Bonus Epilogue
Dancing With Your Ghost - Sasha Alex Sloan
Cara
The clock strikes midnight as another day ends and a new one begins. In truth, it’s neither an ending nor beginning. We’re stuck in the middle of everything, unable to move forward.
I don’t sleep for fear that I’ll wake to find him gone, no longer willing to cope with his mind’s betrayal day after day. My Dean died in the fire, trapped beneath the debris that held him captive.
I haven’t seen a flicker of the man I love beyond the sallow depths of his fathomless eyes, though I’ve searched for him every moment since. Days once filled with joy have soured, burned to ash alongside the life and the dreams we’d built together.
I follow the familiar path to the roof of my two-story house in midtown as the crisp autumn air bites at my exposed flesh. The blanket is still right where I left it—where it’s been every day for the last week.
I cocoon myself in the intricately detailed patchwork quilt my mother made for me, grateful I didn’t lose everything in the fire that wiped away half of our existence.
The things we lost mean little to me now as I watch my future drift further away with every hour that ticks by.
All that remains are my memories, and I hold them close until time or tragedy decides to take those, too.
Cara, 16 years old
My books are spread out across the tabletop in a booth at Rosie’s diner as I stab the eraser end of my pencil into the calculator with more force than necessary.
They keep telling us we’ll use this shit later in life, but what do I need to know about derivatives for?
Someday I’ll be planting flowers in a greenhouse to sell in that little shop on Main Street if I have my way.
My heart leaps out of my chest as three familiar figures stride past the picture window, stopping just outside the door. Cade Brooks steps inside first, his wavy light brown locks curling over his forehead as he pushes his sleeves up his forearms.
Next comes Miles Barlow, grinning that lopsided grin that has all the girls at school hanging onto his every word. Every girl but me. I have my sights set on the one holding open the door for all of them: Dean Thompson.
His dark hair is effortlessly tousled, pushed back off his forehead like he just wakes up that way. Miles says something I can’t hear, and Dean throws his head back laughing, giving me a glimpse of his perfect white teeth and that smile I wish he’d direct at me someday.
I'm invisible, though. Just the chubby ginger in secondhand clothes who sits in the back corner of the class, unnoticed by the masses. It’s easier that way—at least when I’m invisible I don’t have to face any public scrutiny. I learned that the hard way a long time ago.
The three of them each take a stool at the counter, oblivious to the weird girl ogling them from the corner booth.
I shake my head and swallow the last bite of pie.
Convinced that I won't get anything else done with the three hottest guys in school sitting less than ten feet away, I gather up my things and leave a tip for Rosie on the table.
I cradle my books against my chest and keep my head down as I stride past the long counter towards the exit.
As I’m passing the guys, Miles spins on his stool and his long leg whips out in front of me.
I pinch my eyes shut, bracing for impact as all of my things go tumbling to the ground.
My palms hit the floor with a violent thwack, and tears threaten to spill as pain radiates through my knees.
I sniffle and sit back on my heels, dusting off my jeans. I don’t want to look up and see what’s likely to be three very amused faces at my expense, so I search the floor for my pencils instead.
“Way to go, Miles,” a voice says.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Dean crouching down in front of me. We both reach for the pencil at the same time and our fingertips brush ever so slightly. My breath hitches at the brief contact.
“Thanks,” I murmur, looking anywhere but at Dean as the humiliation sinks in.
He stacks my books and holds them out to me, making it impossible not to look at him.
“Sorry about that. Miles is a dipshit.” He grins and my stomach dips in response. So that’s what it’s like to have Dean Thompson smile at you.
“Oh. Uh. It’s fine.”
He glances down at my textbook. “AP Calculus? Impressive.”
“Bold of you to assume I’m passing.” My eyes widen as the words slip free.
I quickly pinch my lips shut. If I keep talking I’ll eventually put my foot in my mouth and that’s the last thing I need to add to this humiliating encounter.
Then Dean laughs and that sound sends a sudden warmth flooding through me. I made Dean laugh.
The bell chimes above the door, and in walks Missy McDonald and her clones. I quickly snag my books from Dean’s hands and rush past them, hoping they didn’t notice me. “Thanks. I gotta go.”
“Hey. Wait.”
Dean’s still talking but I don’t look back as I push through the exit and round the corner. Once I’m out of sight, I press my back to the brick facade in the alley and take several deep breaths in.
So much for being invisible, Cara.
A single tear cascades down my cheek as I shake myself out of the memory. That was so long ago, and that version of me doesn’t exist anymore. It took a long time for me to become the person I am today—confident and self-assured—a far cry from the awkward teenager with a crush on the popular boy.
I tug on a loose thread hanging off the quilt and the stitches unravel at the seams. A single triangle-shaped patch now hangs precariously off the end.
My mother’s been gone for more than ten years now, and this quilt is one of the last things she gave me.
I head back inside in search of her quilting kit, intent on repairing the damage.
The house is much the same as it was when my mom lived here.
When she passed, it was up to me to sort through the remains of her life.
I kept everything she cherished most and donated the rest. Her sewing supplies are still here, tucked away in the attic just up a small set of stairs at the back of the three-story victorian.
Growing up in this house always felt a bit like living in a storybook. Mom loved history, and she kept all of its character intact right down to the floral and damask wallpaper.
The attic door creaks open and the moonlight floods in through a single window at the far side of the room, casting a rectangular patch of light in the center of the floor. I flip on the overhead light and make my way over to Mom’s antique sewing desk.
I search through the drawers for the tomato shaped pin cushion and the cookie tin that holds her sewing notions but the top drawer is jammed. I tug a little harder and it comes out an inch then stops again. I slip my fingers into the opening and push down on the obstacle. The drawer slides free.
I pull out what looks like an old leather bound diary. It’s purple with an intricate dragonfly embossed on the cover. When I flip it open, all of the air whooshes from my lungs. There, on the first page, is my Mom’s handwriting.
This diary belongs to Vivi Turner
I flip to another page and a small envelope falls to the floor. I pick it up, and my entire body seizes. “To Cara, my dearest girl,” is written on the front. I carefully open the envelope, heart beating out of my chest. It almost feels like I’m talking to a ghost as I read the letter.
My Darling Cara,
If you’re reading this, I am gone. My memories have started to slip away from me, and I have reached the point of no return. I cannot bear to live in a world where you no longer exist in my mind, but before I go, I have some things I wish to tell you.
You once asked me about your father. I told you he died, and while that is the truth, it’s not the whole of it. You see, your father and I were never supposed to fall in love for he was not mine to keep. I knew he belonged to another and I fell for him anyway.
I made some mistakes in my life, dear Cara, but I will never regret having you and loving you. Your father supported us in secret for years while married to another. He raised two boys and he was a good man until our secret came to light.
My love, what I am about to tell you will be shocking, and I am sorry for it. It is not my intention to hurt you, only to provide clarity.
Your father’s name was Sean Murphy. When you were just nine years old, he took the life of his wife before turning the gun on himself.
He left behind two young sons. I did everything I could to convince the courts to let me take them in.
I felt like I had contributed to their mother’s death, you see, but as I was not a direct relative, the courts put them into the foster system instead.
I do not wish for you to live a solitary life as I have. Find love, my dear Cara. Find a man who is worthy of you, and if you are searching for a family, find your brothers, Liam and Connor.
In this journal, you will find what’s left of my memories. I leave them here for you, but you do not have to read them. I just wanted to remember one last time.
All my love,
Mom
xoxo
I read the letter again, trying to make sense of my muddled thoughts. Liam Murphy, one of Dean’s best friends, and the man who saved me from a fire six months ago, is my…brother?