Chloe
Other than the two job losses that he swears were due to other issues, I have no proof. I've never seen him so much as consume a beer. Never seen him stumbling, slurring his words. Never even smelled it on him.
I need proof. But maybe I don't have it because I haven't looked for it.
Snagging my backpack, I run downstairs, drop it on the table, and rummage through the cabinets. Nothing. No liquor. No evidence.
I turn around and stare at Dad's closed bedroom door. I move toward it, reach for the knob. Turning it is so hard. This is Dad's room. He's a private man. Invading his space feels . . . wrong on every level.
Something else feels wrong, too. Silence. So silent I hear the living room clock counting time. Tick. Tick. Tick. It seems to be the only sound in the house.
My heart starts to keep beat with the tiny sound. The slight thump in my chest makes me realize I've stopped breathing. My gaze shifts to the clock on the living room wall.
If I don't leave for school now, I'm going to be late. That's all the motivation I need to let go of the doorknob. Later.
I cut off the kitchen light, throw my insurance card in my backpack, and fly into the entryway.
And come to a rubber-sole-skidding halt.
He's standing in front of the door, blocking it, looking too bright, still smiling. I inhale to confirm his scent. It's there. Still familiar. The aroma takes me back to being close with Carl. Back to being intimate with Carl.
"You going to school?" His voice is deep, almost husky.
"Yeah," I manage, and rub my thumb and index finger on the backpack strap hanging off one shoulder.
He leans against the wall, as if he plans to stay there and visit with me for a long time. "What grade are you in?"
"Twelfth." I realize in my haste to leave, I forgot to brush my teeth. With my luck, I've got a green marshmallow stuck to my pearly whites. I run my tongue over them.
His smile widens. "So am I."
Am, not was. He's speaking in the present tense. Does he not know he's . . . dead?
The way his blue eyes study me reminds me of how he stared at me almost naked last night. As if he might be envisioning me like that right now.
"We need to . . . set some rules. You can't just . . ." I'm tongue-tied, nervous, cute-boy kind of nervous. That's so wrong. Talk about two people being incompatible. "You can't just pop—"
"What's that saying about how rules are meant to be broken?" He grins.
I frown, tighten my eyes, and glare at him.
"Just joking," he says teasingly. "What's your name?"
"Chloe." I hitch my backpack up higher on my shoulder. "Yours?"
He pauses one second. "Jeremy."
It's different, sort of like him, so I guess it fits him. "I . . . gotta go."
He tucks his hands deep into his jean pockets. His shoulders round. The muscles in his arms bulge out just a bit. Yup, it's definitely cute-boy kind of nervous that I'm feeling.
"Okay," he says.
Pumpkin hisses behind me.
"Stay away from my cat," I mumble and motion for him to step away from the door.
He inches to the side but not quite enough. Not that it matters—he's not flesh and blood. I switch my backpack onto my other shoulder and head out. I'm one foot out the door when I realize what happened. I felt him.
Not like a person, but a light touch as if someone brushed a feather across bare skin. And . . . he wasn't cold. Why wasn't he . . . ice cold like the others?
I shut and lock the door. Run my hand over my tingling shoulder. Then, with my heart doing double time, I hurry to my car.
I start the car and drive away. Riding shotgun is the question: What makes this boy so different from all the others?
I fret about Hayden the whole drive. Now, really close to being late, I take the first school parking spot I can find, unbuckle, grab my backpack and get out. I turn and lock the car. One bad thing about an old car: no automatic locks.
As I'm pulling the key out of the door, I hear steps behind me, and then, "Wow." Followed by, "Is that your car?"
"Yeah," I mutter and swing around, feet ready to run. But the second I see who's standing there, my size sevens aren't so worried about being late.
Sam and . . . I think the guy who was with him last night . . . stand a few feet from me.
The fact that I know his name says something. It says he's one of the best-looking boys at school. But it's not just that. He's also one of the few kids who's actually spoken to me in my first ten days of school. Not a whole conversation, but just a quick introduction and welcome to Catwalk, Texas. Surprised the hell out of me.
Sam is staring at me. His friend is staring at my Mustang.
"Hi," I say and pull out a special smile reserved for good-looking guys. Or I should say, good-looking living guys. I didn't smile at Jeremy.
"Is it a four-speed?" Sam's friend asks.
"Yes."
He stares at me as if shocked. "You can drive a manual?"
I nod. It took almost two months and every ounce of patience Dad has for me to master it, but they don't need to know that.
"Does it have a 289 engine?" The friend moves closer to the car.
"No, just a 200, straight six. But I'm not complaining."
He stops staring at my car and now is studying me the way a boy studies a girl. "Tell me you know how to work on it, and I'm going to put a ring on your finger."
A little flattered, but mostly embarrassed, I laugh. Now if it was Sam saying that . . . ?
The school bell rings.
"Gotta go." I start walking.
Obviously not worried about being late, they both linger to check out my car some more. Before I push through the school doors, I look back . . . at Sam, not so much his friend, even though both of them are easy on the eyes.
Not as hot as Jeremy.
The instant the thought wiggles through my mind, I reject it and give myself a mental kick in the ass.
I must really be desperate if I'm getting the hots for a dead guy.