Page 2 of See Through

“You think so?”

“Mhm,” I say as her smile widens. “An abandoned hospital feels like a slam dunk.”

“That’s the one I thought too. Glad we’re on the same page.” She disconnects her computer and places it back on her desk before she pads over to where I’m sitting on the couch. “Maybe this investigation will be the one to make you a believer.”

I only roll my eyes at her. She knows how I feel about this stuff. The only reason I agreed to be her cameraman was because I love any excuse to bust out my recording skills, and I like spending time with her. The moment she approached me with the idea, I said yes. She didn’t even have to convince me.

“I know it’s no use.” She slides closer to me, and I have to stop myself from reaching out to her, my heart speeding up as she inches closer. “You’ll always be a nonbeliever.”

I believe in you, and that’s all I’ve ever needed. “Maybe so, but I always look forward to you trying to convert me.”

Another eye roll, her hair hitting me in the face as she turns to grab her phone, and, just like every time she looks at me, I study everything about her I can. By now, I’ve memorized the way her eyes light up when she hears something at one of our investigations, the way she looks at me when I say something stupid. Her brows furl ever so slightly, and her nose scrunches.

Aubrey has always been about a foot shorter than my six-foot-two, so every time she gets annoyed, she stares up at me with the most adorable look I’ve ever seen, her big doe eyes impossible for me to look away from. Most of the time, I annoy her just so I can see her make that face at me.

Her hair has been pink since I’ve known her, though her natural blonde comes through every so often, and her freckles are more prevalent in the summer, so right now, they’re more faded. Her blue eyes trap me every time I look at her, reminding me of the color of the sky after a storm.

The word beautiful doesn’t even begin to describe Aubrey. I don’t think I’ll ever have the proper words to explain how lucky I feel to be in her presence.

“Dean!” She claps in front of my face, effectively breaking my Aubrey-induced haze.

“Did you say something?”

“I was asking you where you wanted to get dinner, and you totally zoned out on me.” She eyes me curiously. “Now, I have to start again.”

As I sit on her couch and listen to her rattle off a few places to eat, I find myself wishing this is how every night could end up. But I know that isn’t in the cards for us right now—or ever.

CHAPTER TWO

“I really don’t want to have this conversation again, Mom,” I say as I adjust my phone against my ear. I wish my parents would stop doing this every few weeks. It’s like clockwork, and I hate that I keep picking up the phone when I know what’s going to happen.

“Aubrey, you can’t keep going on like this. In this day and age, a steady job will ensure you’re protected and have the funds in case of emergencies, health insurance, along with a plethora of other reasons⁠—”

“I’m doing fine money-wise. I get paid every month with a decent-sized payout, and it’s more than I would have made if I had gotten my degree. I’m fine, and I love what I do, so why can’t you support me when you know this is what makes me happy?”

There’s nothing but silence on the end of the line, just like every time we have this conversation. It always goes the same way. She calls under the guise of checking in on me and seeing how I’m doing, which leads into a discussion about how she hates that I’m chasing my dream of being a notable paranormal investigator—and succeeding, mind you.

“It’s not a job, Aubrey. You need a real job.”

“I have a real job that pays my bills and makes me happy. You’ve just never wanted to support me,” I whisper, voice defeated, just how it always is after she calls me. “I have to go. I’m working.”

I don’t wait for her to say anything before I hang up, tears falling as I stare at the table in front of me, my laptop still in its case and my coffee and pastry fuzzy through my tears. I wish I wasn’t crying in a public coffee shop.

It would be one thing if this dream wasn’t working out, but it is. Not only is my channel growing steadily, but I’ve had more than a handful of videos gain some traction, thanks to the short clips I post on other social media sites. I understand her being upset I never got my degree; if my channel dies, I might have to get another job to still be able to do what I love.

Either way, I’m going to keep pushing, despite feeling like a huge failure when my parents bring up anything to do with my choice of career. I swear, ever since my brother died, they’ve been relentless, and I can understand that. Losing a child is probably one of the hardest things they’ve been through, but I also lost my twin brother, best friend, and biggest supporter all in one.

We’ve all been grieving in different ways, but I wish they would see how happy this job makes me and be okay with it. I know it’s unpredictable, but I’d rather be doing what I am now than stuck at some boring office job that feels like the color gray personified.

During my junior year of college, I was sitting in the library hating every part of my life when my mom called me and told me to come home. She didn’t say anything else, so I packed my shit, said goodbye to Dean, and drove home. It took me twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of wondering why she would call me home so suddenly, and then, I felt it. In my soul, something had shifted, and as soon as I saw the sirens, I knew.

My first question was if he was okay, and I didn’t get the answer I had wanted. Adrian, my twin brother, had fallen down the stairs, broken his neck, and died. He shouldn’t have died from his injuries, but he did. The police called it a freak accident. One in a million.

It was the worst night of my life. It felt like I was going to fall through the floor when I found out, and part of me is still standing in the foyer of my house, my brother's blood still staining the floorboards as I watched them wheel him out of the home we grew up in.

And when the home you grew up in is also a funeral home, it’s basically impossible to run away from your grief. My parents always wanted us away from the business, but Adrian and I would do anything to sneak into the parlor late at night to snoop. Growing up in that house was interesting, to say the least. There’s a morgue in our basement where my parents would do the embalming, and we were never allowed down there because of the chemicals and stuff.

The only time my parents actually let me into that part of our house was when he died. I watched them wheel him in, a black body bag wrapped around him, after the police concluded their investigation. I watched my mom explain to me what she was going to do with his body to preserve him. I watched her dress him in his favorite suit that he only wore once or twice. I watched him lie in the coffin we all picked out as a family, and, the day of his funeral, we were the ones being doted on instead of the ones helping families grieve.