“Reece West.”
I liked seeing the smile back on his face. He had dimples, and his cheeks stretched wide, as if unused to accommodating joy. “Hi, Reece.”
All of a sudden, I felt like a nervous teenager, unsure of what to do with my hands. “Hi, Charlie.”
His gaze caught over my shoulder. “Your sandwich is burning.”
“Shit.” I turned back to the stove and grabbed the spatula, quickly flipping it over. Sure enough, the first side was less toasted and more charred.
Oh well, I guess that meant I had to make two. I’d still eat the first, of course, but you know. At least one should be properly cooked.
This kind of thinking is why you are already running out of groceries, you animal.
I opened the window over the stove to air out the smoke. “Can you grab the other window?” I asked over my shoulder. We’d need a cross-breeze to get rid of the smell.
“I can try,” he said.
Fuck, I hadn’t even considered. Sometimes he interacted with objects as though he were solid—he’d grabbed me firmly by the shoulders twice now—and other times he looked more like, well, a ghost.
“My bad, I got it,” I said, flipping the sandwich onto a plate before the other side joined the first, and it became completely inedible.
“No, I want to try.” Hesitantly, he took hold of the handle and cranked it a few times until the window cracked open. “That’s as far as I can go for now.” He sounded out of breath.
“Thank you.” I padded over to open it fully. I wasn’t sure how the physics of his corporeal body worked, but that seemed like progress. “That’s pretty amazing, you know. For a…” I cringed.
“For a dead guy?” he finished.
I guffawed. “I was going to say ghost, but same thing, I suppose. Have you always been able to touch things?”
He shook his head. “Not always. It’s hard for me to be physically present in a space, especially when I get worked up or upset.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry for the other day.”
“No. Don’t apologize to me for that. I’ve become more upset in my life over less. Youshouldbe angry, and I’ll listen whenever you need me to.”
I’d needed someone to vent my anger to, without feeling as though it burdened them. Even the ones who loved and cared for me very much just wanted me to feel better. To be okay. To be healthy.
Carrying their hopeandmine was exhausting.
Overcome with the urge to comfort him, I reached out as if to pat his arm, but hesitated.
What would he feel like? Would my hand fall right through his body? Or would he be solid, like the other day?
I gently rested my palm on his shoulder.
He felt surprisingly…normal.My hand slid easily over the cool leather of his jacket. His soft sherpa collar brushed against my fingertips.Rather than one amorphous apparition, his clothes retained their original textures. They weren’tghostlyat all.
Fascinating.
His shoulder was firm, and this close, he smelled faintly of cotton. Like warm sheets drying on the line on a hot summer day.
He sucked in a breath and jolted, blinking up at me.
I yanked my hand back and cleared my throat. “Sorry.”
“It’s ok,” he replied quickly. “It’s just been a long time, that’s all.”
Thirty-nine years.Thirty-nine years without a comforting touch, without any human connection at all. I’d be jumpy, too.
“Um, how long was I away?” he asked, glancing around again as if to gauge the time.
