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“You’re here to save me. We’re connected. Right.”
“Epic, huh?” He looked especially proud of himself.
“Not really. What’re you gonna do, give me a bunch of Prometheus analogies? That’s what we did back in the day, anyway. Besides, I don’t need or want to be saved.”
He raised an eyebrow, placing a finger to his lip.
“Well, which is it?” he asked. “Is it that you don’t need… or don’twant… to be saved?”
“What difference does it make?” I asked. “You’ve seen enough of the things that go on inside my head. Surprise. You’re too late to help, pal. I’m past the point of no return.”
I shuddered, discomfort oozing through every limb at the idea that I was even telling Jamie this much. Not like I had a choice. He was going to read my thoughts anyway— which made me feel an equal amount of discomfort.
“I can still hear you.” He smiled.
I rolled my eyes. “If you insist on being here, oh wise spirit who believes he will save me… ahem, the spirit interrupting one of my writing sessions…” I wagged a finger in his direction, placing emphasis on the next words. “Can we at least go into one of those anti-personal, ethereal conversations where we discuss the fabric of the universe or something? Those were much easier to handle than you knowing what I’m truly thinking.”
“Okay, listen to me. While I enjoyed those, as you put it, anti-personal, ethereal conversations... we’ve been down that path before. And this time, I want to know you.”
“Now I really don’t think this is Jamie. What have you done with him?”
He gazed away, as if thinking to himself. He spoke the next words aloud in a near-whisper, “Death can change a lot of things, but it can’t change a lightbulb.”
“Uh, what?” I asked.
“Never mind. Listen. I’ll make a deal with you. Give me twenty minutes of your time, just talk to me about your life. Catch up with me like we would if we ran into each other again in person—”
“I may have tried to avoid you in person, too.”
“Wow… she doesn’t even care about hiding that thought! I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that.” He smirked. “Anyway, after this catching up conversation… if you so choose to accept your mission…” He paused, like he was waiting for me to laugh or something. I watched him expressionlessly. After a moment, he continued. “After one brief conversation… I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night.”
“Do I have your word on that?”
“My especiallyspiritedword.” He chuckled at his own corny joke as he held out his hand. This Jamie certainly liked to crack jokes more than the guy I knew back in school.
“This one’s a comedian, everybody.” I gripped his hand in mine, firmly shaking on our newly formed agreement. His fingers tingled my skin as they pressed against the inside of my palm. Then, he pulled back his hand, sat forward, and looked at me intently.
“Hello Jemma,” he said, deepening his voice like he was being more proper. “I didn’t expect to see you here. How’s life? I saw some of your books in Powell’s, so you must be doing well.”
“Almost like Same Auld Lang Syne.” I sighed, unsure whether he’d get my reference to the Dan Fogelberg song about two former lovers who run into each other in the grocery store. The woman tells the guy she’s seen his records in a music store, so he must be doing pretty well. Jamie’s brows crinkled together as I thought through this, then his mouth widened in recognition.
“Yup, I remember the song,” he said. “It’s been awhile, but I remember hearing it around the holidays a lot.”
“Great. I wonder why I even bother speaking the words?” I shook my head. “Anyway… yeah, the books… did you actually see them?”
He nodded. “All the damn time. Never expected to see your name again, to be honest. But every time you had a new release, there they were. In Powell’s. Or any other goddamn bookstore I visited. All those books. Four of them, right?”
Now it was my turn to nod, shocked Jamie had actually seen them. Granted—not to brag or anything— they were bestselling books. Two of the four had graced the New York Times list. But I was an author. Not a celebrity. Even if Jamie stepped into a bookstore every day for an entire year, there was no guarantee he’d see my books. It hadn’t crossed my mind that he would.
“Did you read them?” I asked.
“All of them.”
“God,” I breathed. Our eyes locked, his gaze piercing mine. A warm, fuzzy feeling floating through me while my imagination ran wild, envisioning Jamie inside a coffee shop reading one of my books. I wondered what he thought as he turned the pages and lived through a piece of me via the characters inside my novel. As a writer, my greatest dream was to reach people. I just never realized that reach included ex-boyfriends.
At least someone I’d been with read the books.
My ex-husband hadn’t even bothered to readone.
