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“Nah, I’m …” He laughs it off suddenly, playing it cool. “I don’t got a problem with it. Nah, I’m fine. It … It doesn’t matter.”
“Wow. For someone without a functioning central nervous system anymore, you sure look anxious as fuck all of a sudden. Is that sweat on your brow?”
“No.” He wipes his brow anyway, then scowls at me. “I told you, I’m fine. It’s all good. I don’t care who you’re into or what—”
“Maybe Westley Harmeyer just realized he isn’t so enthusiastic about playing Casper the Friendly Ghost?”
“You remember my full—?” He shakes his head at once and shoots me a look. “Griffin, I just said I don’t care if you’re gay or whatever.”
“Sure. I’m sure you’re totally fine with it.” I rise and put my hands on the table, leaning over it to him. He looks up at me challengingly. “And I bet you never once laid a finger on a gay guy in your life, huh?”
West swallows hard.
“Never bullied one?” I go on. “Never made fun of one? Laughed at them with your jock buddies, whether to their face or behind their back? You do realize that’s the kind of childhood I had, right? Thanks to guys like you, that was my hell, day in, day out.”
West drops his gaze to the table, silent.
“And you actually expected me to take confidence lessons from a guy like you? To accept your help? You might have had all the girls charmed when you were alive. Maybe even some of your guy friends. But not me. I’m no kid anymore. I know better.”
With that, I lower back to my seat, take a breath, then resume eating my sandwich in peace.
West continues to stare at the table. I notice quickly that every bit of so-called confidence and cheer he had in his eyes is gone. There is no performance on that face of his, no matter how handsome it might’ve been when he was alive, no matter how charming or charismatic. The guy sitting across this table from me looks as if he just realized all of his happiest days are behind him. All that’s left is despair and nothingness.
And lonesomeness.
Suddenly I feel bad. Really bad. Is it the look in his eye? Is it his silence? Is it the fact that he hasn’t stopped staring down at the table like a sad, reprimanded child? What are all these stupid feelings I suddenly have for him? Did I go too far? Am I being unfair?
I clear my throat. “Gonna say something back?”
West barely moves. “Hmm?”
“Gonna tell me I’m wrong? Tell me I’ve got you all wrong? That I don’t know you? That I’m …” In a rather abrupt instant, I’m all out of fight, and all that’s left is a pinch of doubt and misgiving. “That I’m wrong?”
West brings his hands to the table, where he starts to stare at them instead, slowly opening and closing them, like his fingers just became the most fascinating thing in the world—even if his eyes still reflect an abyssal sadness I can’t ignore.
It’s driving me crazy suddenly. “Say something!”
“I didn’t live the best life.” He keeps staring at his hands as they slowly open and close. “I can’t say you’re wrong because … I think you may be right. I was a jerk. An asshole. A douchebag. I never actually thought I was one, always telling myself I’m cool, I’m hot, all the girls wanted me, all the guys wanted to be me … but look at what that got me? Dead. Alone. A total fucking failure.” His hands close. “I might not have lived the best life … but it doesn’t mean I can’t try to be better now … in this afterlife … or whatever this shithole is.”
I don’t know the first thing about West. All of my presumptions about him may be wrong. Or all of them may be right. West may never tell me which it is. But is it really up to me to be the judge of his character?
He’s trying to help me. Doesn’t that count?
“Sorry.”
He looks up at me. “Huh?”
“I’m sorry. For presuming so much.”
He shrugs. “It’s fine. I deserve it.”
“This might come as a surprise to you, but … I’ve never been dead before.” I spread my hands. “So I don’t really know what you’re going through. I don’t know what it’s like. We seem around the same age. Maybe we could’ve been friends. Or not. I’m sorry if I’m making your afterlife harder than it ought to be. I’m just going through things myself and don’t know how to deal with them. I moved here thinking I could start over. I hated my life. But things looked up here. I had a job, then lost it. The gorgeous guy at the café probably thinks I’m a dork, especially after our awkward encounter.” I let out a groan. “Why does big, crippling misfortune follow me every-fucking-where I go? I just want a few good things to happen in my life. That isn’t too much to ask, is it?”
