“Jack!” I yelled again, snapping my fingers in front of his face.
Nothing.
That new fluttery feeling clutched my chest, pressing on my lungs and making it hard to breathe. It hurt to see him like this. Unresponsive. The ghost version of unconsciousness.
I was definitely on the verge of a full-on freak out.
He was okay. Jack was a ghost. Nothing could hurt him. Right?
But the skittering jumpiness of my heart wouldn’t let up.
The memory of his touch lingered, the back of my hand burning from his finger. Stupid, overachieving man to pack so much feeling into a paltry square inch of skin.
As for our experiment . . .
Why hadn’t it worked? What would make him stay in our reality?
The chocolate had been a long shot. The scene replayed in my mind. Jack concentrating, staring at my lips. His own flickering as he pushed them into physicality.
And abruptly, they had appeared. Fully formed lips, red and slightly chapped. I had instantly popped the chocolate in his mouth.
The needle had been much of the same. Jack’s hand suddenly becoming completelyhere, tanned skin, tendons flexing. Despite my bravado, I had felt bad stabbing the needle into him. His anguished cry had only made it worse. I was a terrible person.
And now . . . this.
Jack had collapsed. If he were fully corporeal, I would have dialed 911 by now.
“Jack! Snap out of it!”
So help me, if he hurt himself, I’d never let him hear the end of it. I hated that my heart beat frantically, clogging my breathing and making my knees bounce.
Didn’t Jack know that he was the Elmer Fudd to my Bugs Bunny? Tom to my Jerry?
Whoa.
That new scary feeling in my chest fluffed out, shaking its feathers.
Jackwasthe Tom to my Jerry. The Coyote to my Roadrunner. Or was I the Coyote?
Regardless, I finally acknowledged that new scary sensation for what it was.
Feelings.
I had feelings for Jack.Feeling-feelings.
I didn’t hate Jack. I didn’t even dislike him. I most certainly wasn’t neutral.
I liked Jack.
Not a full-blown crush or anything. But . . .
He was a good friend. Someone whose opinion mattered. Who else would bat a rhetorical ball back and forth with me if something happened to him? Who else so readily tolerated my inability to filter my words?
I sat on the couch, worrying my bottom lip as I stared at his unconscious ghostliness, wondering how to deal with feelings for a ghost.
What was it about him that drew me in?
This thought, naturally, turned into curiosity. Or at least that’s how I labeled it. Some small part of me—my conscience, I suppose—pointed out that my behavior had more in common with obsession than curiosity, but thankfully I was a pro at ignoring my conscience.
