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So I let Amy think that I’m tired and on edge because I’m still grieving and not because my dreams keep getting worse and worse and I feel like each day is leading me down a dark path I might not be able to come back from.
“I’m fine,” I tell Amy, loudly, struck by the sudden need to convince myself of this as well. I quickly reach over and shut off the annoying poppy shit on the radio and flip to my favorite alternative station.
When Nine Inch Nails comes on, Amy makes a sound of disgust. “So now you think One Direction sucks?” She rolls her eyes, clearly not amused as we take the exit to downtown. “You really are turning into your sister, you know?”
In more ways than one, I think to myself. But even though Amy chides my sudden change in music tastes and I’m becoming a bona fide 90’s grunge and metal lover even though I was born at the end of that decade, I’m not ashamed of it. I look up to Perry, more than she’ll probably ever know. Besides, seeing ghosts and demons just lends itself to listening to White Zombie and Slayer and Fantomas on repeat. One Direction and Selena Gomez are for the girls who don’t see dead people every fucking day.
Not that I was seeing dead people every day. I mean, maybe I do, but half the time you don’t really realize it unless they’re covered in blood, or maybe standing in a white dress in the middle of a road, like every cliché you can think of. Most of the time, the dead just kind of . . . blend in. They’re innocuous and usually harmless. Sure they can scare the pants off you but that’s usually the extent of their damage.
I gaze out the window as we roll through the Pearl District, watching the throngs of people on the sidewalks, everyone in shorts and tank-tops and billowy dresses, trying to beat the heat.
Then, for just a second, I see a flash of a familiar face as he gets off a bus. I straighten up and blink, trying to see better but he’s gone.
It couldn’t have been the guy from the wedding, the guy from my dreams, could it? God, I really am getting delusional.
When we finally find parking and I’m swallowed by my mecca that is Sephora, I’m feeling better. There’s nothing like sipping on syrupy Coca-Cola from the mall’s food court while perusing the white, backlit-beauty of a million makeup products. It’s like being in heaven, really, if angels wore all black and enough foundation to paint a house.
Amy and I literally spend an hour here, trying on everything and filling our baskets until our lips are rubbed raw from the makeup remover and our hands and wrists are rainbows of different swatches.
Then it happens.
I see him again.
Standing just beyond the doors to the store.
Staring right at me.
And for once, for once, I can see him clearly.
He’s tall, well over six feet. Broad shouldered and barrel-chested under a black leather jacket and black shirt, black jeans and black boots. He’s pale in a way that brings to mind a classical sculpture, or maybe it’s his face, which is exactly as my mind has tried to piece together.
His jaw is chiseled, his chin square and sharp enough to cut glass, covered by light scruff and complete with a chin dimple. His forehead is wide, expressive even, as he stares at me with piercing blue eyes under arched brows. His hair is chin length, slicked off his head, dark cinnamon. A ginger, just as I had remembered, though he’s probably the sexiest, most enthralling male specimen I’ve ever seen.
“Can I help you with anything?” a Sephora saleswoman with stripes for cheekbones steps in front of me, blocking my view.
I shoot her a dirty look, because I never need help in Sephora, and dart around her.
But he’s gone.
I hand the bewildered assistant my bucket and walk quickly through the store until I’m outside the doors, my head whipping around. People are going to and fro but the tall guy from my dreams, from my fucking dreams, is nowhere to be found.
Maybe he was never here at all.
Suddenly I’m hit with a queasy, stomach-churning feeling, my skin immediately clammy.
“Ada!” Amy calls from behind me but her words barely reach.
I can only just stand here, shoppers walking past me, bumping into me, wondering if I’m slowly going insane. Am I actually seeing this guy? Is it one of those cases where you dream about someone and then see them the next day? Is he really the guy from the wedding or was there even a Jay at all? Did I imagine everything?
I’m having trouble standing upright and tilt back just as I feel Amy’s hand on my shoulder, holding me up.
