Eternal (11 page)

“Hold your hand up,” he said.

Cold chills washed over me but I complied with his request, bringing my right hand up, palm facing Jeremiah. My resolve swerved as his gaze held mine whole. He lifted his own hand.

He intended to touch me!

It was going to happen, and waiting for it was the most intense, torturous pleasure I had ever known. Some part of me knew this moment would remain indelibly etched in my brain for the rest of my life and even beyond. The breath left my lungs in a ragged rush as he moved his hand closer and closer until our palms faced each other a mere two inches apart.

“Do you feel me now?” he asked, his eyes still linked with mine.

I gave an imperceptible nod. Energy radiated from his hand until I experienced the same sensation of holding two powerful magnets close to one another. Resistance sparked like an invisible barrier between us and I knew that if he moved his hand one millimeter closer to mine, the resistance would miraculously transform into instant attraction. Part of me thrilled at the idea of touching him. Another part of me feared he wouldn’t feel human.

Or worse, that I wouldn’t feel him at all.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “I sense fear from you. And something else…”

My heart sank and just as I started to withdraw my hand, he reached out. The magnetic resistance became an irresistible draw that pulled his hand to mine with the power of a vise. I gasped as his fingers laced between my own, as I felt an unmistakable energy grip my hand.

He drew in a jagged breath, his gaze fixed on our joined hands. When his eyes met mine to gauge my reaction, a half-smile claimed his lips. “Do you feel that?” he asked.

Trying in vain to swallow, I nodded and, unable to hold his gaze, I looked once more at our entwined fingers. His index finger brushed my knuckle and I wanted to melt on the spot.

“I’ve never been able to touch anyone before,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Anyone who could feel it.”

My breaths came in shallow, quick gasps. I feared I’d hyperventilate. If he could touch my hand, could he kiss me, too? Or more? Warmth trickled downward inside me despite the chill in the attic.

And then, common sense prevailed.

What was I thinking? I was scarred outside and in. I was responsible for the death of my best friend. I didn’t deserve this.

Grudgingly, I loosened my fingers.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You’re afraid,” he said.

He was right. I was terrified. But not because I was touching him. No. Not at all. What if he found out the truth about me? What if he saw how horrible I was on the inside?

When I tried to withdraw my hand, his hold on me tightened. My throat constricted and I made a small choking sound.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked. The pain in his eyes was my undoing.

I shook my head as tears began to spill down my cheeks.

“Wren, you’re crying.” His drawl was so soft and tender it only made me cry harder.

And then suddenly, he crushed me against him and I became achingly aware of the feel of his ethereal body pressed against mine from head to toe. With his free hand, he lifted my chin so that I looked up into his eyes and then he brushed one of my tears away with the pad of his thumb. My tear-damp lashes fluttered shut and I turned my face more fully into his palm, relishing the all-encompassing feel of this dangerous intimacy.

I wanted to wrap my arms around his waist and lay my head on his shoulder but fear and uncertainty consumed me and I resisted.

His breath fanned my cheeks as he studied my expression, and I intuitively knew he debated whether he should release me or…kiss me.

My heart skidded.

This close, I could see the slight misshapen crook of the bridge of his nose. I’d never noticed that before. This close, I could see his wealth of black lashes, the sharp slash of his high cheekbones and the soft pout of his bottom lip, which was a tiny bit fuller than his top lip. My gaze lingered on his mouth and I hoped for a heart-stopping moment that he would take that next step and kiss me.

Instead, he gently set me away from him. “I apologize.”

Thick disappointment seeped through my insides. I thought I was going to have to kick myself in order to unscramble my brain. “For-for what?” I stammered.

“I took liberties I should not have taken,” he whispered.

Of all times, why did he play the southern gentleman card now?

The rain had let up and gently pattered the tin roof. Thunder rumbled, low and soft, like a whisper in the darkness, like cannons on a faraway battlefield. Above all, I knew some new intimacy had just formed between Jeremiah and me that sparked a sense of promise in my heart.

As disappointed as I’d been that he hadn’t kissed me, I understood the need to move forward slowly. Even though I wanted there to be more between us, I wasn’t sure if I was ready for it.

After all, he was a ghost.

What sort of future lay in a relationship with a ghost?

“The rain has stopped,” he said, never taking his eyes from mine.

“I suppose I should be getting back to bed, then.”

He gave me a nod.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. This had fast become painfully awkward and I really didn’t know how to just walk away from him after what we’d just shared.

The same discomfort emanated from his gaze but as he took a step backward, a sheepish grin claimed his lips and then he vanished.

I blinked. I’d never get used to that, and I felt the absence of his energy so acutely, it actually made me ache. But as I turned and made my mortal way down the dark stairs, my heart soared like an eagle wheeling high above the earth.

I had touched a ghost. I had touched Jeremiah.

Despite all the warning signals blaring like sirens in my head, a strange sort of expectation gushed through me. I was falling in love.

With a ghost.

Seven

After last night in the attic, I hadn’t been able to fall asleep until well after three. Even then, I’d only dozed off and on, intermittently pushing Ella’s bony little limbs back onto her side of the bed. I stared at the rosette on the canopy above my head, wondering how this relationship with Jeremiah could possibly work.

At times, common sense prevailed and I talked myself out of it, thanking Fate that nothing more had happened between us than our innocent embrace and touching of hands. Other times, I imagined what it would have been like if, when he’d tilted my face up to his, he’d kissed me.

Hot shame flooded my face when I recalled how I’d succumbed to tears in his arms.

I hadn’t cried after the accident. I hadn’t cried when they’d finally told me Kira died. I hadn’t even shed a single tear over my heinous scar. In fact, Mom, the counselors, everyone, had been concerned at the sheer lack of emotion I’d shown.

Why had it all surfaced in Jeremiah’s embrace?

Although I hardly knew him, I’d been comfortable enough—safe enough—to unburden my most guarded and terrible secrets to him.

Closing my eyes, I touched my cheek where he’d brushed away one of my tears. The act was so negligible, so quickly done, so spontaneous it could have easily gone unnoticed.

But not by me.

To me, the compassion behind his gentle touch had reached infinitely further than my tearstained cheek. Just when I began to feel warm from the inside out, the stark reminder that he hadn’t known the real reason for my tears sank in. Would he have compassion for me if he knew what I’d done to Kira?

A chill replaced my short-lived warmth and I twisted onto my side, willing sleep to come.

When I finally crawled out of bed the next morning, I stumbled into the shower and leaned against the cold tile wall while the hot water rained down on my back. I tried to concentrate on the day ahead and how best to juggle Waylon, Ella and my parents but my thoughts seemed furiously fixated on Jeremiah. I couldn’t prevent myself from replaying every magical moment I’d spent with him last night.

Common sense told me this was crazy. Getting involved with a ghost wasn’t rational. There were no guarantees. Just as he’d done when the rain had stopped, at any moment, he could vanish and I might never see him again.

My family had uprooted themselves and sold the only home I’d ever known to move far from Buckhead so that I might have some semblance of a normal life here in Columbia. So I could go to school, on dates, to football games, to prom, all without everyone whispering behind my back that it was my fault my best friend had died.

But now, here I stood, looking for excuses to be alone so I could spend time with a boy who’d been dead for over a hundred years. Not exactly normal.

After my shower, I toweled off and then hastily dried my hair. I usually wore it down to hide my scar but today, I pulled it back into a ponytail. I knew part of me wanted to make sure Waylon noticed the hideous scar. The part of me obsessed with Jeremiah didn’t want to have to make a choice between the two of them.

While Jeremiah’s enchanting beauty and mystery presented a dangerous lure for me, Waylon was a smart, good looking, nice boy. But also the innate aspect of humanity I feared the most. Normal. Average. Typical.

Alive…

I brushed on some mascara and then put on a sheer lip gloss. Although I wanted Waylon to see the real me, I didn’t really want to scare him off.

I threw on a pair of comfortable jeans and a warm sweater and started out of my room but hesitated in the upstairs hall. The attic door gaped just as I had left it. My lashes fluttered shut. No electrical feeling swirled in the air. No Jeremiah awaited me.

Disappointed, I traipsed down the stairs and made a mental note to ask him where he went when he was not with me.

The empty downstairs foyer and rooms seeped strangely through my skin, leaving me lonely and hollow. I wound my way through the formal dining room, glancing at the highly polished table and up at the massive mirrors with the curiosity of a museum patron. My footsteps, muted by the carpet, echoed when I entered the tiled, short hall connecting the dining room to the kitchen. As I arrived at the modern kitchen the architecture abruptly changed and the sense of history I associated with the older part of the house faded away. Jeremiah had been long in his grave when this part of the house was added.

With its warm exposed brick walls and thick wooden support beams, the kitchen served as the family hub of the house. In stark contrast to the cozy, plantation style design, industrial, stainless steel appliances lined the walls.

A high, square table, with an oatmeal-colored granite countertop stood in the center of the room. Friendly voices drifted from a small television situated between Mom’s cookbooks and a seldom used toaster oven.

Ella perched on a barstool at the table, coloring one of her many artworks she refused to let anyone throw away.

Mom whirled on me from where she had been perusing the cabinets, probably in order to make a grocery list. “I thought I was going to have to send Ella to wake you up.”

Her eyes raked me in blatant disapproval of my decision to wear a ponytail but she judiciously said nothing. Still, her thoughts spoke loud and clear.
Why’d you pull your hair back? That boy isn’t going to notice anything but that ugly scar.

I ignored the telepathic message she didn’t intend for me to hear. “The storm kept me awake,” I mumbled before delving into the fridge, and avoiding her judgmental gaze.

Ella pushed her purple framed glasses up on her nose. “Me, too,” she announced.

“Did not. You snored.” I couldn’t resist ribbing her.

Eyes narrowed, mouth twisted, she raised her hand to slap me.

“Ella,” Mom warned without ever looking away from the cabinets.

Ella’s bottom lip protruded and she grudgingly lowered her hand and went back to her refrigerator door masterpiece.

“Remember, Ella,” Mom added. “When Wren’s friend comes, you are not to pester them.”

Relief surged through me.

Ella puffed up like a cornered alley cat. “But—”

“No buts.” Mom headed her off at the pass. “You’ll be entertaining young men one day and you won’t want Wren in your business.”

“She’ll be an old lady then, married with kids of her own.” Ella’s statement opened a desolate place inside me. If I continued to pursue a relationship with Jeremiah, I would be an old woman, still living under my parents’ roof with no children of my own. I hadn’t considered that possibility but I was fairly certain ghosts didn’t marry and raise kids.

Regret that I had chosen to wear my hair in a ponytail swept through me. I should at least keep an open mind about Waylon. I drew in a deep breath, recalling the hum of energy in my hand when I’d touched Jeremiah. Waylon would never enchant me the way Jeremiah had last night.

Never.

* * * * *

The big grandfather clock rang out one sonorous note. Ella flew through the front door. “He’s here! He’s here!” she announced.

Although I’d conversed with Waylon at school, we’d never been anything more than friendly. Still, butterflies danced in my stomach. At the same time, I had the strange sense I was cheating on Jeremiah.

Trying to appear calm and not over eager, I walked to the front door just as Waylon’s big, red truck rolled to a stop in front of the house.

Ella refused to make herself scarce as Mom had asked. Instead, she stood beside me, intermittently analyzing my expression and sizing up Waylon. Her scrutiny revealed my closed off posture. Without realizing it, I stood huddling, arms crossed over my chest as if I was freezing. Although the autumn storm had left a cold front in its wake, there remained only a little chill in the air. Not even enough for a jacket.

Waylon’s truck engine rumbled and sputtered to a stop. When he leapt out, Ella’s eyes widened dramatically.

Dressed in a blue t-shirt and jeans that outlined his football player’s physique, he looked as he did at school. But today, he wore a gray baseball cap pushed back so far on his head, the bill stood almost straight up.

Before I could greet him, Ella burst off the porch in a whirl of garish colors. Her ensemble consisted of a multi-colored nightgown over a tank top and jeans that were far too short for her. No socks. No shoes.