Not real. This is not real. I’m still dreaming. I pinch my thigh, but still the boy is there.
“I know you can see me.”
My heart skips a beat in its hurry to hammer.
I have seen this face before. Know those eyes, too. Every day at the Stacks, working at the counter or restocking in the back.
And every time I stop to stare at the corkboard full of posters.
The blurry curls from the photo are black, not brown. His nose is long and bumpy, like it’s been broken at least twice, but I’ve seen the thin pink—in his sister’s case, red—lips and high cheekbones every day in the bookstore.
He’s supposed to be gone. Missing for three years. Dead, though no one has said the word. And yet, he’s standing in my bedroom.
I push off the bed onto wobbly legs and fold my arms tight over my torso. My thoughts batter around my skull like a pinball in a machine, all impossible to catch.
“You’re not her,” I say—the wrong words. I’d meant to sayyou’re not real. But I didn’t.
You’re not her.Not Harper.
Finn. The name jumps into my messy thoughts. Finn Shipman.
A stitch forms between his brows. He doesn’t remark on my odd statement.
“You’re not real,” I say.
The boy, Finn, inclines his head.“If we’re being technical, no.”
I turn around. Count to ten in my head. Tell myself the room will be empty again when I turn back. It isn’t.
“Still here,” Finn says.
“No, you’re not,” I say, and chide myself for indulging this figment of my imagination. “You’re not real, and this isn’t happening.”
“Denial is only natural,” he says.“Let me know when you’re past it.”
I flip my bedside lamp on, like the light will chase him away. Again, it doesn’t.
I shake my head. “You’re Nora’s brother. You’re—” I clear my throat. “You’re dead.” It’s quite possibly the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever said aloud, and if my mom could hear me right now, she’d surely stuff me in the car and take me to a doctor.
He winces. A hand rises to palm the back of his neck, and the fabric of his shirt draws up to reveal the smooth skin above his hip bone.
“You know my sister?” he asks. I don’t know the rules of engagement when it comes to conversing with the dead; maybe I’ve crossed a line by stating the obvious.
“I work with her.” Some semblance of composure works its way back into my system. “You’re dead.”
He scrutinizes me.“And you can see me.”
The absurdity of it slams back into place—and my chest—like a cinder block. I suck in a breath, shake my head, and turn, reaching for an old candelabra sitting on my dresser. I clutch it in one hand like a weapon.
“You’re in my head. I’ve finally gone off the deep end, and I’mseeing things, and you are not real.” I squeeze my eyes shut. Count to five.
When I open my eyes, the space in front of the door is empty. An exhale pushes out of me.
“You’ve got a sick view.”
My stomach leaps into my throat, and I spin, tightening my grip on the candelabra. Finn stands at the middle window, arms folded as he peeks through the slit in the curtain. He glances my way, and his lips turn up in a bemused smile that makes my heart skip a beat in its frantic race.
“Pretty sure that wouldn’t even work.”He jerks a chin at the candelabra. Gestures to himself.“I’m not super sturdy.”
