Unveiling Ghosts (Unveiling Series, Book 3) Read online

  I couldn’t hide my smirk. “The Young and the Restless?”

  He didn’t blush or stutter, he proudly responded, “Hell yeah. My mom loved that shit when I was a kid.”

  My smile widened; I felt lighter than I had since I’d heard the news. “Thanks, Derek.”

  He nodded and we continued to eat in companionable silence; that was how it’d always been with Derek. It was such a simple thing, yet it was one of the reasons we were so close. I would never be able to do that with Alara or Naomi. I loved them to death, but Naomi couldn’t stay silent for a minute, and Alara often got uncomfortable during silent moments.

  “I didn’t tell Naomi or Alara any specifics.” Derek’s jaw dropped with the information, revealing a mouthful of food. “Classy.” I smirked. He quickly finished chewing and swallowed.

  “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Why do they think you’re leaving? What do they know?”

  “Well, they know his name and that I’ll be gone for a little bit. But other than that…”

  His eyebrows skyrocketed. “And Naomi was cool with that?” The skepticism was heavy in his voice, and I couldn’t blame him. Naomi wasn’t one to accept bullshit. However I was pretty sure she knew how important this all was, and how fragile it made me. For months my mask had been slowly slipping, allowing the pain through, and I knew she saw it. She often gave me the look. It spoke of pity and begged me to let her in. And when she eventually found out Derek had known this whole time…

  “She’s gonna kill me.”

  He chuckled, because he knew his sister well. “Yeah, she definitely will. She’ll also understand.”

  That I knew, too.

  “When’s your flight?”

  I looked down at my phone. “Soon. We should probably get going. And thank you again, I really appreciate this. I needed to see you before I left.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He smiled, pulling out his wallet and dropping cash on the table, enough to cover both our meals and a generous tip. We slid out of the booth and Derek extended his hand for my suitcase before we headed toward the door.

  “Wow, you must really be nervous if you didn’t fight me on paying,” he said as he climbed into his car.

  We were on the main road when I finally answered him. “I am,” I whispered.

  He threw me a sad glance and quickly returned his eyes to the car in front of us. “Don’t be. Everything will work out, I know it.”

  Nodding, I turned to look out the window. I wasn’t sure I believed him. Derek knew the facts of what had happened, but he could never know the feelings.

  There were things about that night I’d never be able to forget, ingrained in my brain like a tattoo. The sights, the feelings, the scent… God, the scent. I’d never forget that. If reincarnation was real, I’d be cringing at that smell for every life to come.

  I said goodbye to Derek in a daze, promising him I’d call with updates or if I needed to talk. He looked worried as he got in his car and waited for me to walk inside. I think that was a natural state for him: worrying about the people he loved.

  As I approached the gate and looked at my ticket, I thought about something Hunter had always said: Ours is a love people write stories about.

  I swallowed back my tears and grief. I’d always smiled when he said that. But what we had failed to remember was that love stories didn’t always end well. Some people didn’t get to live happily ever after. Romeo and Juliet was a “love story,” and look at how well that turned out.

  Our relationship had seemed solid then. We were young and so positive of our happy ending. And when I was told he was gone, I felt dead, too. Juliet’s decision made a lot more sense.

  And even though I now knew our story wasn’t over, I still wondered about how it would end.

  Would it be a tragedy or a fairy tale?

  I ENTERED THE GYM, my headphones in and my hoodie up, giving a quick nod to the guy at the front desk before wandering down the hall toward the locker room. I acknowledged a few more guys while walking back to the locker I always used in the back corner. People rarely made the trek this far, so I was usually alone, which was exactly the way I liked it.

  After locking everything inside, I made my way out to the floor and headed toward the punching bags. I’d just finished wrapping my hands when I arrived at my favorite one in the back corner.

  I had a strict routine that I never deviated from: I woke up, ran, went to work, exhausted myself at the gym, and then I went home to read.

  It never worked like it was supposed to. I would never be tired enough to forget Sherry. Not that I wanted to, but there were times when I wondered if it’d be easier. Then minutes later I’d hate myself even more for thinking about a life when I hadn’t known her, because she had been the best part of my life. Even if she wasn’t a part of it now.

  I steadied the punching bag, ready to begin the pointless exercise of trying to wear myself out. I gave it a few light punches before I really started to unleash.

  Low right kick.

  High right kick.

  Low left kick.

  High left kick.

  Punch.

  Right hook.

  Punch.

  Left hook.

  Knee strike.

  Again and again, I did that until my arms ached and my legs wobbled. An hour later, I was panting and leaning my hands on my knees, still thinking about Sherry, when a large palm came down on my shoulder.

  “Yo, Hunter.” I looked over to see Mo, the owner of the gym and the person who saved me from my self-destructive spiral, holding a phone to his beefy shoulder. “There’s someone on the phone. Says it’s important.” He shrugged and chomped on his gum as he held the cordless out to me.

  Nodding, I took it and put it to my ear. “Hello?” I asked, still breathless.

  “Hunter?”

  Ghosts from my past came rushing down the line when I heard Thomas’s voice for the first time in months. I could feel my face paling and my throat drying up. No one liked getting a call from a police officer, but I was sure my reservations were different than most.

  “Hunter, I can hear you breathing.”

  I quickly recovered, standing up straight and speaking clearly. “What can I do for you?”

  “Your father…” He trailed off.

  My pulse spiked, all signs of composure gone. “What? He what?”

  “Your father’s dead, Hunter.”

  Your father is dead.

  Those four words were about to change my life. I was certain they would change anyone’s life. I could picture a daughter getting the call as she sat in her college dorm room. The words slicing through her happy life, the phone falling to the floor while the ground came out from under her, wondering who would walk her down the aisle or help her if she didn’t know how to fix something.

  Or a young son sitting on his bed, the airplane-patterned sheets fisted in his tiny hands, listening to his mother explain that his father—his idol, his hero—wouldn’t be coming home ever again. He would stare straight ahead, trying to be stoic like his dad would have been, but secretly worrying over who would teach him to throw a baseball or give him advice when he messed up.

  Your father is dead.

  Those words should change your life. They should break you, sadden you, and leave you utterly destroyed.

  Your father is dead.

  Those words did change my life. But they healed me, lifted me up, and left me utterly hopeful.

  Your father is dead.

  Because I wasn’t sorry he was dead. I was only sorry I hadn’t been the one to kill him.

  It wasn’t exactly a quick trip back to Fletcher, Illinois. I had been living on the northern outskirts of Rockford, Illinois, and with Fletcher being about two hours south of Chicago, it was a little over four hours away.

  After asking my boss for a week off, I packed one small bag, got on my motorcycle, and left. I had no interest in staying in Fletcher any longer than necessary. My father would not have a funera
l. There would be no reception; nobody would speak about the fine man he was or what a shocking tragedy his death was. No one was missing him. No one cared. I was simply here to take care of the legalities, and then I was gone.

  I hadn’t been back in four years—too many memories lingered at every corner, and too much shame clung to me as I thought about the worst of them. These thoughts were never far from my mind—they never would be—but they were worse here.

  The first place I went was my house, and as I stood in front of it, I had a crazy, impossible thought.

  I could finally tell Sherry the truth. We could finally be together. We—

  I shook my head before I could even finish having another ridiculous thought about it. It was an insane notion; too much had happened, too much had changed. I couldn’t even stomach looking at the house next door. How would I be able to look at her?

  The answer was easy: I wouldn’t.

  Yes, my father was gone, but so was Sherry, and she’d never have any reason to come back here. And as much as the idealistic part of my brain wanted to go find her and tell her everything, I couldn’t do that to her. She deserved the peaceful life she was living now.

  I left her when she needed me most. The threat had been subtle, but it was enough that leaving felt like the only option. And even though I hated the fact that it had hurt her, it had been the right decision. It would be selfish to try and make myself a part of her new life.

  Immediately about-facing, I got on my motorcycle and drove to the one place I knew I’d feel calm. When I got there I stayed on my bike and stared at the roof Sherry and I had gone to so many times. It didn’t take away all the pain, but at least this place only had good memories, nothing bad to taint it.

  I reached behind me, unfastened my saddlebag and grabbed my camera. Focusing it on the edge of the roof, the pretty night sky acting as a backdrop, my breath caught.

  The beauty and familiarity flooded my mind with memories. I moved the lens down without taking a picture. With a defeated sigh, I closed my eyes while dozens of things floated through my mind.

  Her minty shampoo.

  Her soft chuckle.

  The bright smile she only seemed to gift me and her parents.

  Her soft hands wrapped in mine.

  Her warm lips sealed under mine.

  Her strawberry ChapStick.

  The absolutely breathtaking way she looked at me like I was every dream come to life.

  My chest ached at the thought of never experiencing any of that again. I guess I’d always held out hope that once my father was dead there would be a chance for Sherry and me. Despite everything, I’d had hope. But now that I was sitting here, faced with the decision to go to her, to see her and explain everything, I realized how unfair that was to her.

  It had been four years. She had a new life, filled with friends and… him.

  I knew she had a boyfriend two years ago, and I had no idea if she was still with him. I hadn’t thought about it when I left, but it was stupid to think that the most beautiful girl in the world, my beautiful girl, wouldn’t find someone else. Someone who was there, someone who could hold her. Someone who could make her laugh. Smile. Enjoy life. An actual warm body, and not just the cold ghost I was. She had no idea where I was, and I didn’t hold it against her. But it hurt. God, it hurt.

  It was unfair to expect anything less. She was an amazing person and she deserved to be happy.

  Sherry had been the reason I got up each morning and she was the only person I’d had any interest in seeing. But Sherry had more than that; she had parents who loved her.

  She was everything to me and instead of giving her that back, I was the reason she lost it all.

  She looked at me like I was a dream, and I brought her into a nightmare.

  The bus screeched to a stop in front of the familiar depot and, like a robot, I followed the rest of the passengers off the stale, cramped bus and into the warm, fresh air of Fletcher, Illinois. After the overbooked flight I took this morning, and the subsequent two-hour bus ride from Chicago, I was more than ready for some alone time.

  I stood still, watching all the happy reunions around me. Wives greeting husbands. Children running up to returning mothers. Proud parents wrapping their arms around college students home for summer break. Young-and-in-love couples reuniting, thinking they had their whole lives ahead of them to be together.

  “Miss?” My head turned to find the bus attendant pointing to a lonely black duffle bag in the underneath bins of his bus. “Is that yours?”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry, sir.”

  “Not a problem, miss. Let me grab it for you.” He leaned in and put both hands on the strap. Before lifting it out, he turned his head and gave me a wide smile. His teeth were slightly yellow and the ones that weren’t missing were crooked, but he was beautiful. Because I could tell how genuine his joy was. He was happy, and regardless of his perceived flaws, I would never hesitate to call him beautiful. “Lovely weather here, isn’t it?”

  It was the kind of smile that was impossible not to return, and I was grateful to this stranger for giving me a reason to smile. “Yes, it is.”

  “You coming from Arizona? I bet this is a shock,” he said, gesturing to my University of Carillo T-shirt. I glanced down before reaching for my bag.

  “Actually, I used to live here.” Another bright smile was thrown my way.

  “Wonderful.” He straightened and closed the bin door. “Visiting family?”

  My smile wobbled and he immediately noticed. “Sorry, dear—”

  “No, I am. No need to apologize.” I tried to make my lips tip up, but we both knew it was forced. Thankfully, he was graceful enough to nod and wish me well. I walked away from him, the fake smile slipping from my face. I looked up and down the street, finally spotting a cab at the end of the depot.

  “Evening,” the cab driver said as I opened the door, tossing my bag in before settling in myself. She nodded and clicked some buttons on her console. I looked at the clock; with the time change it was nearing six o’clock. “Where to?”

  I turned toward the window. All the people reuniting had dispersed, leaving the few lonely stragglers who had no one coming for them. No one to greet them and tell them they were loved and missed. They were alone, looking for their own cabs.

  “Honey?” I looked to the cab driver who patiently raised her eyebrows in question. “Where to?”

  My gaze slowly moved away from hers and back to the window, catching on the bus driver. He finished checking all the doors on his bus before heading to the bathroom. He was still smiling, wide and bright even from this distance. He really had no need to apologize earlier. After all, I was going to see my family.

  I turned back to the driver, lines of worry etched into her forehead as I told her where to take me.

  “Hale Cemetery, please.”

  I slowly unfolded myself from the car, immediately dipping back down to say, “Can you wait here? I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “Sure, honey. I’ll turn off the meter. Take your time.” I gave her a look of gratitude. I couldn’t make it a full smile but she seemed to understand.

  “I won’t be long,” I assured her again.

  My shoes made soft thuds against the sidewalk as I walked toward my family. I prolonged the walk as much as I could, but my long legs didn’t exactly make it easy, and in no time at all, I was standing in front of them.

  Tears stung at my eyes as my gaze shifted between my parents. This was all they were now: two slabs of concrete over bodies that didn’t mean anything anymore. I looked toward the waiting car, finding the cabbie playing on her phone with her feet kicked out the window. When my eyes fell back on the graves, I let my tears fall as my body crumpled under the weight of all my unspoken pain. My knees hit the ground, the sharp contact barely registering over the pain slicing through my chest.

  How was this my life?

  There was no evidence, they’d said. No proof. As if two dead people weren’t enoug
h proof.

  Apparently the only evidence lived with me. The hole in my heart, the tear through my life.

  You’re on borrowed time.

  My mother used to say that all the time. She wasn’t overly religious, neither of my parents were, but she did believe in a higher power. She didn’t need a name to worship or a doctrine to follow—she was simple in her beliefs. My mother believed in kindness and the golden rule. She believed in living life to the fullest and never looking back. She believed in counting your blessings and forgiving others even if they never apologized. Her religion was simple: goodness.

  She would hate how far from that life I was living. How I had too many regrets to count. How all my blessings were veiled by all my sorrows. My mother would hate that I was using my borrowed time from “God” and wasting away.

  Those thoughts were all it took for me to pull myself up. Not to a complete stand, but I sat back on my heels, my spine straight and my tears waning.

  I had made peace with their deaths. And even though I no longer blamed myself, I knew I would always question if I could have done something differently.

  Death was out of our control, no matter how much we wished that were different. And if I needed any further proof, all I had to do was look to my right.

  My eyes moved to the smaller grave beside my parents’, Bobby’s. My older brother.

  Is he still my older brother? He never made it past his thirteenth birthday, and yet I’m still here, twenty-two and healthy.

  Shaking my head, I focused on the final date on his stone.

  Death should be reserved for people who’d lived out their lives and could die with smiles on their faces because they did everything they wanted. Death shouldn’t touch a child. It shouldn’t have touched my thirteen-year-old brother, who died in terror wondering why this was happening to him and why he wouldn’t see his family ever again.

  His death certainly hadn’t been anyone’s fault. Cancer stole him from us, and yet, in the months that followed I learned how easy it was for humans to blame themselves, how natural. Even for things they had no way of controlling. They wanted reasons and reassurances that they could prevent it from happening again.