This is Your Afterlife (17 page)

“What's the difference?”

Playfully, he holds the pencil at arm's length and squints one eye. “It's all about perception. I'm drawing not just what you look like, but what I see inside.”

I hug my knees to my chest. “Oh. That sounds...interesting.”

He puts down the pencil. “You can say weird. I've been called worse.”

“No, I meant what I said.” I pick up the pencil and jam it into his grip. “But if you want, I can call it weirdly interesting.”

“Careful. I have the power to draw a hairy mole on your top lip.” He continues drawing. “Yep, a nickel-sized one would look just perfect.”

“No,” I say with a laugh. “Just leave out the freckles.”

“I like your freckles.”

Slapping my palms over my nose, I say, “They make me look like a Dalmatian.”

His eyes widen. “They make you look cute.”

“Like a Dalmatian,” I finish. “No, don't stop drawing. I only ask that you gloss over my flaws.”

Suddenly, Dan's closer to me and my freckles than ever before. His breath, sweetened by Coke, feels hot on my skin. Dangerously exciting. My body buzzes in response to his nearness.

“What flaws?” he whispers.

I'm fascinated by the way his lips move. I picture them touching mine. A flashback of that party long ago wedges in my mind. When he looked at me like I was Mona Lisa and when he held my face as he leaned toward me.

“I have lots of flaws, Dan,” I whisper back.
Like the ability to talk at the wrong time.

His hand closes over mine and electricity seems to flow right into me. “I don't believe you,” he murmurs.

He moves closer, closer. My heartbeat sounds like a bass drum in the school marching band. Those arresting eyes fill my entire field of vision. I'm drowning in their deep blue depths, and I can't touch the bottom, anchor myself. My breath hitches. In fact, I could well run out of air because I've forgotten how to inhale.

“Kiss me, weirdly interesting guy,” I murmur. That's what oxygen deprivation does to girls' brains. Makes them say the stupidest pick-up lines.

Dan grins. He cups my face. His lips are featherweight. Teasing, almost. Immediately, greedily, I want more. And it seems he does, too. He increases the pressure, and when his tongue briefly sweeps across mine, electricity spears through my body.

I can't help grinning. This is crazy. It's just a kiss, but it's so much more exhilarating than anything I've ever experienced before. Every part of me feels alive.

Dan tightens his arms around me. He moans. “God. Keira...”

“Yeah?” I murmur. Why is he talking? He shouldn't be talking now. He should be kissing me senseless.

“Nothing. I just wanted to say your name,” he says between kisses. “I've been saying it in my head for years.”

He kisses me again and again. If the rest of the world got annihilated, leaving just this room intact, I wouldn't care. My brain flickers between reality and fantasy. Unfortunately, reality carries much more punch. An alarm in my head gets louder and louder, telling me I've stepped out of bounds.

“This is so bad!” I exclaim, clutching my temples. I leap off the bed, putting as much space as I can between us in a fifteen-square-foot room. The closet's door handle digs into my lower back.

“What? What did I do?” he asks, eyelids heavy, like he hasn't fully woken from a dream. His lips are swollen, deep red, and totally appetizing.

“You didn't do anything,” I blurt. Apart from kissing me stupid. “It's me. I'm taking advantage of you.”

Dan guffaws and scrambles off the bed. He presses his hands against the wall on either side of my messed-up head. Teasingly, he asks, “You think you're taking advantage of little ol' me? What's the problem, really, Keira?”

My skin tingles at the way he says my name, lulling me back to Fantasyland. I shake my head. Reality. Get back to cold reality, hard truths.

I swallow with difficulty. “Dan, your brother just died. It's not the right time to be fooling around.”

His smile freezes, then slips away bit by bit.

“I'm so sorry to remind you...” I touch his cheek.

“Losing Jimmy never slipped my mind,” he says in a fractured voice.

“I know. That would be impossible. But my point is you're vulnerable and here I am taking advantage of that.”

He traces my nose, lingering on the funny little bump on the side where I broke it. Face-planted on the sidewalk for no good reason at all when I was ten.

“I miss Jimmy,” he says. “I loved him. Making out with you isn't dissing his memory. And trust me, you're not taking advantage of me. I waited a long, long time to kiss you.”

To punctuate his words, he kisses me again and again till my head feels buzzy and light. I haven't known a lot of boys' lips, but one thing I'm sure of is Dan knows what he's doing in this department. Finally, reluctantly, I pull back. We stare into each other's eyes, out of breath but not really caring.

“Whoa,” I say. That's the only word I can form as I recover from his kisses.

“More like wow,” he teases. His voice is raw, almost sleepy. And incredibly sexy.

I gently touch his chest and revel in the force of his pounding heart. His arms tighten around me and he kisses my jawline before nibbling all the way down my neck. Closing my eyes, I feel like I'm falling under a spell. More tingles ripple through me. His lips work at my collarbone, while his long fingers circle over my hip.

Suddenly I'm transported back into Becky's closet. Back then, my immature brain couldn't deal with kissing Dan. Now my slightly more mature brain is better equipped. I've always loved him and I'm only just realizing how much.

When his warm hand covers my breast, I jolt against him. It feels good. More than that.
Thrilling.
Precarious. A low moan rumbles through my throat.

“I need you,” Dan breathes into my hair.

Oh, God, I need him, too.

A car door outside slams, and it shatters the spell. I freeze. What if that's Mom coming home early from work? Awkwardly, I roll out from under Dan and peek through the curtains.

“It's just a neighbor,” I report.

When I turn around, Dan's staring at something in his hands. My crumpled nightshirt, the one with Jimmy's image printed on it. I'm struck by the pain and confusion etched on Dan's face. A voice in my head chatters—is he really
that
into me or am I an emotional band-aid for him? I want to be with him for the right reasons.

I put a hand on his shoulder, starting him. He looks up with bloodshot eyes.

“Dan? Maybe should keep this…
us
on ice. Just until we sort out Jimmy's afterlife. I want to be here to support you, but I'm not sure you need the extra pressure of a girlfriend.” My voice fades on the last word as I watch his jaw clench. It made me think, am I too presumptuous? What if all he wanted was to forget the events of the past few days?

He straightens his clothes. It takes him a long time to answer, and each second stretches into an eternity. “Yeah, maybe. Maybe…it's never gonna happen between us, Keira.”

“All I'm saying is we need to slow down. Focus on Jimmy. His funeral's tomorrow,” I say, watching him fumble around with his knapsack.

“Sure. I get it.” Dan nods. “In eighth grade, you wanted to hook up with my brother instead of me. A minute ago you didn't want to take ‘advantage' of me.
Now
you're saying I crack under pressure. Well, you're right. I've had enough.” He stalks to the door and opens it. “Let's face it. There's always some kind of obstacle that neither of us can get around.”

My heart folds in on itself as he closes the door behind him. He means
I'm
the obstacle. I wish I could take back everything I've done to him, starting from Becky's party all the way up until the day we found Jimmy's body. Question is, would I be doing it to make Dan feel better, or to make myself feel less guilty?

“I know you're out there. You can quit hiding from me, Grandie.” I'd laid out eight of her cards in the Mirror spread, which is all about relationships. Using her most treasured possessions makes me feel closer to Grandie. This time I want them to bring me in direct contact with her.

Jimmy's funeral was at noon. Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins hugged me hard. Dan remained stoic through the whole service. True to his word, Jimmy didn't show. Though, if I see him again, I'll tell him that his wish to be buried in his Wolves uniform, helmet and all, was granted. The pews were filled with hundreds of mourners. Jimmy wouldn't have liked seeing them cry for him. I couldn't bear it, either. To me, Jimmy lives on, and I hated seeing him referred to in past tense.

Here in my room, I practically burn a hole in the cards staring at them, willing them to reveal answers. Maybe even produce my grandmother in a puff of smoke. In flesh and blood form so I can squeeze her in a bear hug.

Shakespeare's Sister's “Stay,” one of Mom's favorite nineties songs, which in turn became one of mine, rings out on my laptop's YouTube playlist. In the video, a woman watches over her comatose boyfriend while the Angel of Death dances around them. She'd come to wrench the boyfriend away from the living. I play the video a lot, imagining myself as the determined girl tussling with the angel over Grandie's soul.

And winning.

A soft knock at my door sounds like gunfire.

“Grandie?”

“Excuse me?” Mom pokes her head in. “It's me. Your dear mother. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine.” My pulse rate powers down slightly. I pause the YouTube clip. “Thank you for coming to the funeral with me.”

“Of course, sweetie. I feel so sad for Jimmy's mom and dad. Looking at that casket, I just kept thinking, what if I'd lost you?” She rubs down the goose bumps on her arms and steps inside. “Any sign of Jimmy?”

I shake my head. I'd told her that he'd willingly run away from me.

She checks her watch, a fake Cartier a friend bought her in Bali. Soon she'll be off on yet another night shift. Her eyes fall on the antique tarot deck spread out in formation. On the white candle burning low and casting long shadows around the room. On the vial of holy water left over from the pseudo séance.

“Did I hear you call out for Grandie?” she asks.

“I need a little help cracking the case. She's around here somewhere. I know it. If she pointed Jimmy in the right direction, why can't she help her own favorite granddaughter?”

“Grandie didn't want to be brought back as a spirit. No séances, she said. Repeatedly.”

I sweep my hands above the cards. “I know, but I really think
she's
trying to get through to
me
. I smell her perfume. Hear her voice. She's still around.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ninety-nine-point-six percent sure. Who else could it be?”

“You've got me there.” She yawns and bumps down on my neatly made bed. Even without the dark circles and puffy bags under her eyes, her skin looks gray and stressed.

I sit next to her and rub between her shoulder blades. “You're working way too much. When are they going to hire more nurses?”

“When they offer decent money,” she says with a grimace. Mom feels like she has to take on the whole burden of the care facility.

She picks up a framed photo of Grandie from my nightstand. “Is it comforting? Feeling her presence?”

“The couple of times she's visited me?” I ask. “Yeah, it is. But I'd feel much better if she'd just show up here in my room and talk to me like Jimmy did.”

She buries her face in her hands. I put my arms around her and do my best to soothe her, but it only seems to trigger a sob. Her body trembles like there's an earthquake going on inside. I hand her a tissue and she drags it across her face.

She slips away to stand by the window. “Do you remember when Grandie was first diagnosed?”

“Yeah, I remember.” My hands clench the bed covers. Mentally and emotionally, I go right back to that horrible day. Grandie made us our favorite comfort food—eggplant parmigiana with extra mozzarella—sat us down with her best china. She even let me have a quarter wineglass of the Merlot she kept for special occasions. I thought maybe she was going to tell us she'd won a squillion-dollar lottery.

But no.

Grandie had pancreatic cancer.

And the bitter icing on the cake was that it had already spread to her liver.

The doctors said there was no hope for her, but I always believed that she could beat it. With Mom and me behind her, she could have, I know it. Plans were made to place her in a hospice where nurses could look after her round the clock and keep her comfortable. It was the best thing for her and for us, we were told. But I kept searching for more options, for other doctors who'd say the prognosis was a lie.

I remember the kick to my stomach as I heard the words
“Six months.”

That's how long the doctors gave her. They were wrong. She was gone in three.

Mom hugs herself tightly. “She told us she had no regrets, and that she was ready to stare Death in the face.”

Despite myself, I smile. “She hoped he was a dead-ringer for George Clooney.”

“Right!” Mom's laughter fades as she glances at me. “Grandie wasn't scared.”

I squeeze her shoulder. “That didn't make it any easier for us.”

“Not at all.” She draws in a long, shuddering breath.

“I'm going home,”
Grandie had insisted
. “Fred's waiting for me.”

Instead of going to the cottage she and my late grandpa Fred lived in, she came to live with us. The room next to mine was fitted with a hospital bed, drip stands, but we disguised the clinical furnishings with Afghan rugs she'd crocheted years ago. I brought in flowers, books, music, whatever I could to distract her from dying. I pushed all kinds of literature on beating cancer, new treatments, progressive clinics. One day she accused me of holding her back for my
own
sake, not hers.