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I’d see stuff like that happen in various ghost movies, but Tristan wasn’t like any ghosts in those films. He looked alive. He wasn’t even pale.

I was paler than he was!

Having found the frying pan, I added olive oil and let it heat.

He could also materialize at will. That seemed in keeping with what ghosts should do, but then he knew someone’s thoughts and feelings by occupying the same space. That was freaky and, from what I’d seen, not in Hollywood’s ghost lexicon.

Crap!

Had he done it to me? I shuddered and dismissed the idea immediately as it was too alarming.

Adding onions and some chopped garlic to the pan, I stirred.

And, of course, he was desperately attractive. I’d had little experience with boys. There had been some texting, some flirting, and one kiss with Ollie Sullivan, who played viola in the youth ensemble in Canterbury. But then his parents had moved to Scotland and that was the end of that.

The mince sizzled in the pan while I chopped some bacon.

And more than all of this, for the last couple of hours, Tristan had taken me away from my sorrow. Guilt fluttered unwelcome beneath my ribs. How could I forget my family like that? But I had—during every moment I was with him. How can that be right?

The pain in my chest expanded, cruel and cutting, yet so familiar.

I pushed the feelings away and concentrated on opening a can of tomatoes with the opener I found in the utensil drawer.

The weirdest part of this entire phenomenon, and what I found hardest to process, was the fact that my family was dead, yet here I was communing with someone who was also dead. If I could see him, why couldn’t I see them?

Why didn’t I see more ghosts like that young kid in that film?

My dream about my family in the bleak dusk-like landscape came to mind. It had felt like a proper goodbye; it had felt real. Perhaps Tristan had something to do with that. He was there, after all. But how could that be?

And where was he when he wasn’t here?

I stirred some oregano and fresh basil into the sauce, then started rummaging through the fridge for the ingredients for a white sauce. I just needed some cheese and found some ricotta. That would do.

I started laying out lasagna in a large baking dish all while thinking of Tristan.

Lulu was on her phone in the hallway, her voice booming, too loud as usual.

“You know he comes across all cold and aloof, but he’s warm and passionate when and where it counts.” Lulu laughed. “Oh no, I mean inventive. Really inventive… It’s been quite an education…”

Was she talking about Dylan? Who was she talking to?

“Well, you know what they say about doctors,” she continued.

It was Dylan she was talking about!

Ugh! La. La. La. La. La. La! My mind screamed. I didn’t want to hear her or think about what she might be referring to. Did she know how far her voice carried in a house full of hard reflective surfaces?

Maybe she didn’t study any science at school.

“Okay… See you then. Bye, Ruby.” She came back into the kitchen. “What?” she asked, looking at what could only be my appalled expression.

“Nothing,” I muttered.

“Smells good. Don’t tell me you can cook too?”

Dylan returned in the evening, laden with bags of shopping. He’d been much longer than two hours. He gave Lulu a quick peck on the cheek when he came into the kitchen. She’d called him aloof. I hadn’t thought about him that way before, but he certainly wasn’t overly demonstrative with her. Maybe that was because I was here? Or had he always been like this?

“Smells enticing, Emily, like real food,” he said.