Page 47 of How to Survive Your Own Death

Two days without the reaper lurking over her shoulder, making comments on the shows she watched, the amount of sugar she added to her morning coffee, or the dowdy and practical nature of her shoes. For a being that literally wore a tattered robe, he had a lot of opinions about fashion.

For two days, her apartment had been blissfully quiet. She reread her version of the handbook, specifically looking for mentions of assignments changing. Basically all she found was a warning that assignments were fate and inevitable, which she did not believe at all. Any attempt at manipulation was futile and would result in disciplinary action, which she was more inclined to believe. Management might put her on a performance-improvement plan, but they seemed the vengeful sort. Given how nervous Bazel acted when he spoke of them, her money was on vengeful.

Bones, apparently, was sticking with her. At first, Fiddlesticks’ tail puffed in alarm and she kept her distance, watching the dog mistrustfully from the top of the fridge. Then something shifted. Maybe it was the way the dog crouched low and tucked her tail against her body, calm and submissive. It usually took Fiddlesticks ages to warm up to a new person, but by the second day, they napped in the sun, a cuddle puddle of ordinary housecat and supernatural canine. Besties.

The ghost phone remained silent as well. No texts. No appointments. Just silence.

This was good. It was peaceful. Restful. Exactly what she needed while her body healed.

Why then was she bored? Being alone had never bothered her. Holed up in her apartment with a book like a hermit? Listening to her record collection? An ideal way to spend the day. Between work, doctors’ appointments, family, and visits to the gym, she had a lot of things to accomplish to afford that day of being a hermit.

That was before the accident and before Bazel. Her space had been positively crowded and chaotic, but now she missed the chaos. Missed him.

Geri stretched, her body still aching despite all the walking and bike riding she’d done in the last week. She needed to do something. Sitting around wasn’t good for her.

“I’m not going to mope around all day,” she told Fiddlesticks before grabbing her camera bag. The bag looked like it had been through it but the camera itself was in good working order. She remembered being stunned at the steep price tag on Patrick’s photo equipment and remembered the subsequent argument about that, but the quality justified the price. She owed him an apology.

A gray sky that promised rain loomed over the city all day, growing increasingly gloomy. The square across the street was relatively empty. The trees had started to turn colors. With the sun setting soon, she could get some dramatic shots. Maybe. Getting out of the apartment and keeping herself busy and not thinking about a certain reaper was the point.

Geri waved to the doorman as she left the building. Bones zipped through the scaffolding with an excited bark. The building was in a constant state of refurbishment and the scaffolding was a permanent fixture that rotated around the building like the moon orbiting the Earth.

The air outside was cold and somehow wet without actually raining. The square had a forlorn quality as it waited for the storm. The wind picked up. She didn’t have long before actual rain started. Geri drew up the hood on her rainproof jacket and went looking for interesting things.

The gloom from the gray sky and oncoming storm gave the square a haunted atmosphere. She had never seen a ghost—as far as she knew—but this seemed like a good place to find one. Hundreds of bodies were buried under the green grass of the square, victims of yellow fever, the poor, and even soldiers from the Revolutionary War. The bodies were dust by now but they still had a presence, especially on colorless gray days.

Exactly two steps into the square, Bones growled. Geri froze. Whatever set off the dog’s stranger danger was bad news.

A ghost materialized in front of her, holding a bouquet of daisies.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” Jaxon said.

“And I’ve been avoiding you,” she snapped in irritation.

She tried to step around him. He blocked her. “Why?”

“Really? Why? You should be able to figure that one out.”

“I know you got hurt. I just want to talk and give you these.” He thrust the flowers at her.

Geri took the flowers and considered throwing them to the ground in protest and yelling at Jaxon. Scream until her voice was hoarse. Throw the biggest bitchfit possible.

But she had yelled at Bazel a handful of days ago and it hadn’t changed anything. She was still a revenant and a part-time reaper. She still felt miserable. Worse, she missed Bazel.

Absolutely no part of her would miss Jaxon, so she was safe in that regard. Yelling at him wouldn’t change what happened or heal her bruises. Having a conversation like an adult, however, might make her feel better. She needed to end this with him properly, face to face.

“Fine,” she said, and pointed to the nearest bench. “Talk.”

“I need to apologize for what happened. I didn’t think you’d get hurt.”

“No, you didn’t think—” Geri bit her tongue to stop herself from saying something mean. Not that she had any reason to spare Jaxon’s feelings. Instead, she said, “I didn’t get hurt, Jaxon. I died. My heart stopped. Clinically dead.”

“I know⁠—”

“You don’t.” She pulled up the bottom of her shirt, revealing her very mottled green and yellow stomach.

“Oh, wow. That’s a wicked bruise,” he said.

“Yeah, and my entire body looks like this.”