Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
EIGHT DAYS (AND SOME CONDITIONS) AFTER
We’re back in Rafael’s apartment.
Because I’m not rushing to make a getaway, I notice things I didn’t before.
Bits of him lurk in every corner, like his mind exploded and ideas splattered all over.
A half-painted canvas, paints and brushes and canisters tucked beneath it.
A guitar case. Books and magazines about beers, wines, and spirits (the other, much more fun kind).
And the most mysterious of all curiosities—three black crates stacked atop each other in a corner.
Most likely the remains of scorned lovers and former rivals. Conditions, I remind myself.
I push the boxes from my mind and steal a glance at Rafael. We’ve hunkered down at his dining room table, and he’s sitting inches away from me, munching on Cristina’s desserts—his gluten sensitivity having flatlined—and staring at his laptop.
I’m gnawing through another fingernail as some distant clock ticks away the seconds until Dr. Wagner’s team drop-kicks me to a long-term care facility, complete with vinyl recliners and sad linens.
What I should be doing is focusing on our task—on getting through the checklist, the one from this morning, now amended and self-dubbed Evie’s Second-Chance Checklist. I’ve mentally crossed off Gemma’s name, replacing it with Rafael’s.
Never thought I’d be working with Rafael again after the OhLaLove account. But here we are.
Attempting to tackle item #1 (researching similar cases), we’ve enlisted the help of Google to dive down the rabbit hole of what I am before we do anything else. Half a dozen tabs line the top of his browser, each more unhinged than the last.
“The obvious choice is … ghost.” He slides his gaze to me.
We’re sitting beside each other, separated by inches of space and years of distrust, and I still can’t believe he’s the only one who can see me—and help me.
“You’re invisible, you walk through walls, and you’re definitely haunting me.
I’m going with ghost. Final answer.” He gives me a smug look, like he nailed it.
“Boo,” I deadpan.
“I am very scared.” His lips pull to one side. I scowl, daring him to even go there.
I nod toward the screen. “What makes a ghost a ghost? There has to be a definition, maybe a …”
“Checklist?” His smile stretches. My scowl deepens. “There’s criteria …”
“What. Does. It. Say?”
“Hold. On.” He matches my staccato, but has the self-preservation to turn to the screen and read before I throttle him. With words, of course. “The Ghost Club experts say ghosts are tied to the places of their death … and they don’t typically retain their consciousness.”
“Next,” I say, not hesitating. And before he can argue the point, I speed things along. “This option doesn’t work for two reasons: One, I’m not dead. And two, while I’d much prefer to be unconscious while everything fixes itself, that’s not the case. What else you got?”
“There are about four more tabs on ghosts—” He points to the screen.
“I’m not a ghost … because I’m not dead,” I repeat, and point to the mouse. “Next …”
Rafael mutters to himself but clicks on another tab. I lean in, squinting. Spirits.
“ ‘Spirits are the souls of humans who’ve passed on,’ ” I read aloud before Rafael even opens his mouth.
“ ‘Spirits retain consciousness and have been known to interact with others, should they choose.’ ” I pause, considering.
While I’m consciously experiencing my worst nightmare, I’ve only been able to interact with one person—and as much as I’d like to haunt him for eternity, I definitely didn’t choose Rafael.
“This has got to be it,” Rafael points to the screen—specifically to a ghoulish figure looming over a bed like something out of The Conjuring. “Looks pretty spot-on.”
I look up at Rafael’s divine ceiling. “Are you sure this isn’t hell?”
Rafael laughs. “It’s a joke, E,” he says. “You’re much more intimidating.”
I reach for something—a pen—and attempt to grab it. To stab him, obviously. But my fingers go right through it.
I swallow a growl. “Let’s move on, unless you have an actual desire to join me on this side of life.”
He has the good sense to sober, but the ghost of a smile lingers.
“Okay, so it’s a no to spirit—and definitely no to ghoul,” he says, clicking through the search results a little too slowly for my taste.
I resist the urge to lean into his space and nudge him out of the way, even though I’m itching to take control.
Instead, I cross my arms and lean away. And wait.
He mutters to himself as he scans the pages.
“Yes! This!” His enthusiasm startles me. I immediately lean in.
“A crisis apparition?” I’d have to get closer to read the small font.
Rafael nods, pointing to the screen like he’s uncovered a conspiracy theory.
“ ‘A crisis apparition is when a person who is very sick or dying—or very obviously in a crisis of similar proportions—telepathically communicates images of themselves to others who are living. Usually those with whom they have a close relationship.’ ” Rafael reads the exact definition from the Encyclopedia of the Paranormal.
Another dead end.
“It’s certainly not that,” I say, hand halfway to the mouse before I remember I can’t toggle the mouse or move several times faster than Rafael, who’s downed two cups of coffee since we’ve been here. I’d be running the wheels off my Peloton with that much caffeine in my system. Not Rafael. “Next.”
Rafael doesn’t click as he drags caffeine- and mischief-glazed eyes from the monitor to me. “I think it’s the most reasonable,” he says, his tone alight with humor.
“Says the expert on all things reasonable?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Why are you certain you’re not an apparition?”
“For one, apparitions appear to …” I scan the page, narrowing on the exact reason I cannot be a crisis apparition. “Loved ones,” I enunciate, hoping I won’t have to spell it out.
His lips pull to one side, his dimple popping in to say hello. “Just because you don’t want to admit it …”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t you dare finish that thought.”
“No?” He leans back, stretching his arms over his head. “Because I was going to say …”
“Rafael.” I glare, warning him to stop.
But him? He has the nerve to smile. “Evie.”
“I can’t do this,” I groan, more to myself than him.
Blood pressure simmering, I jump from the chair and turn my back to him because I can’t.
Because this is a joke to him while I’m here thinking this isn’t like all the other times, thinking we can work like (incredibly reluctant) partners, (very tenuously) committed to one goal.
But my plasma-for-a-brain clearly forgot that Rafael doesn’t do serious or commitment or any form of those two concepts.
I shouldn’t be feeling hurt about it, but hey—more surprising things have happened these past twenty-four hours.
Needing to regroup, I circle to the other side of the table, my throat burning with an unexpected rush of emotions. What am I? And why can’t I keep it together?
This is a job—a project. Nothing requiring feelings, I remind myself.
I face Rafael, feeling a little steadier. “I know this isn’t ideal—helping me—but can you at least pretend to take this seriously? Pretend to care?”
The chair scrapes as Rafael stands and props his ridiculously manly hands on the table, leaning on his forearms. His features shift from amused to the same intense look from the Aviary, and my stomach churns at the possibility that he’s going to end this deal right now. I steel myself.
“Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t need to pretend to care,” he says, serious and flat.
His words carve into my chest like a serrated scalpel.
“Oh. Okay,” I breathe, swallowing past the sudden sting in my throat. WTF, Evie?
“No—that’s not what I meant!” Rafael shakes his head, but it’s too late to take it back—to unring the proverbial bell.
Throat burning (with the onset of strep or something), I wheel around and stare out the massive window. It’s so bright out my eyes are starting to water.
Rafael’s reflection appears in the window, his body angled toward me. I refuse to look his way.
“Listen, E. That didn’t come out the right way,” he says, his tone almost apologetic.
I pivot further away from him so he can’t see my profile or my moment of weakness.
“You don’t need to explain yourself. I heard the message loud and clear,” I say, hyperfocused on a woman walking several dogs on the sidewalk across the street.
They drag her, tugging on their leashes, and she stumbles to keep up.
“I need you to look at me,” Rafael says.
I stiffen, because I will do no such thing.
“Evie.” His voice softens. “Please.”
Sucking on the insides of my cheek, I slowly turn and meet his eyes, fully expecting humor, a challenge, or something equally destructive. But the openness in his gaze unnerves me more than any of those things. “Rafael.”
“I was saying that I don’t need to pretend to care, because I do care,” he says. I want to roll my eyes. “And before you roll your eyes or say something to dismiss what I’ve said, I want you to hear it again.”
That look—the one that may be intended to kill me—is back, and it leaves me a little breathless.
“You listening?”
I nod, wishing I could disappear. For real this time. Fade into the ether, float into the cosmos, get yanked back into my body—literally anything but this.
“I care about what happens to you.” His words rattle through me, caressing all the places I’ve sealed up to protect myself against hurt, ones he keeps finding.
I want to rewind the last few minutes. Go back to his dumb jokes and infuriating smirks because that was familiar and easy, and this is not.
“Okay,” I breathe.
His eyes trace my face as if to ensure that I get it (I don’t). I mean, I do, but Rafael does this—he disarms people and makes them question their entire existence (or at least the last five years of it), and I am not—not—one of those people.