LITMIR.BIZ

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transforming the space into something hidden and exotic. The thick curtains that enclosed its outer walls were now masked on the inside by yards of white gauzy drapes. Glittering, star-shaped lanterns hung from the ceiling, and flowering plants filled every inch not occupied by the enormous, pillow-covered daybed.

      But despite the gorgeous setting, Joshua and I were tensed up on the daybed, not touching.

      Not that that’s anything new, I reminded myself. Not since New Orleans, where I lost my ability to touch the living.

      After what felt like an appropriately weighted pause, I propped myself up on my elbows and turned to Joshua.

      “To be fair to Serena,” I said, “she didn’t mean to murder me. She was under the influence of Eli and his wraiths.”

      When Joshua started to roll his eyes, I added, “Just like your friends when they tried to kill your little sister.”

      A dark look passed over his face, and I could read it perfectly. Joshua was remembering the night his sister, Jillian, nearly died, at the hands of his own friends and a malevolent ghost named Eli Rowland. Joshua shook his head, and the dark look shook away too, replaced by the thoughtful frown he’d been wearing since we left my mother’s house.

      “I don’t know, Amelia. After what happened to you—after the part Serena played in your death—why would she still hang around your mom? I mean, shouldn’t she be . . . ?”

      As he searched for the right phrase, I snorted softly. “What you mean, Joshua, is shouldn’t she be curled up in a corner somewhere, racked with guilt for what happened over a decade ago? Keeping in mind that she probably doesn’t even remember what happened?”

      He gave me that half grin, the one that made me ache to touch his lips, just once. “Exactly.” He shifted into the pillows next to me, keeping between us the few inches that had become a permanent fixture since New Orleans—inches that represented what we could no longer do: touch.

      “Besides,” Joshua went on, “how do you even know this woman is your Serena Taylor? Just because she’s blond and named Serena—”

      “And about the right age for someone born in the eighties,” I interrupted. “And she was having coffee with my mom, in one of the smallest towns on earth.”

      Joshua considered this, frowning again. But when his eyebrows unknitted and his mouth softened, I could see I’d won the argument.

      “Fair enough,” he conceded. “Maybe she’s the Serena Taylor. But . . . what does that even mean for us?”

      “Nothing, actually.”

      I sighed, stretching my legs across the daybed until my feet swung over the edge. “At least, it means nothing right now. It’s not like I’m going to call Serena and invite her to have coffee with me next. And anyway . . . I think we should scrap the whole Mom idea. For the time being.”

      When Joshua began to protest, I held up my hand, almost but not quite touching his lips.

      “Don’t even start,” I warned. “If I try to meet my mom again—and that’s a big if—then it will be on my terms. Surprising her by showing up unexpectedly on her front porch just isn’t going to work for me.”

      After a long pause, most of which Joshua spent glancing between my fingertips and my mouth, he nodded.

      “If that’s what you want, Amelia. I promise I won’t push the issue again.”

      I widened my eyes in mock surprise. “Joshua Mayhew not insisting that I do something risky yet supposedly rewarding? What is this world coming to?”

      “Hey, I’m a guy who proudly learns his lesson. You know, after about a million screw-ups.” He laughed, and then leaned forward with a suddenly wicked grin. “Besides, that’s my sister’s job now.”

      I shrieked, jerking fully upright on the bed. “Oh, holy crap, I completely forgot. That thing is tonight, isn’t it?”

      Joshua laughed again, but this time he sounded sinister, like the villain from a black-and-white movie.

      “You’re not afraid, are you?” he asked in his best Bela Lugosi voice.

      “Wouldn’t you be?”

      “Of a roomful of girls watching chick flicks while they paint each other’s nails and gossip?”

      I chuckled and rolled my eyes. “You have a seriously skewed view of girly sleepovers. You know that, right?”

      His smile softened as he sat up beside me. “Probably. But it doesn’t matter—I prefer our version of the sleepover anyway.”

      He leaned in, erasing the inches between us until we were nearly touching. Sitting this close, I could feel the warmth rising from his skin. And, of course, I felt the blush rising on my own cheeks.

      “Me, too,” I whispered, trying to keep my cool although I suddenly felt like I might ignite. Funny how he never stopped having this effect on me.

      But even with the heat flooding me, I had a fleeting moment when I missed our old sleepovers. The kind where I spent every night in his bed, placing my hand on him whenever I wanted, kissing him whenever I felt the urge. But things were so different for me as a Risen ghost. So different for us.

      In this new version of our relationship, I pretended to be Jillian’s “old” friend and Joshua’s “new” girlfriend—an ironic inversion of reality. For the benefit of his parents, I also pretended to leave his house every night. Later, I returned in my invisible state to curl up beside Joshua in bed, as close as I could without actually touching him. Because now, I could feel the wrinkles in the sheets beneath us but not the texture of Joshua’s skin.

      Risen ghosts regained the senses that death had taken from them. Taste, smell, even touch. But there was one tiny problem: the Risen could touch anything they wanted, except the living. It was the most ironic, double-edged gift I’d ever received.

      Not that Joshua and I hadn’t tried—frequently—to touch. During our first week back in Oklahoma, we took so many different approaches: slow and careful; quick and furious; even the unexpected surprise touch. But none of it worked. When I placed my hand against his, it always felt like I simply clutched the air; it was the same for Joshua. Worse, whenever we came too close, it looked as though we passed through each other—like I was made of air myself.

      Nothing made me feel more like a ghost.

      Still, so many things about my new existence were amazing. The smell of Rebecca’s garden after a hard rain; the taste of Jeremiah Mayhew’s chocolate chess pie; the slick plastic coating on the benches outside Wilburton High. Each sensation felt fresh and new. So exhilarating, they almost made up for everything else.

      Almost.

      I shook my head, willing my cheeks to shift from whatever color they were now to something less neon pink. When I felt a little more in control, I met Joshua’s eyes again and—a little reluctantly—returned to the subject of my upcoming torture.

      “You know, I still can’t figure out why Jillian insists I go to this thing tonight.”

      “Because you and Jill are now BFF?” he offered. When I glared at him, he grinned and went on. “Honestly, I think Jill just wants to make up for how she acted before New Orleans. And in New Orleans. And pretty much how she acts in general. Plus, I think she’s trying to make you some more . . . friends.”

      He dragged the last word out awkwardly, grimacing. I couldn’t help but copy his expression. The word “friend” made both of us uncomfortable. Not because of the ones I hadn’t made yet, but because of the one I’d made and then lost.

      Gabrielle Callioux.

      The girl who changed me into what I was now; the girl who, in only a few days, had become my closest friend; the girl I’d watched disappear into hell.

      Thinking about Gaby would probably make tonight even harder. So

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