Between Seasons (21 page)

Patrick lay down on his back, his hand behind his head as he brooded about what a bummer all this was. Sara pulled the comforter over her and snuggled into his side, cheek resting on his shoulder.

“What are you and Jules doing tomorrow?” he asked, frown transforming into a smile. This felt so good, just lying here like this next to her. Still, he felt the weight of what he couldn’t do for her and with her . He tried to brush the crushing guilt of it away as he took in the warm smell of her hair and brushed his thumb over the cap of her shoulder.

In a weird way it reminded him of coming to sleep with his parents when he was little. He’d curl up between them on their bed and create patterns in the plaster, following the whorls with his eyes. This wasn’t really like that, though –it was better… different. And he hadn’t wanted to kiss either of his parents the way he wanted to kiss Sara. The second the thought crossed his mind, he frowned again . That was gross.

“I don’t know. Jules kind of wants to head into Philly for the day and do some shopping. Not like there’s anything she can get here that she can’t get at –”

“What are you doing?” Jules interrupted, staring at Sara from the doorway.

Patrick hadn’t even heard her come up the stairs. He froze, feeling like he’d got ten caught doing something wrong. In a way, he supposed he had –he was relatively certain there had to be a rule somewhere that ghosts weren’t supposed to be able to kiss the living, although he had no clue who was making the rules. He sure as Hell knew Jules would think it was wrong. A feeling of stupidity washed over him; not moving certainly wouldn’t accomplish anything. It wasn’t as though Jules could see him anyway, and even if she could, it wasn’t as though he turned invisible while holding still. He relaxed, but Sara stayed rigid in his arms.

“Oh, uh, nothing.” Sara sat abruptly and rubbed her eyes. Patrick ran his fingers against the sliver of skin showing in the spot on her back where her shirt had ridden up, making sure she knew he was there and he loved her.

“But why are you sleeping on the floor?”

“Huh?”

“You’re on the floor, and who are you talking to?”

“Guess we’ll have to keep it down,” Patrick murmured. Sara tilted her foot to the side, nudging his ankle. He probably should have been more concerned Jules had heard Sara talking, but it didn’t really seem like that big of a deal. It could have been the radio or even noise from outside.

“I-I’m just talking to myself,” Sara stammered.

“Still?”

Patrick glowered. “Stop being a bitch.” Now that he thought about it, though, he was sure Sara had told either Jules or her mother she talked out loud in the house anyway... maybe even that she’d talked to him. Well, the idea of him, anyway. He couldn’t quite remember what she’d said or to whom she’d said it , but it didn’t matter –Jules appeared to accept Sara’s explanation without question.

“Well, yeah. It helps keep things sorted out in my head.”

Jules shook her head. “It still doesn’t explain why you’re camped out on your floor.”

“What are you doing up here?” Sara picked at the edge of the blanket, fingers stuttering over the stitching and feigning casualness .

“Oh, you’re smooth,” Patrick teased. Sara never changed the subject like that with him, but he supposed it was a good way to divert attention from the oddity of sleeping on the floor for no good reason.

“I had to use the bathroom and heard you babbling. The floor?” Jules prompted. “Do you have bed bugs or something?” She glanced around disdainfully, and he bristled at her tone.

Sara sighed and leaned back on her hands. “No, I just… my back hurt from, uh, sitting on the couch or something, so I thought maybe sleeping on the floor would help.”

“You’re so weird.”

“This should come as no surprise to you.”

“Yeah, I guess not.” Jules shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I still have to, uh, well… good night.”

“’Night.”

Sara’s body relaxed under Patrick’s fingers as soon as Jules retreated, the gentle click of the bathroom door sounding moments later.

“That was close,” he said, tugging on Sara’s arm to get her to lie back down. She stayed upright but twisted to look down at him before resting her hand on his chest.

She nodded and whispered, “Yeah. I’m going to turn the lights out. Hang on.”

The room plunged into darkness before Sara’s footsteps sounded across the floor. She swore softly, and Patrick heard the bed frame groan –she must have stubbed her toe. A faint light from outside gleamed through the window and glinted off the spiky tips of her hair. Patrick watched her head bob closer, and then she was next to him again, arm slung across his waist.

Silence was a funny thing. It could make him feel so alone, or – like now –it could make him feel loved and part of something special . It was overwhelming either way, but he preferred the close feeling of holding Sara, the sensation of her chest rising and falling against her side. He rubbed her shoulder with his thumb, and she let out the smallest huff of what he hoped was contentment.

The door to the bathroom opened, letting in the smallest amount of bright light through the gap in Sara’s mostly-closed bedroom door. Jules clicked off the light almost immediately, and the sound of her feet on the stairs echoed through the house.

"Careful,” Patrick called out. He always worried just a little whenever anyone went down those stairs. He knew it was unlikely anyone would die on them as he had, but it was almost like a reflex. Jules descending the stairs where he’d died in the dark struck him as reckless, and he considered running after her to make sure she made it downstairs. But really, what could he do if she fell? Hover over her and scream like a girl, maybe.

A horrible thought occurred to him – what if she fell and died, just as he had, and became a ghost? God, he couldn’t imagine the sheer torture of being trapped with her in this house. The claustrophobia would be unimaginable. He used to think having someone, anyone at all, to talk to would be bliss, but the idea of listening to that woman do her cleansing rituals all over the damn house for decades made him shudder. He’d been so happy lately it seemed entirely likely that God or whatever would saddle him with that kind of awfulness just as a comeuppance.

“You’re sweet,” Sara whispered, slipping her hand under his shirt to play with the sparse hair around his belly button. If she kept that up, she’d make it nearly impossible for him to sleep. But her hand continued –a circle of his navel, her fingertips drifting through the hair above and then back down to his belly button. The scratch of her nails tickled across his stomach.

Her hands eventually stilled, coming to rest with the heel pressed into the skin above the button of his pants, and then her breath evened out, inhaling slowly and heavily. Patrick matched his breathing to hers, timing his exhales to coincide, but wishing her fingers would move. Soon his eyelids began to droop, the warmth of Sara’s arms holding him fast to the ground.

A flash of silver and bright lights confused him, the edges of something unpleasant pushing around his brain.

Do it. It’s the only way.

Pain seared across his wrist, the hiss of his voice the only sound in the room, and then there was the dripping… dripping… dripping. The floor rushed up to meet him, the tile cold and unforgiving under his cheek. The room was freezing, and he crawled into the bathtub, slick redness slippery on his hands and knees. So… quiet. Voices fading from his head, the screaming now a dull whisper.

He reached toward the shower curtain, filmy and white, but his arm was wrong – red and sticky, too much hair, matted. Trembling. Sharp pain gave way to a numbing ache as the plastic settled around him. The pills on the counter glinted under the winking, white light.

It had been the right thing… the only thing. He smiled as a peaceful fuzziness descended over him. It was over. Finally. The stark light dimmed, figures moving behind his eyelids when they closed.

Patrick’s entire body jolted awake, a feeling like an electrical charge shooting the length of his spine, which was pressed up against a soft, warm body.
Sara . Starting at the hair brushing against his neck, he followed the sensation of their connection while trying to forget about his screwed-up dream. Her arm wrapped tightly around his chest, fingers gripping his shoulder nearest the floor. Their hips lined up exactly, and her thighs cradled the back of his legs. It was a wonder he hadn’t woken her when he jumped.

His dreams had been so strange over the last month or two. Disturbing and violent. He didn’t like it at all, although he supposed not all his dreams could include a naked Sara. In this case, he was glad this one hadn’t –it seemed pervy to dream about going all the way with her when she lay behind him. Then again, it was probably less creepy now that they were actuall y together. It still felt weird, and the dream lingered in his mind, a disconnection and sense of both panic and relief floating just out of reach.

She stirred behind him, tightening her arm and rubbing her forehead against his back. He wished he could roll out of the comfort of her arms, wrap her up in blankets, and bring her breakfast in bed. She didn’t eat a lot in the morning usually, maybe toast with butter and a glass of juice or some tea. But even to bring her a glass of water would be a dream come true. He snorted at that; being a ghost had turned him into a total sap and kind of an idiot –who fantasized about fetching water for a girl ? It didn’t really matter since there was no one to judge him except Sara, and she seemed to like him just the way he was… weird, not-quite-solid skin and all.

It wasn’t as if she’d ever really pushed her hand through him now they could touch each other; she just said it seemed like she could that once. He assumed everything was still the same for her. Nothing had changed for him –she didn’t feel the way he’d remembered people feeling. She was just as solid, but the heat of her body seemed different, maybe colder than it should. She was still warm, though, and he didn’t think he’d care if she felt like a block of ice . The sensation of lying here like this together was the best thing he’d ever felt.

“’Morning,” she murmured, brushing her hand across his chest and down his side to settle on his hip, thumbs hooking just inside the waistband of his pants.

His eyebrows rose. What was he supposed to think of that? He and Sara had never talked about being physical beyond making out. He didn’t even know if any of that was possible. He wanted it. He wanted Sara in every way imaginable, but there was the issue of his equipment not really working… or worrying it wouldn’t work like it should . Even he could imagine how strange that would be for the both of them... you know, doing the deed. He supposed having sex with a ghost wasn’t any more bizarre than kissing one, though.

Sara seemed more than willing to be his girlfriend, but there was more than just an overdeveloped sense of chivalry keeping him from doing more than copping an occasional feel –letting her go down that road with him just felt inherently wrong. Like if he made love to her (if he could) , he’d somehow condemn her to something horrible. He couldn’t name exactly what that horrible thing was… just that he sensed it was off limits.

He tried not to think about it too much. For all he knew, she wasn’t really interested. In the back of his head, a voice told him he was full of shit –Sara was a twenty-six -year-old divorced woman. She’d had sex before, and he’d heard her through the door of her bedroom a few times. He may have died young, but he wasn’t that naive.

Before he could lose himself in a fog of lust and confusion, Sara sat up and moaned.

“Shit.”

He rolled over and tried not to stare at her boobs. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to get up and take a shower.”

Sara in the shower. His body was waking up now too.
Great
.

“Right. To go downtown, huh?”

She nodded, scrubbing her face with the heels of her hands. “Before I go, show me which pages you read, so I can lay out a bunch more for you. I think we’ll be gone a while.”

He grinned up. Her hair stood wildly, the top coming almost to a point in the center. He focused on it to stop himself from imagining her naked and wet.

“I like you like this – very foxy,” he teased.

“What are you saying? That you don’t like my bed head and morning breath?” She chuckled and leaned over to poke her fingers into his ribs.

He yelped and immediately reached for her. He hadn’t even realized he
could
be ticklish –that was something new and bizarre. His owns hands moved over her waist, eliciting giggles and snorts as she tried to move back out of his reach and whisper-yelled his name. He laughed too while she giggled, pouncing on her as he moved onto his knees and pushed her down onto the bedding. She writhed, both of them cracking up.

“Uh, what… ?” Jules voice sounded behind them, and Patrick immediately moved off Sara.
Crap
. What had she seen?

And why hadn’t they locked the door?

“Oh, uh, just working on some exercises the therapist gave me,” Sara blurted, pulling her shirt down.

“Exercises?” Jules asked, face belying she wasn’t buying a word of it.

“Yeah, uh… laugh therapy.” Sara pushed herself back on her hands, trying to act as if nothing was going on. Yeah, because women carried on like that every day. Patrick chuckled nervously.

“Laugh therapy?” Jules crossed her arms over her chest , eyebrow raised .

“Oh my God, this sucks.” Patrick stared between Jules and Sara, shifting his weight back onto his knees. He wished he could help Sara in some way, but even if he could come up with a good explanation, only Sara could hear him. Too bad he didn’t have a book within reach –he could toss it at Jules and create a distraction.

“Look, it’s supposed to, uh, work like a lamp for Seasonal Affective Disorder.”

What the Hell was that? Sara was clearly just making stuff up now. Thank God she seemed to be able to lie smoothly.

“Yeah. What was with you looking like you were having a seizure and saying
Patrick
?”