Ghosting You Read online

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Tommy

  2. Nick

  3. Tommy

  4. Nick

  5. Tommy

  6. Nick

  7. Tommy

  8. Nick

  9. Tommy

  10. Nick

  11. Tommy

  12. Nick

  13. Tommy

  14. Nick

  15. Tommy

  16. Nick

  17. Tommy

  18. Nick

  19. Tommy

  20. Nick

  21. Tommy

  22. Nick

  23. Tommy

  24. Nick

  25. Tommy

  26. Nick

  27. Tommy

  28. Nick

  29. Tommy

  30. Nick

  31. Tommy

  32. Nick

  33. Tommy

  34. Nick

  35. Tommy

  36. Nick

  37. Tommy

  38. Nick

  39. Tommy

  40. Tommy

  41. Nick

  42. Tommy

  43. Nick

  44. Tommy

  45. Nick

  46. Tommy

  47. Nick

  48. Tommy

  49. Nick

  50. Tommy

  51. Nick

  52. Tommy

  53. Nick

  54. Tommy

  55. Nick

  56. Tommy

  57. Nick

  58. Tommy

  59. Nick

  60. Tommy

  61. Nick

  62. Tommy

  63. Nick

  64. Tommy

  65. Nick

  66. Tommy

  Epilogue

  Also by Alexander C. Eberhart

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Ghosting You

  Ebook ASIN: B07WRM58KQ

  Print ISBN: 978-1-64713-723-6

  7 Sisters Publishing

  P.O. Box 993

  Jupiter, Florida 33458

  www.alexanderceberhart.com

  www.7sisterspublishing.com

  Copyright © 2019 Alexander C. Eberhart

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction and does not represent any individual living or dead. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  To the ghosts that remind us of where we’ve been,

  and to those special few that help us see where we’re headed.

  No one ever told me caskets were so shiny. This one literally glistens from across the room, like someone has doused the whole thing with Pledge. Is that lemon I smell?

  The visitation is almost over, and I just can’t bring myself to get off the edge of my chair and go to see him.

  I wring the funeral program in my hands. They’ve gotten everything wrong. Even his name. I should be angry, at least on his behalf, but all I feel is empty.

  “Honey.” Mom’s cold, frail hand rests on my knee. “It’s getting late, and I’ve got to get to the diner. Want me to go up with you?”

  I shake my head, my eyes still trained on the gleaming wooden casket. There should be tears streaming down my face, but I’m still numb. Like I’ve been floating outside of my body for the last week.

  Mom’s grip tightens on my knee and I turn to her. Her face is pale and she keeps swallowing, tucking her chin down to her chest.

  She stands, abruptly. “Sorry, sweetie. I’ll be right back.”

  I watch her hurry down the hall to the bathroom. I’m honestly surprised she made it this long. Her chemo treatment this morning is taking its toll.

  Now I’m alone. At least, as alone as someone can be in a room full of mourning people.

  “She was so young,” says a woman to my left. Her white curls stick out from under a ridiculous floppy black hat.

  Wrong.

  The man standing next to her nods. “She was such a sweet girl.”

  Wrong.

  Another stranger voices their opinion. “She had her share of troubles.”

  “Can’t argue with that one.”

  I drop the program, my head snapping left then right. That was his voice. I’d know it anywhere. But unless he’s ascended to some kind of ventriloquist deity postmortem, I must be imagining things.

  “Jeez, that thing is shiny. My Nan must have given it a once over with the lemon Pledge.”

  Ice invades my veins and I shiver in my seat.

  “Chase?” I whisper. “Is that you?”

  “Uh, duh, Tommy. Who else would it be?”

  My heart races, pulse pounding in my ears.

  “This isn’t happening.” I say, then clap my hand over my mouth. The white-haired woman gives me a sympathetic look. I give her an uneasy smile.

  “What’s your deal, Tommy?”

  I shake my head, keeping my lips firmly sealed. This has to be stress. Maybe I’m having a bad reaction to my anxiety meds. Usually I’ll just get night terrors, but surely that endless list of side effects included, ‘apparitions of dead best friends.’

  “Tommy?” A short, rosy-cheeked woman with curly golden hair waves at me from across the room.

  Shit.

  “Hey, Mrs. Pam,” I say as she approaches. Her eyes are bloodshot and tears sit in the corners, threatening to spill over at any minute.

  “How are you holding up, sweetheart?” she asks, lowering herself into the seat next to me.

  I can’t bring myself to look her in the eye, so I stare down at the program and the picture that’s just so wrong and say, “Fine, I guess.”

  “We want you to know that we don’t blame you for what happened,” Pam says, her hand resting on my shoulder. It’s like fire, compared to Mom’s. “This was not your fault.”

  Wrong.

  “And I know, even though it’s hard for us to see right now, that this is all in His plan. My sweet girl is in a better place now.”

  Wrong.

  “Thank you,” I say with a nod. Her hand leaves my shoulder and I look up to see Mom standing over me.

  “Oh, Caroline.” Pam stands and wraps Mom in a hug.

  Mom pushes her back to armlength. “Sorry, Pam. I’m still a bit sore.”

  The puffy-eyed woman whimpers, “Gosh, forgive me.”

  “Not at all,” Mom replies, taking a chubby hand into her own. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

  Mom steers Pam away, their voices blending in with the din of the room. I let out a shuddered breath, my gaze sinking back to the floor and the program with the horrible picture.

  It doesn’t take long before Mom returns, her own eyes red. “Are you ready, honey?”

  “I guess so.” With a bit of effort, I stand, bending my knees a few times to get feeling back in my toes.

  Mom bids farewell to a few people on our way to the door, but soon we’re back in the blazing light of the Summer sun, and then the sweltering heat of the car. She cranks the engine, quickly switching off the radio.

  “You doing okay?” she asks, resting her arm on the back of my seat as she backs out of the parking space.

  I nod then dig a finger in my ear to scratch my eardrum. The voice hasn’t returned, which is honestly such a relief—

  “You never answered my question, Tommy. What’s your deal? Why are you so sad?”

  I glance over at Mom, hoping that maybe, just maybe, she heard it too. But she just
keeps her eyes trained forward, unbothered.

  She’ll think I’ve lost it if I just start whispering to myself, so instead I pull out my phone and scroll through my text messages until I find the thread I want.

  I stare for a second at the last text Chase sent, a week ago today.

  Chase: Mom finally got her shit together. I’ll be there in ten! 11:33am

  Swallowing the sudden lump in my throat, I type with hesitant fingers.

  Me: Is that really you? 10:24am

  Message failed. Number not in service. 10:24am

  I exhale, my lip trembling as hot tears spill over and down my cheeks.

  “I’m still here, Tommy. I’m right here. Please, don’t cry.”

  “Just stop,” I whisper.

  Mom looks over. “What was that, honey?”

  “N-Nothing,” I say, wiping the streak of tears from my face. “Nothing at all.”

  Is it weird that I’m doing this again? It’s weird. I know it is. Dr. Paxton said it’s normal, but I don’t know. It’s almost a year. It’s not like I’m counting the days, but the gap in time snuck up on me. With all the shit that Mom and me have been through, it was easy to forget. But once again, I’m feeling the full weight of your absence, squeezing the life out of my lungs.

  It sucks. And there’s nothing I can do. 1:30pm

  Message Failed. Number not in service. 1:30pm

  I dip my oar into the swift current of the river, the tops of my fingers slipping into the frigid water. The familiar weight of Dad’s Nikon around my neck is both a comfort and a source of anxiety. I’m one clumsy mistake away from it washing down the Chattahoochee.

  “Don’t slack off on me back there.”

  I pause my stroke, looking up. I’m mesmerized by how the golden honey color of your hair bleaches to almost white in the sun.

  “I’m not slacking,” I say, digging deep into the current to drive home my point.

  You just laugh.

  I switch to the other side of the kayak, but stop short. A stream of deep red flows through the water. It spreads, slowly at first, then all at once, surrounding the kayak with lapping waves of blood-red—

  The top button of my shirt snaps off before I can force it through the hole. It tumbles to the floor, rolling under my chestnut dresser alongside the dust bunnies and loose change. I shake off the cloudiness of my daydream.

  “Great.”

  “Take it as an omen,” you’d say. “Your day is going to suck.”

  With a sigh, I pop the collar then duck under the strings of my garish green apron. It’s not far off from your favorite color. Or the color of your eyes. I glower at the stitched-in name at the top corner. My name isn’t “Tina,” but I guess it doesn’t matter. With Tina’s apron secured, I’m finally ready to head out.

  Today is the big day. It’s been looming over my head like a cloud all week, drawing closer with every passing minute until, at last, it’s blocking the sun.

  “Mom?” I stick my head out of my bedroom door, listening for her response. The gentle snoring coming from down the hall is the only answer I receive.

  She’s only been home an hour. Her late-night shift at Tom’s diner has done a doozy on her middle-aged body. She doesn’t even stir as I walk into her room and dig through her pockets for the car keys.

  I take a second to plug in her phone—a task that always seems to slip her mind—and make sure an alarm is set so she won’t feel like she’s slept the day away. It’s a trick I learned from you. Then I pull a blanket up and tuck it around her shoulders. Not a peep.

  Keys in hand, I double check myself in the mirror that hangs in the hallway. My wavy, dark hair parts to the left, the edges curling out. I need to get it trimmed, but that’s so far down on the list of priorities, I may as well embrace the length.

  “You never get a second chance at a first impression,” you’d say. “An opportunity to reinvent yourself.”

  You were always reinventing, whether it was the time you snipped your hair short in the bathroom mirror before going to Disney World with me and Mom, or when you found that horrible old flannel shirt in your grandfather’s closet and decided it would be the newest staple of your wardrobe.

  I miss that shirt.

  Once I’m satisfied, it’s out the apartment door and into the real world.

  I squint from the summer sun’s assault and start down the stairs into the parking lot. Shimmering heat comes off the pavement, rising to greet me. I’m suddenly resenting my black button-down shirt, but it’s far too late to change and I can’t dawdle on such trivial facts right now.

  “Quit fidgeting,” you’d say, laughing as I constantly re-tuck the back of my shirt.

  I shove the excess fabric into my pants again. I’ve got to get going. I can’t be late on my first day of work.

  Mom’s Impala cranks up on the second try. It only shudders for a second before I can coax it into gear. I have no idea how this thing makes it to Gainesville and back every day, but I try not to think those thoughts too loud or it might hear me.

  I’m still pretty fresh to this whole driving thing. I was never as comfortable behind the wheel as you were. Thankfully, the Impala and I don’t have to go far.

  A coffee shop wasn’t exactly my first choice of employment—you know, caffeine and anxiety don’t mix well—but it’s better than sitting at home all summer, stressing over college applications and watching Mom kill herself to make ends meet. Now that I’m contributing to the household, she can sleep more than three hours a night.

  Thank God she started her new job last month. It’s going to save our asses. Goodbye bill collectors, hello health insurance. If only we’d had that last year, maybe we wouldn’t be swimming in a sea of medical debt.

  The radio crackles as I scan for anything other than the country music station you and Mom are so fond of. But all I get is static since the antenna got ripped off the one time Mom decided to get the car washed. I took it as a sign that God hated my mother’s choice in music as much as I did, but she doesn’t agree. Go figure.

  I crack a window after I roll to a stop at one of the three traffic lights in town. You know, the one by the deli. The sweet smell of baking bread wafts in along the breeze. Summer in Georgia can be downright deadly, especially if the A/C is busted in your car. Here’s hoping I don’t die of heat stroke before I get there.

  “Visualize you’re in a cooler place,” you’d tell me from the backseat, propping your feet on the armrest to my right. “It’ll take your mind off the heat.”

  But instead, I’m thinking about you riding shotgun. Hanging your head out the window as we drive down 85, singing our way tunelessly through my entire Disney playlist.

  Once I’m moving again, I shake those thoughts from my head as the rush of air dries the sweat on my forehead.

  The closer I get to the shop, the tighter the knot in my stomach winds. My carefully-rationed anxiety meds ran out last week and it’s starting to show. But Mom’s new health insurance kicks in soon, so there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. Until then, I can handle it.

  I park along Main Street, finding one of the only non-metered spots, and climb out of the car. A Tommy shaped sweat stain is left on the seat, but it’ll have plenty of time to dry while I work.

  The first week of summer is here and that means that tourist season has officially begun in Hester. Normally, you and I would be down at the river, skipping stones and planning our escape from the clutches of this small-minded town. But last summer feels like a lifetime ago.

  The sidewalks are bustling for a Sunday afternoon as hiking enthusiasts and rich suburban families pick up supplies for their week long cabin stay. We always wondered what it would be like, being able to vacation in the Blue Ridges instead of living here and dealing with all of these Outsiders.

  It must be nice.

  “Don’t complain so much,” you’d nag. “The money flowing in from Mr. and Mrs. Richington is the only reason you’ve got a job right now. As long as they kee
p drinking coffee, you may be able to afford a college that isn’t Al’s House of Plumbing.”

  I can’t help but chuckle. I still need you to keep me in check.

  “Welcome to Claudine’s,” someone behind the counter calls as I walk through the front door.

  Claudine’s Coffee is no stranger to us. In another life, we’d spend every Friday night here. You’d stress over homework while guzzling coffee and I’d sip herbal tea. But it’s been almost a year. Nostalgia morphs with my melancholy, settling atop the anxiety of being back in this place without you.

  The shop is cool inside, which is a welcome relief. Wooden planks creak under me as I walk up to the counter, stepping awkwardly out of the way of a woman and her teenage daughter as they have a loud conversation about her choice in outfit. It reminds me of the way you and your mom used to go at it.

  When I reach the counter, there’s a guy staring after the ladies I’d sidestepped with a glazed expression. His hair, or at least the few curls I can see escaping the ball cap he’s wearing, are dark like his eyes. How fitting he works here, when so many of his features favor espresso. The neon yellow Hawaiian shirt under his apron warms his tanned skin. You’d have liked him.