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But in this apartment, a living person (me) lies on the floor next to a super dead ghost (West), with a bright candle burning mightily near us.
And between our bodies, an empty pizza box.
“Nothing’s happening,” I complain.
“Shush, bro, you’re not concentrating enough.” He huffs and folds his hands on his belly.
I give him side-eye. “You’re lying there like some corpse in a casket.”
“So? I’m trying to relax.”
“Or Dracula in a coffin.”
“Shut up, dude. Concentrate. You gotta, like … feel me bonding to you or whatever.” West shuts his eyes so tight, he looks in pain. “Now smell the delicious aroma of the pizza we shared that used to be in that box!”
“It’s disgusting.”
“Smell it! Bask in it!”
“Like cheesy farts and week-old grease.”
West sits up, annoyed. “Put on some Queen. That did the trick the first night we met, didn’t it?”
I sigh. “This is never going to work.”
“Where’s your laptop?” West goes to the table and flips it open. “What’s your password? Suckdick55% or something? I saw you type it a few times.”
I’m off the floor in an instant. “Dude, privacy!” He moves out of the way as I log in, open Spotify, then put on Bohemian Rhapsody. “There, done. Happy?”
“Good. Now we return to the floor. C’mon, just like Madame Whacko said. What’re you looking at me like that for?” He returns to our spot by the pizza box on the living room floor and lies on his back. I do the same with far less and further diminishing enthusiasm.
I last until the first chorus before finally letting out a sigh. “West …”
“Just keep trying.”
I turn my head. “I’m sorry. We just have to face the very likely possibility that this won’t work. It was worth a shot. We gave it a shot. And now—”
He turns his head, fury painting his face. “You haven’t given this a fair shot at all. You were making fun of it all damned afternoon, and now—”
“I was not!”
“—you’re calling me Dracula, or a corpse, or …” He huffs and sits up. “Y’know what? I don’t think you even want to do this.”
“It’s dumb! I bet Mrs. Shaheen is totally trolling us. Made it all up. A prank. She’s across the hall right now laughing her ass off while handing out full-size Snickers bars to kids from her pumpkin-shaped cauldron.”
“I should’ve known better. Just when I thought you were gonna do something nice for me, offering this gift to me, this so-called ‘birthday present’.” West shakes his head and looks away, sour. “What a sucky one-year anniversary of being dead.”
I stare at his back for a moment. He may be right. Maybe I’m not giving it my all. Maybe I’m more scared of the process than I’ve been admitting.
But it’s more than that. Mrs. Shaheen’s story about how he actually died—a total drunken accident at his own birthday party, falling to his death from the fire escape—has me feeling terrible.
Am I not trying hard enough?
“Do you have siblings?” he asks, back still turned.
I sit up and stare at a stray crumb remaining in the pizza box. I think it’s a flake of crust. “Nope.”
“Me neither.” He hugs his knees. “I kinda wonder if this is what having a brother might’ve been like. I can’t control you the same way I could control my friends.” He huffs. “Yeah, I know, I probably shouldn’t be saying this out loud. But being dead really puts your life in a whole new light, I gotta say. And I think I really was a pretty shitty person. I manipulated my friends. I made fun of things they loved, just because I wasn’t into it, or because I was tired of hearing about fucking Star Wars or whatever they were obsessed with. The kind of guys I surrounded myself with, they were all so … bendable. If I made fun of something, it changed the next day. Their hair. Their clothes …” He turns his head slightly. “But I don’t have that influence anymore. Not even over you. It’s a different feeling, having no control at all. I thought this might … remind me what it’s like to be alive. To be inside you for a bit. Experience your thrill. Coach you. Maybe I can put my controlling instincts to good use and help you. Help you grow. Help you get the guy.”
I don’t know what comes over me, but I reach and put a hand on his shoulder. “We can try again. Maybe I gave up too quickly, or I’m not giving it my all, but—”
“You’re touching me.”
I freeze. I stare at my hand, surprised. “I am.”
He turns his head, wide-eyed. “I … I’ve never been touched by someone before. As a ghost.”
“Should I … Should I let go, or …?”
“No. I’m just amazed I didn’t burst apart, or vanish, or …” He works it over in his head, then meets my eyes with astonishment. “Oh. That’s it. Trust.”
