“It’s over,” he tells me. “I broke up with Lana.”
“Was she—was she okay in the end?” I ask, still holding out a sprig of futile hope.
He rakes a hand through his hair, looking at me helplessly.
“Not really. I didn’t expect her to be so mad. I handled this all wrong, I know. But I did offer to keep the breakup—and you and me—under wraps until she’s ready. That seemed to help a little bit.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m not ready to go public anytime soon myself.
Chace tilts my chin up to his face.
“Do you regret this? It’s—it’s okay if you change your mind.”
I look into the pool of his eyes, asking myself the same question. I regret hurting Lana; I would take that back a thousand times if I could. But do I regret me and Chace?
I take a step closer. My hands are tentative as they reach for his shoulders, and he leans down and kisses the inside of my wrist. My body heats up, my legs begin to tremble, as his lips move up my arm, and suddenly I can’t wait a moment longer. I lift my face to his. Our bodies are so close, I can hear both of our hearts racing to the same beat. And then our lips meet.
I can’t hold back my gasp at the sensation of his kiss. Shivers run up and down my insides as our lips move together, answering every question we might have had. It seems unfathomable that I’ve lived without this until now; it’s like discovering music all over again.
“I don’t regret it,” I whisper. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
“Nicole.”
With a gasp, I turn around. I blink rapidly, but his image remains in front of me, those blue-gray eyes gazing down with tenderness.
“It is you,” I breathe. “When I thought I heard you through my headphones, and outside the school calling to me…it was real? But…how…?”
He moves toward me and I watch, heart in my throat, as his feet skim above the ground.
“The dead can choose,” he says softly. “I chose you.”
“Over what?” I whisper.
He gestures upward.
“Passing on. Crossing over. Whatever you want to call it, I won’t do it—not until I know you’re okay.”
The weight in my chest cracks open. The tears come flooding out, burning my eyes and choking my throat. Chace reaches out his hand, and this time he doesn’t withdraw. His fingers brush the scar on my cheek. Where his touch used to be warm, today it’s a shock of cold. But still, I don’t want him to let go.
“I never thought it would take death to bring us back together, but…” He shrugs, attempting a smile. “Well, as long as you can forgive me for—for everything.”
“Of course I do.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m the one who should apologize. Maybe I could have saved you, if I’d only stayed that night! When Ryan texted me to meet you guys at the party, I can’t explain how happy I was. But then I…I got scared. I was afraid of something bad happening if we got close again—like what happened with my accident.”
“What do you mean?” Chace peers closer at me. “I thought you said you didn’t remember that night.”
“I don’t really, I just remember the feeling I had—that we were both in danger as long as we were together.” I swallow hard. “But that’s not all I was afraid of. I was scared of how strongly I felt for you, and how much it would hurt to lose you again. I was even afraid of things actually working out—of what it would be like to walk beside you, and have all those eyes and whispers surrounding me and my scar. But now I see how pointless the fears were, and I’m just so sorry I ran out on you after our talk that night. It’s killing me, knowing how things might have been different if I’d stayed.”
Chace steps closer to me, until our faces are so close I can feel the cold wind of his breath.
“You have nothing to apologize for, Nicole. It’s a good thing you left that night. One of us is still alive, and I’m grateful that it’s you.”
A wave of grief from his words engulfs me. I look up at him, my golden boy, once so solid and full of color, now translucent.
“How does this work? Are you a…?”
“Spirit?” He finishes my sentence. “Must be something like that. There are periods of…of nothing, just me and a bright light that I’m fending off. And when I fight hard enough, that’s when I find myself here, able to see or communicate with you for moments at a time.”
“You shouldn’t have to fight,” I say, my voice breaking. “You should be at peace.”
“How can I be at peace when I still don’t know who killed me—and when you might take the fall for it?”
With a chill, I remember my task. The weapon in my backpack.
“Someone planted the—the knife in my room,” I tell him. “Do you think if you saw it, you might remember who did this to you?”
A cloud crosses his face, but he holds out his hand.
“Show me.”