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I shrug. “Not that I’m aware of, but he always came back.”
“Really? What do you think happened to him? Maybe I can help you find out.”
I grab an apple from the fruit bowl between us and take a bite. “Pot farmers killed him,” I mumble.
“I’m sorry…what?!”
“Um, I don’t know. Car accident killed him or something; maybe he didn’t have any ID on him, and he was buried as a John Doe.”
“I could have sworn you said pot farmers.”
I purse my lips and shrug. “No, I definitely didn’t say pot farmers.”
“Okay,” he says skeptically. “I was thinking since you don’t have class for a couple of weeks, maybe we could find a couple of days to go up there.”
Oh…he was serious? This wasn’t just one of those things he was saying to be nice? I choke on the apple.
“Honey? Are you okay?”
I nod and hold up a finger, signaling for him to wait just one second while I attempt to dislodge the apple chunk.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I tell him.
But the dead girl disagrees. She wants to go home. She wants to see snow; she wants a real Christmas tree. She wants to feel the forest floor against her back again. She wants to breathe in the scent of wet earth and pine needles and feel things the way she—the way we—used to.
She wants to see him again, too. I want to see him again, I realize. Just once, just for a minute. Maybe then I could get him out of my head and stop dreaming of ghosts.
I could finally stop fantasizing about what could have been.
“For me, this is non-negotiable, Amelia. I’m going to meet them; I need to. I want to know everything about you…and if you won’t let me, I’ll arrange it without your permission. Don’t make me.”
“James…it’s just that…”
“What?”
“Okay,” I say, the wheels turning in my head now. “You can meet them, but not right now. It’s just…it’s been so long that I think I have to go. Let me at least tell them about you—and us—first. Then, next time, you can meet them.”
“They don’t know about us?” he asks. I hear the hurt in his voice. “They don’t know you’re seeing someone? You haven’t mentioned me?”
“I haven’t mentioned anything,” I tell him. “It’s not personal; it’s just how it is. So…before I dump a wedding on them, I think I should go up there and talk to them myself.”
“Okay,” he says. “That’s fair. When were you thinking of going? Soon, right?”
“Um, I had a showing this afternoon, but Sadie emailed me and said they rescheduled, so…if you still want me to do it over my break…maybe now? I don’t work again until after Christmas.”
“Now? But you’ll be home for Christmas, won’t you?” he asks. “You know my parents are having their party that evening, and they wanted to announce our engagement to the family.”
“I can’t imagine I’ll be able to stomach Lost Hollow for much longer than forty-eight hours, so yeah. I can do better than that. I’ll be home by Christmas Eve.”
‘Will you?’ the dead girl laughs. ‘Be home?’
“Okay, perfect. Call me when you get there, okay? I really have to run.” He leans across the table and kisses my lips. “I love you, Amelia.”
“I love you, too,” I say. But the words leave a bad taste in my mouth, lingering the way a lie would.
But it’s not a lie.
Is it?
