My Last Kiss Read online

  He’s next to me the entire night. Then he’s not. Then I’m alone. Then I’m not. This part plays out in segmented bits, as if someone scratched the DVD of my life.

  When I open my eyes, the lights are on again and the woman with the clipboard is back with an unfamiliar man in a dark blue uniform.

  Oh no, Dad is here too.

  He’s crying. I’ve never seen my dad cry before. I thought he was going to when my little sister, Joules, was born, but he didn’t. I want to hug him so badly. A surge of need and fear consumes me. I run to him. I run right through him! The prick of a thousand needles attacking me from the inside out nearly drops me to the floor.

  “Cassidy, baby,” Dad says. His voice breaks my heart—even if I no longer have one, I feel it crack and crumble inside my chest.

  Now I know I’m crying. I leave the room again. I can’t stay and grieve my own death with my dad, not when part of me still lives.

  I pass by an old man coming in the front door as I run out into the blizzard that is swirling up snow in little tornadoes around the parking lot. I look down, half expecting to see the flakes breezing through me, but they’re glancing off my skin. I lift my arm to capture a handful and, for a fleeting second, I can see a million tiny rainbows dancing in each individual flake in my palm, and the hollow hum of the wind is the only thing I hear.

  Then the world comes rushing back to me in dull grays, and I’m running again.

  Before I know where I’m running to, I see the riverbank. My feet stomp slushy puddles and freezing water splashes my legs as I cross the park … Wait, it hasn’t rained in days and the snow on the ground is dry and frozen.

  Then how did my legs get wet?

  I swipe at the spray and come up with wet palms covered in leafy debris and bits of ice. It’s river water dripping from my fingers, as if they are fleshy faucets. As wetness seeps into me, spreading an eerie chill across my skin, I see Aimée’s tall white house through the trees on the other side of the covered bridge. The whitewashed planks that make up the bridge’s walls are fissured and shadowed. The threat of the wind rustling the gaunt branches seems to be enough to blow the bridge right over. It’s a vague remnant of the sanctuary it used to be for me. I stare across the partially frozen water, trying to remember what the bridge once was, but my vision starts to blur. I blink, bringing it back into focus for a brief moment.

  The bridge isn’t sunny and bright the way it was that day with Ethan. Did I dream that? No. It was real—Ethan and me reflected beside each other that day.

  This bridge is where I had my first kiss and … I’m pretty sure it’s where I had my last.

  BREAKUP

  “DID YOU HEAR THEY’RE breaking up?”

  Sugary grape vodka goodness slid down my throat, warming my chilled bones as I straightened the Birthday Princess tiara that Madison bought for me (and that I really didn’t want to wear since my birthday technically already happened two days before), halfheartedly eavesdropping on the girls behind me. It was warm for this early in March, but it was still March. The heat from the bonfire couldn’t reach me at the drinks table, so I took another sip to warm up.

  “Who?” the other girl asked.

  Girl number one lowered her voice. “Birthday girl and E.”

  My head reflexively jerked toward them so fast that my tiara flew off into the snow about a foot away. I dropped to my hands and knees half looking for it, half hiding so they wouldn’t see me.

  “Omigod, Carly, you can’t call him E.”

  “His friends do.”

  “And you’re not his friend.”

  “Friend of a friend then.”

  “You aren’t that either.”

  “Could be real soon. He’d make a certain non-friend so jealous,” Carly said with a giggle that made grape-flavored bile clog my throat.

  “Can you please get over Mica already? Besides, Ethan seems so sweet. He would never cheat.”

  “I heard that’s why they’re breaking up. She had some meltdown and he cheated or she cheated—something. Anyway, point is, there’s trouble in paradise, which means he’s soon to be available.”

  “Happy birthday,” Madison singsonged as she walked up beside me with Aimée. I sprang to my feet so fast I almost spilled my drink on Madison’s furry white boots. She jumped back with a yelp, and Carly and the other girl stared at me in stunned horror.

  “Someone’s jittery.” Aimée reached out to steady my drink and slid her hand into my coat pocket to borrow my watermelon lip gloss the same way she did at least six times a day. I didn’t bother playfully swatting at her hand like usual. “Isn’t this surprise snowfall so festive?”

  “Who are those girls?” I pointed an accusing finger at Carly and her friend as they skittered away into the crowd around the bonfire.

  Madison brushed her long bangs down so they shaded her eyes, sipping her green-apple jolly vodie through a bendy straw. “Dunno. Why?”

  “You made the guest list,” Aimée reminded Madison while she returned my lip gloss and zipped my pocket.

  Madison fluttered a hand at me and Aimée. “I’m sure they’re just freshman tagalongs. What’s the big?”

  “Never mind.” I looked around me. “Have you guys seen Ethan?”

  Aimée started to motion toward the bonfire, but Madison interrupted her. “Just saw him go inside with Drew. Ice or something.”

  I pushed past them without another word and made a beeline for the house.

  Aimée called after me, “We made you a birthday s’more. There’s a candle in it and everything.” I didn’t answer, didn’t even really process her words. She added, “Stay with your girls!”

  I twisted to give her an apologetic wave and saw Caleb Turner and his stoner crew huddled in the back corner of the yard. They were not invited guests. Without thinking, I changed course and marched up to him.

  “What are you doing here?” It came out sounding a lot more get-out-of-here than I meant, but considering what I had overheard from those girls, it was merited.

  “Hi,” he replied with his standard laid-back smile.

  Three weeks ago I would’ve rolled my eyes, three days ago I would’ve laughed, now I wanted to forget he existed. “Seriously? Hi? That’s what you say after I specifically asked you not to come?”

  He shrugged. “It’s rude not to say hello to the host, don’t you agree?”

  I glared at him. “I’m not the host, Aimée is.”

  “That should be interesting, but okay. Where is she?”

  I put a hand on his chest to stop him from walking toward the drinks table. “What have you been telling people?” I must have looked as enraged as I felt because his circle of guys quickly dispersed, snatching up their twelve-pack of cheap beer on the way.

  Caleb answered, “That the Beatles are more popular than Jesus?”

  I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching before pulling him behind a thick oak tree. “Get serious, Caleb.”

  “Y’know I don’t do serious.” He flashed a coy grin at me.

  “What about Thursday at your house?”

  His cool exterior faltered for a second. He looked away from me and reset his expression. “That wasn’t serious, that was inebriated.”

  A ball of rage burned in my belly. “I’m surprised you can pronounce a word with so many syllables,” I spit at him. He looked at me like I’d trampled over his second-grade crepe-paper piñata (which I had, accidentally, back when he was my seat partner in Ms. Peterson’s class), and his eyes glazed over with visible resignation. An apology started to rise up my throat. I swallowed it.

  “People are going to believe what they want, Cassidy.”

  “Especially if you give them a reason to talk,” I accused.

  “What do you want from me?” He held his hands out, palms up.

  “The truth!”

  He pulled his stupid smile back up. “That’s not what they pay me for.”

  “Can you be serious for one minute? You migh
t not care what people are saying about me, but I could lose everything.”

  “Dees?” I peeked around the tree and saw Madison standing with her head tilted to one side like a confused, drunken puppy. She thrust a red plastic cup into my hand. “Twinsies photo op—you and me.” She tucked my hair behind one ear so our hair matched not only in color, but in style too, then snapped a picture with her camera. When she spotted Caleb, her head tilted farther to the side, asking a million silent questions.

  Fabulous. Now I’d have to think of a lie for why he was at my party. For a brief moment, I thought about telling her everything. Then she opened her mouth.

  3

  I LOOK DOWN AT MY HAND, blinking when I realize the red cup is gone and I’m holding someone else’s hand instead. But it’s not Madison’s or Caleb’s. These fingers fit snugly twined between mine, like they were meant to puzzle together. Only one person’s hand fits in mine so perfectly.

  Ethan’s.

  I want to wrap my arms around him and pull him close so I can see his gorgeous face, but sharp stabs burn through me when I move. As the pain slowly subsides, I realize I’m not outside anymore and it’s not last night. I’m back to reality—or, I guess, the present would be more accurate. And my mind is full of impossible questions that keep me from him.

  Did I have a flashback? Blackout? Out-of-body experience? I guess, technically, everything is out-of-body for me now, but how did that happen? It’s like I dissolved into a parallel dimension where Saturday night is still running on a constant loop and I relived a small portion of it. It didn’t feel like a repeat while it was happening though. I wasn’t even aware this reality—the one where I’m dead—existed. I was in that moment, seeing it through my own eyes as if it was the first time I’d experienced any of it.

  I look down at my legs to see if they’re wet like they were before whatever just happened to me happened. From what I can see in the dim room, they’re not. I’m wearing the cream-colored corduroy miniskirt and leggings topped with my puffy lavender coat with silky faux-fur trim around the hood that I wore to Aimée’s last night. My rhinestone horseshoe necklace is even around my neck still. Lot of luck that brought me. If I’d known this was going to be my outfit for eternity, I wouldn’t have worn leggings. At least I have on my favorite black suede Mary Janes.

  My eyes move to the familiar blue-on-blue striped wallpaper and pictures of me taped to a square mirror over a dresser that holds a fish tank I helped set up. A sense of calm fills me, washing away the confusion.

  I’m in Ethan’s bedroom. He’s sleeping with his arm hanging over the edge of the mattress, and I’m sitting on the floor next to his bed playing with his fingers.

  “I can still touch you!” I let out a tiny squeal of joy. I squeeze his hand tighter, just because I can, but my tiny moment of relief disappears when I realize he would’ve woken up by now if he could hear me or feel me. He doesn’t seem to notice when I walk my fingers up the inside of his forearm, a gesture that would have him doubled over with ticklish laughter if he could feel me. I drop my head.

  Being here is a cruel joke. One second I’m walking through doors and invisible to everyone and the next I get to feel Ethan’s warm hand again only to realize it’s a one-way street. I’m not real to him or anyone anymore. I know that has to be true, but I don’t go through him like I did my dad, and there’s no pain. Maybe it’s foolish, but I can’t help thinking there’s a chance he can see me. Maybe I’m not alone after all.

  I weave my fingers between Ethan’s again, and squeeze even harder, hoping he’ll respond this time. My skin looks like porcelain, almost iridescent, compared to his.

  Sadness swells in me. I wish I could dismiss this as a dream, but seeing my body like that—mangled on the rocks and crushed and gray (a person should never look gray)—was way too macabre to be one of my dreams. My subconscious is more along the lines of I’m-in-class-and-have-no-idea-what-the-assignment-is, nothing freaky. Crushed, gray death stuff didn’t come from my subconscious, it came from another place entirely—a place I have no control over: the past.

  Every inch of me seems poised to realize my purpose here, but I have no idea what it is. It’s like I’m wandering through a thick mist on a cliff, rushing toward the inevitable drop-off, at a complete standstill. And the memory of those girls talking about me at the party was so real. Can I do that with any moment from my life? Is that what happened before, when I came to in the river; was I remembering my first kiss with Ethan? Can I go back and see how I died?

  As terrified as I am to relive that moment, I have to know. I close my eyes and cross my fingers behind my back: HD memory machine, please show me last night when I drowned.

  Nothing happens.

  I shake my head, frustrated. I shouldn’t be here. I should be inside Other Me at the morgue, passing on to heaven or merging with Mother Earth—whatever it is that’s supposed to happen when you die. But I’m not.

  Why?

  Am I a ghost, a spirit, a lost soul? I’m certainly not human anymore. Humans breathe.

  Something still pulses inside me though, something new I didn’t feel at the morgue, not quite a heartbeat, but something that connects me to this world, to this place. To Ethan. It anchors me to the dark blue carpet under my Mary Janes, holds me unsubstantially to Earth. It has to mean something, me being here, not moving on.

  I search my mind for a reason why I fell into that specific memory and magically transported to Ethan’s bedroom afterward. I mean, I get that seeing Aimée’s house might have sparked the memory and since I was on my way to find Ethan in it I ended up here with him, but I’m not accomplishing anything. Aren’t ghosts supposed to have some sort of agenda? I really hope mine isn’t to haunt my boyfriend’s bedroom. That is way too clichéd.

  Ethan rolls to his side, bringing his face inches from mine. The pulsing in my chest speeds up to a staccato beat and my mouth curls into a smile. It’s faint but my bones and flesh seem to solidify, and I don’t feel floaty or cold next to him.

  He makes me believe I’m … almost … alive.

  I cast away that dangerously hopeful thought and look up at Ethan, deciding to take advantage of what time I have left with him.

  His lashes bat against the sunlight breaking through the curtains. He yawns, then tucks his free arm under his pillow. I press my fingertips to his eyelids and wish that I could hold them shut forever so this moment will stay with me. Or better, that I could fall into a deep sleep with him and awaken to reality because this cannot be it.

  I pull my hand back and close my eyes so I don’t have to see him stare straight through me when he wakes. Then a gentle whisper of a touch brushes my wrist and moves my hands away from his face. The pulsing hiccups into my throat and pounds behind my ears the way I remember my heartbeat doing when I was alive.

  He can’t actually be touching me. Can he?

  I squeeze my eyes more tightly shut because I’m sure I’ll slide right through him if I open them. His thumb draws circles on my palm, and my skin vibrates under his touch. The sensation travels across my shoulders and down through my chest. His other hand finds my neck and I let out a quiet sigh. When he encloses his hands around mine and presses my fingertips to his cheek, my eyes fly open and I see him. Asleep.

  I pull my hands away and slump against the foot of his bed. He’ll never touch me for real again. I’m not even sure what I felt was real.

  I back away from his bed and tuck myself between his desk and the wall, forehead rested on my knees, eyes shut. I should leave before I plummet into full wallow mode, but I literally can’t think of anywhere else to go. It’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Maybe Ethan’s bedroom is my afterlife prison—no, prison isn’t the right word. I want to be here with him, but I feel like there’s no way out, no choice.

  I listen to him get out of bed, leave the room, return five minutes later, and climb back into bed. His cell phone rings. He doesn’t answer it. Finally, after ten solid minutes of it ringing,
he picks up and Mica’s deep voice comes through the line so clear that it’s like he’s in the room. Mica says, “Don’t hang up.”

  Ethan hangs up and curls his legs close to his chest, then starts to cry. I’ve seen Ethan cry before—unlike my dad. I know I have, but … the memory of when I did is missing. Watching him fall apart like this, reminding me of what I’ve lost, is unbearable. I pull the first happy memory I can grasp to the front of my mind.

  I’m in my driveway, on a chilly spring afternoon, prancing through the steps from my first ballet recital. My pigtails are swooshing back and forth against my cheeks, whipping me in the eyes with each pirouette. That was the year my mom made me cut my hair up to my chin because I got Bubblicious stuck in it. I refused to stop wearing it up even though the ends were too short.

  I squeeze my eyes shut at the memory of my four-year-old self’s pigtails whipping me again, holding tight to the moment, savoring the simple ability I always took for granted: being able to remember. When the air shifts and coldness rolls over me, I know I’m no longer with Ethan.

  4

  A TREE-LINED SUBURBAN STREET slowly comes into focus. I would know it anywhere even if it is blanketed in a layer of fresh snow.

  How did I magically teleport—ghost-a-port?—to my street?

  I chalk it up to my ghostly powers, which I seem to have absolutely no control over. I pass a beige ranch house and turn to face the yellow two-story house across the street.

  The mailbox my mom hand-painted with daisies and happy vines looks like it could collapse at any moment with the weight of snow on top of it. My mom is always trying out things like that to warm up our Midwestern existence. Her new sky-blue Beetle is parked crookedly at the end of the driveway with skid marks behind it in the snow. It’s the kind of parking job she makes when she’s late, which is almost never.