April fools.
I’m still waiting for Owen to yell thewords.
How many seconds have passednow?
Nine?
Ten?
Each one isexcruciating.
The longer we’re quiet, the clearer it allbecomes.
This isn’t a joke. He means what hesaid.
Still, with a shred of hope left in my rapidly deflating heart, I ask, “Is this just a really bad April fool’s joke?” I despise how my voiceshakes.
His sigh is my answer, but he speaks anyway. “No, Aubrey. It’s bad timing. I’msor—”
I pull my phone away from my ear and stare at it, the rest of hissorryfloating out into the air. With my thumb I end the call and toss my phone on the bed beside me. I don’t need to hear hisapology.
Eyes squeezed tight, I try to numb myself. Despite my efforts, the feelings come. Horrible, terriblefeelings.
How could I have allowed this? The real question is, how could I have allowed thisagain?
It’s my ownfault.
Ignoring Owen McNamera would’ve been the very best thing for me. And I tried. My guard was perfectly intact despite all his persistent visits to the overpriced juice shop where I work on campus. It was obvious he had no desire to drink his vegetables, but every day he came. It was his slow smile that broke down my walls. The way only one corner turned up the tiniest bit, and then, after a few moments, that one side would finally give rise to the other corner. That smile was special. Just for me. Like I was the chosen one. And it was what ultimately took down my walls. No cannons or torpedoes needed. Just something nice and kind, something masquerading aslove.
My vision swirls until the water clouding my eyes spills over. How long have I been lying here? Long enough for the shadows on my bed to lengthen. With the back of my hand, I wipe away any remaining moisture from my cheeks. I will not cryanymore.
All my emotions have been rounded up and locked down. My walls are rebuilt, even higher thanbefore.
It's a crappy way to live, but it's what I know. There's comfort there, even if it's not the kind of comfort that comes with happiness or ease. Sometimes comfort is really just doing what you've always done, simply because it's what youknow.
In this case, I’m apro.
I've been here before. I know how to watch someone I love walkaway.
* * *
“It’s notthat I don’t believe in ghosts,” I explain to Britt as she rubs her eyes. She mumbles something about accidentally looking too closely at the sun, and when she pulls her hands away from her face, I see the water pooling on the lower rims of hereyes.
“Here,” I grab my backup pair of sunglasses from my backpack and hand them toher.
She slides them on. “Thanks. I couldn’t find mine thismorning.”
I’m not shocked, considering the state she keeps her room in. But I don’t complain, because she keeps the rest of our placespotless.
“So what were you saying before I tried to stare down the sun?” She throws her backpack’s second strap over her other shoulder and starts toward ourapartment.
“Just that I don’t believe in ghosts, exactly.” Not the ghosts of people who’ve died, anyway. But the ghosts of those who are still living? I believe inthose.
Britt gives me a look as we come to a stop at a light. She presses the walk button and folds her arms across her chest. For a moment she studies me. I’m waiting for her to ask just what it is I believe in,exactly.
Three minutes ago, the very moment we stepped away from her last class, Britt asked me about ghosts. Her knitted brows and worried expression tell me her opinion on theirexistence.
I’d like to poke a fork into the arm of the lab partner who told her the apartment building we live in ishaunted.
