She nods, her eyes already glistening with tears. “Yes, I just want to know if she’s okay. She was so weak and in pain, and I need to know she’s no longer suffering. I wasn’t there when she died, and I want to say goodbye.”
I smile weakly at her. “Spirits leave the pain behind when they depart. I can assure you she’s not in pain anymore.”
The young girl comes to stand beside Brad, her hand on her hip, tapping her foot slightly to let me know she’s waiting.
Fuck, this isn’t at all how Tally and her friend had imagined this reading would go, and it has the potential to blow up. “I’m sorry,” I apologize, my voice trembling with nerves. “I would love to talk to your mother for you, but she’s not here.”
Chelsey’s face falls. and Brad huffs a sarcastic laugh. “I knew this would be a waste of time. She’s not even pretending to try.”
“There’s someone else here,” I continue, ignoring his remark. “Someone who wants to speak to…” I turn to Brad, “… you.”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Of course, there is.”
“Oh, Brad, don’t be such a dick,” Chelsey chides before looking at me. “We’re willing to talk to anybody who wants to talk to us.”
I turn to look at the girl again. “What’s your name?” I ask, trying to keep my face neutral. It’s the first time a spirit has been at one of my readings uninvited. I always had at least an idea of whom I was talking to.
“I’m his sister, Isabelle. Please tell Chelsey I’m sorry for stealing her reading, but her mom is okay with it. I asked for permission, and they can have another one with you soon.”
I smirk at her confidence. Relaying her message, I tell Brad, “She claims she’s your sister, Isabelle. She’s apologizing to Chelsey for the interruption but assures that your mom is fine and will talk to you in another reading soon.”
Perfect, Sloan, you just promised her another reading.
Chelsey looks at me with wide eyes before turning to Brad, whispering, “Oh my God. Isabelle?”
“You know, I really like her. She’s the best girlfriend he’s ever had. She’s good for him. But he needs to move on from the past, or he’ll ruin everything,” Isabelle confides.
“What message do you want me to convey to him?” I ask.
“I was run over in a crosswalk by a drunk driver on my way home from a study group. I called him to pick me up from my friend’s house, but he fell asleep in front of the TV. I decided to walk home. It wasn’t his fault. It was mine?—”
“There’s no way she’s here. You must’ve learned that from social media or something. You googled us,” Brad accuses, crossing his arms over his chest.
Why do they always think I google shit.
I continue, ignoring his skepticism, and tell him what she wants him to hear. “She wants you to know that it wasn’t your fault. That night, when she called and you didn’t pick up?—”
He sucks in a breath, making me pause. His face turns pale, his eyes widening in shock. After a long moment, he asks in a hushed tone, “No one knows she called me. How do you know that?”
“She’s telling me,” I whisper. “She says you blame yourself for what happened to her, but she wants you to know it wasn’t your fault. She’s at peace now.”
He looks down at his hands on the table, forming fists, his hands trembling, his knuckles white. “I should’ve been there for her. I should’ve picked her up.”
“I’ve been sending this dickhead signs for years now. Every time he gets in his car, he gets a well-selected playlist. He thinks it’s shuffle, but it’s me. If he’d listen to the lyrics just once, dammit…” she starts before telling me about their teen years. I listen to her and watch as desperation seeps into Brad while the restaurant remains silent.
“She says she’s been sending you signs,” I relay after she finishes. “Songs, lyrics, whenever you’re driving. She says you both played in a band together. She sang, and you played the bass. She’s been trying to communicate with you through music.”
He looks up from his hands, his face a mixture of disbelief and hope. “I found a guitar pick under my bed last week. I haven’t played in years. I thought it was strange.”
“Finally, he’s connecting the dots.” Isabelle rolls her eyes.
I can see how she was fun to be around.
“That was her,” I say softly.
He looks at me for a few more seconds before he breaks down, sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, looking to where I was watching Isabelle. “I think about it every day. I think aboutyouevery day.”
“She wants you to move past what happened,” I say gently. “She says it’s time for you to let go of the guilt and live your life.”
