roundhouse kick to my ribs. “You can’t just …” I start but stop myself. Because he can. He can leave. He can say no. He owes me nothing.
“Listen, I woke up this morning, and the last thing I expected to find was her—your—spirit in my apartment, and while you seem so fucking real, you’re not.
” He exhales sharply. “You’re not Evie. The things back at the hospital—that’s my brain messing with me.
” He blows out another rough, uneven breath.
“I can’t explain what’s happening, but this isn’t real. None of it.”
I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry. The one person I need to help me happens to be the one person who hates me. Worse yet? For a moment there, I thought he would.
Dumb Evie.
I should know better.
I swallow, forcing my voice to steady. “Get out,” I say, so quietly I think he doesn’t hear me.
But his face—his goddamn face that’s fooled so many—does this stupid thing where it softens and twists my memories to day one. To the Rafael from that first day at Media Lab. The one who tricked me into believing he cared. It’s not an act I’ll believe today … or ever again.
“Get the hell out of my apartment.” My voice is sharp and cold, and I think he flinches. Part of his act. “Now,” I add.
Rafael lingers, long enough I want to shout at him to go and never come back, but then he turns and leaves. The door clicks shut behind him, and the tears fall.