Ashes to Ashes (23 page)

I didn't realize what not being seen by your loved ones can do to a person—it's heartbreaking, feeling like you don't exist. Like you never existed. But here I am, and here Nick is, and in this moment we can be together.

But it's not real. None of it is real.

“Callie,” Nick whispers. “I care about you so much—I do.”

“I know,” I say, but I have to say good-bye. And I can't resist—I lean in to kiss him. It's the kind of kiss that's soft and hard all at once, the kind that makes my breath ragged with desire as I lift up onto my toes for more. My head swirls with the thought of staying with him, of keeping this moment locked in my heart so I can live within it.

But there's a nagging at the back of my mind, and my lips fall still for a moment.

He pulls away from me. “There's something I need to tell you,” he says. “This isn't right. It doesn't feel—”

“Oh, Nick,” I say, pressing my head into his chest again as I put a finger up to his lips. I don't want him to say that this doesn't feel real. I know it isn't. But I want it to be.

And I especially don't want him to say that he's breaking up with me, but even as I think it, I realize the selfishness of it. I have to let him go.

“It's okay, Nick,” I say softly. “I know what you wanted. I don't know why, but it doesn't matter now. The accident wasn't your fault. You can let me go. It's okay.”

“Callie—”

“It's okay. You need to be happy, Nick. All I want is for you to be happy. Because I'm okay where I am. I'm finding my own happiness here.” Or at least now I have confidence that I will. The reality I was clutching never really existed.

I hear a blaring horn that doesn't fit with this dreamscape, and Nick hears it, too. He looks around, breaking our embrace, and I feel a rush of force as I open my eyes to see two blinding headlights barreling toward Nick's car. We are going to crash.

Twenty-Two

NICK IS IN THE REAL PRESENT NOW,
fully aware of the danger he's in. He grabs the wheel and veers away from the oncoming car, back into his lane. But as he turns, the speed is too much, and the car swerves dangerously—he's losing control. No matter what I do to reach his mind, I can't save him.

But someone can. Reena, Leo—they're so strong, so sure. They can move things with their energy; they aren't afraid to do that. Suddenly I realize why Reena told me that I didn't call her that day in my prism—that I didn't have that power. Because she didn't want me to know that I truly could call for someone who would help.

And then I lift up my head to shout into the darkness.

Downcast eyes, sharp chin, a sigh that holds volumes of sadness, a hint of stubble, a shock of blond hair that falls into his face, eyes with their own storm system, electric fingers
. My unconscious mind takes over, and the question of who I trust the most is answered in a single, instinctual scream.

“Thatcher!”

“Is that an open field?”

A voice shouts from the backseat, and I twist around to find Thatcher pointing up ahead and to the left.

“It's Dodsons' Farm,” I say, stunned. “Mostly corn.”

“But no trees or fences along the highway?” He's squinting to better identify any obstacles before us.

“It's open land,” I say.

And then Thatcher's gone. I call out for him as the car shifts to the left. Nick releases his hold on the steering wheel completely, fear etched all over his face.

Looking out my window, I see Thatcher holding on to the front wheel well and slowly but surely turning the tires in the direction of the field. His face is pure concentration, but he looks calm, in control. I feel a surge of affection for Thatcher: He's saving Nick.

The Camry lurches left and pops off the road, bumping and dragging stalks of corn as it plows through the Dodsons' crop.

The stalks connecting with the metal of the car pop like gunfire. Nick is jostled and thrown as though he's a marionette whose strings have come loose.

But he was still enough of himself to wear his seat belt.

I can hear everything, but I don't feel anything. The bounce and jump of the car as it barrels through rows of corn, the sound of the hard ears on the windshield and under the tires . . . it's like I'm in a movie stunt scene.

When we finally stop, Nick's head hits the steering wheel. A trail of blood trickles down his temple, and it looks like he's blacked out. But I know he's okay. I know he's alive. I know that Thatcher saved him.

I reach over and touch the blood on Nick's forehead with my finger, tracing its dark red line carefully.

I want him to know that my death isn't his fault. I should never have made him remember being with me—he
can't
be with me, so why torture us both? I need him to move on, like he was going to move on before the accident. If I hadn't died, he would have been free. How ironic that my death tied him to me.

When I sit up, I see Thatcher staring at us through the windshield of the car. He looks furious, and I know I've disappointed him. Then, for a moment, I think I see a flash of regret in his blue eyes before they cloud over, unreadable.

Sirens blare in the distance. Whoever was in the other car must have made a 911 call. Multiple doors slam, and the shouts of police officers echo through the field. I take one more moment with Nick, smoothing his hair as he starts to stir.

The driver's-side door opens abruptly and Sheriff Curtis Simmons says, “Boy, you're gonna have to answer to Mr. Dodson tomorrow!” Then he straightens up and shouts to the other officers.

“He's okay!” I hear the emotion catch in Sheriff Simmons's voice. He's been a friend to my family all my life. He and Mama were in high school together—they're both Old Charleston. Our great-great-way-back grandparents signed the Ordinance of Secession together just before the Civil War.

A few slaps on the back happen and a big cheer goes up. Too many times in our town this kind of drunk-driving accident ends another way.

I walk up to Thatcher, who's standing off to the side in the field. His brow is furrowed, his lips tight.

“What exactly were you doing tonight?” he asks, his voice angry.

I bow my head without answering.

“What made Nick drive like a crazed lunatic—drunk, I might add?”

More ground gazing.
It was me
, I think. I had them, I was connecting and helping them in the way that Thatcher wants me to—on an unconscious soul level—and then I broke it out of anger, hurt, and jealousy. He was kissing Carson and I got so upset that I made him think of me, I made him feel guilty enough to jump into his car and tear away from the party. I turned into a poltergeist and used their tricks instead of following Thatcher's path. It's my fault.

“Callie?”

I look up at Thatcher slowly.

“You were haunting on your own?” he asks.

I shift my eyes away from his, and it's clear that the answer is yes.

“What we did for my father . . .” I start. “I wanted that for Nick, too.”

“Soulful haunting doesn't have results like this,” says Thatcher. “You must have been doing something else, you must have been—”

“I'm sorry,” I say, interrupting him. “You're right.”

“Callie, if you hadn't mishandled the haunting, Nick never would have been driving like that. He never would have—” He stops and tilts his head. “Did you say I'm
right
?”

I nod, and surprise crosses his face.

I look over at Nick leaning against the hood of his car for support. His eyes are open now, and I can see the sheriff talking to him. He's really going to be okay.

The enormity of what just occurred hits me, and I sink to my knees.

Thatcher drops down beside me.

“Did Reena bring you to Nick?” he asks.

I shake my head no, taking full responsibility.

“You created the portal,” he says.

I nod yes. Then through the knot of tears in my throat, I push out the words: “He was going to break up with me.”

“What?”

“Nick. He . . . he told Carson tonight. The night I was going over to his house, the night of the accident, he'd planned to break up with me. I don't know why. I don't know what I did—”

“You might not have done anything. It might have had nothing to do with you.”

I stare at him through a veil of tears. “How could it have nothing to do with me?”

He looks back in Nick's direction, where the EMTs are testing his reflexes. “People break up for all kinds of reasons.” He turns back to me. Sympathy and understanding are reflected in his eyes. “There's a farmhouse over there.”

“Yes. The Dodsons' place.”

“Let's take a walk.”

 

We move deeper into the countryside, away from the road, away from the tow truck that's hauling Nick's wrecked Camry to Lee's Garage. The EMTs are still tending to Nick, and Sheriff Simmons is talking to them, too. I make sure we stay within eyesight of the scene.

As we walk through the Dodsons' field, gliding over the crop beds and moving slowly toward the little white house, I notice that the moonlight is so bright that it's the type of phase that would cast our shadows on the ground if we were really here. Looking down, I see the soft glow playing off the tall grass, but not a trace of me, or Thatcher, is here. We aren't trampling the vegetation or making tracks in the dirt or even rustling the corn husks. We're floating through this world, in it but not of it.

When we get to the Dodsons' farmhouse, Thatcher points to the wooden porch swing, which looks both abandoned and inviting with its chipped white paint.

“I used to love those,” he says.

“I always wanted one. I asked my dad for ages if he'd put one on our porch, but he never did.”

Thatcher smiles wistfully. “Come on,” he says, leading me up the rickety white steps. We sit down together on the swing, hovering over it but feeling like we're really sitting. I focus on my feet, willing them to connect with the floorboards of the porch, and they do. We rock a little bit. The chair creaks, and I wonder if the Dodsons ever hear this swing moving. They must think it's the wind.

Thatcher waits. Patiently. Always so patiently. I don't even know where to begin.

“He was at a party, totally drunk before he even got there. Carson took him to a bedroom. To yell at him mostly, I think. But I managed to make them both feel my presence.”

I look out at the cornfields. I can still see the emergency lights flashing in the distance. Nick is sitting up on a stretcher now.

“It was so incredible, Thatcher. Like with my father. I felt this immense relief, peace welling up inside me. All because of you.” I give my attention to Thatcher, who is studying me intently.

A softness touches his eyes. “You've come a long way, Callie. But you did it on your own. I was just guiding you.”

I want him to understand that to me he's more than a Guide. “After witnessing Ella's merging, after my night with you . . . I no longer wanted to remain on Earth. I wanted to be where I was.”

“I'm glad,” he says.

He still doesn't understand what I'm saying. Maybe I'm afraid to admit it aloud. After discovering what Nick was keeping from me, I don't quite trust my own judgment. But still I say, “It meant a lot to me, Thatcher. Everything you told me, all that we shared. I know it probably wasn't supposed to be special, but it was.”

“I wanted it to be,” he says quietly. “Selfish on my part.”

I release a small laugh. “I can live with that kind of selfishness.”

“But it's all we can have. You need to merge.”

I nod jerkily. I have so many memories with Nick to take with me, so few with Thatcher. It's not fair. I want more.

I lean forward, stopping our slow rock in the swing as I look out at the near-full moon shining in the distance. For a moment I feel alive again, like I'm sitting on a front porch with a guy I like, trading stories and telling secrets. It's nice, familiar.

“Carson kissed Nick,” I tell him. It just comes out, before my brain even knows I am going to say it.

“What?” Thatcher turns to me, his eyes widening. “Really?”

I feel a fresh wave of hurt as I see the scene in my mind again. “Yes,” I say.

“But she's your best friend. Is she the reason he was going to break up with you?”

“I don't think so. Otherwise, wouldn't she have known that he was going to break up with me?”

“How do you feel about her kissing him?” asks Thatcher. It's such a non-guy question, and I appreciate that. He's listening.

“Angry,” I say. “Sad. Hurt. Confused.”

Nodding, Thatcher puts his hand over mine resting on the wooden slats of the swing. I welcome the spark it creates, because it's comforting, soft, safe. I touch my toes down to the porch again and rock us back and forth, back and forth, making the creak of the swing a little louder. It almost feels like it would feel if we were still alive.

I flash back to the peach room at Tim McCann's party. “It was right after he confessed that he was going to break up with me.” I shake my head. “She seemed triumphant, like she was someone I didn't know at all.”

“Grief can make people crazy,” says Thatcher, his brow furrowed like he's trying to figure it out along with me.

“I know,” I say, still playing the scene in my head. “But there's something else. Right before they kissed, I thought I saw . . .”

I shake my head, feeling silly.

“What?” asks Thatcher.

“Carson's face was blurred, and I saw . . . I don't know, I thought I saw Reena there for a second.”

Thatcher puts his feet down and stops our rocking abruptly, turning to me. “You saw Reena? In the room?”

“That's what's so weird,” I say. “I thought I saw her in
Carson
, like her face flashed over Carson's for a second. Like she was doing that shadowing thing.”

“What shadowing thing?”

“I don't understand it exactly. It's a game they play where they try to line themselves up with people and follow their actions.”

“And this was before the kiss?”

“Yeah, just before she leaned over Nick,” I say, realizing that the moment is burned into my brain in excruciating detail.

Thatcher stands up abruptly and traces a portal.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

And then I notice that he's shaking, he's weak. He reaches out his hand to me, but quickly he sinks back down to the swing. “My energy is low,” he says.

I bite my lip, worried that the strain of rescuing Nick drained him beyond what he can handle. “Take some of my energy.”

“No, you need to hold on to it.” With a great deal of effort, he shoves himself to his feet. “You stay here, make sure Nick is okay. Can you get back to your prism?”

“Yes. Will you come find me there?”

He nods. “I have to talk to the Guides—tell them what you saw.”

“What I saw?”

“Listen, Callie—Carson didn't kiss Nick. Reena did.”