“How did I get so lucky?” I murmur as I study his face.
“I believe some things are just meant to be, Tristan.” He pulls me close. “I don’t know that I’ve ever believed in fate, but I think you and I were meant to find each other because nothing else in my life has ever felt this right. I don’t think we have to question it, we only need to feel it.”
His hand slides up my back, grasping the nape of my neck as I lean in and press my lips to his. This time, the kiss is slow and deep, filled with promise and such an innate sense of rightness. I could kiss him for hours like this, until the end of time even, but eventually I pull back with a sigh and press my forehead to his.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you too,” he replies in a low sleepy rumble as I slide down and rest my face on his chest so I can once again listen to his steady heartbeat.
The tension is all but gone, replaced with the excitement and knowledge of what Danny and I are building together, but somewhere, deep down beneath it all, a restless thought stirs.
How on earth am I going to explain to him that I see dead people?
11
Istand staring at my reflection as I carefully adjust my skinny black tie to the right length and smooth down my blazer. I’m still wearing my black skinny jeans but given the formal and sombre nature of the occasion, I’ve switched out my beloved Doc Martens for black shoes. I’ve tried to tame my wild hair somewhat, but the dark curls just like to do their own thing, so I’ve given up.
“Well don’t you look handsome, boo,” I hear Dusty behind me and turn.
“Why do you look like Bette Midler?” I stare at her. “It’s like the funeral scene fromBeaches.”
She’s wearing a tight-fitting pencil skirt that ends below under her knees, with skinny heeled black Louboutins like Chan would wear. She has a matching fitted jacket with black gloves. On her head is the widest brimmed black hat I’ve ever seen, it’s like a sombrero on steroids. Seriously, it should come with its own postcode. She’s pulled a lacy black net over her face and is holding a pristine white handkerchief pressed into a neat triangle.
“What?” she asks innocently.
“How on earth do you fit through doorways with that thing? It’s like the whole top section of the Space Needle in Seattle.”
I shouldn’t really be surprised, it’s relatively tame considering some of the outrageous hats and outfits I’d seen at Dusty’s funeral.
“Darling, I can walk through walls. I really don’t think it’s going to be a problem.” Dusty flips her blonde curls over her shoulder.
“Just try not to knock Mrs Abernathy out with that thing.” My gaze lands on the little old lady hovering at Dusty’s side.
“Where’s Detective Hot and Handsome?” Dusty asks, looking for Danny.
“Working.” I check my phone before slipping it in my pocket. “He said both him and Maddie would meet me there.”
“I suppose it makes sense they’d go to Delores’ funeral given that they’re in charge of the investigation.”
“Larry’s afraid there won’t be many people there,” I say quietly as I watch Mrs Abernathy stare aimlessly at my bedside lamp while she hums to herself.
Dusty opens her mouth to say something but stops abruptly when the doorbell rings out loudly throughout the flat. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“No.” I shake my head in confusion as I head out of my bedroom toward the front door.
I don’t usually get any visitors unless it’s Danny or the deceased, and they tend to just wander straight in. Although, saying that, I remember one other person who stops by and that’s–
“Chan,” I exclaim in surprise as I open the door.
This is the first time I’ve seen her looking… well… not like herself. In fact, this is the first time I’ve seen Chan looking more like a he than a she—a very pretty he, but a he nonetheless.
Usually, when Chan’s up on stage, she’s in full drag persona and looks incredible, but all the other times we’ve met, she’s been in a fitted dress and heels with immaculate makeup, looking impossibly elegant and very feminine.
Now Chan stands on my doorstep in slim black trousers and shiny black patent loafers, wearing a black t-shirt with a silver design on the front and a black jacquard blazer. That gorgeous hair, usually spilling down her back in an inky waterfall is tied up on top of her head in a messy bun and she’s wearing no make-up except for a little mascara and lip gloss.
“Uh-oh.” Dusty winces. “If Chan’s wearing trousers and”—she glances at those shiny black loafers—“flats, that can only mean he’s feeling out of sorts. Chan is genderfluid, but I could always tell where his head’s at by whether he’s looking more masc or fem.”
I nod slightly so Dusty knows I understand. “Chan, is everything okay?” I ask in concern.
