Chapter 9

The air is thick,so humid she can feel the moisture stick to her skin and coat her lungs with every labored breath. Leaving her air-conditioned apartment feels like stepping into a sauna. Sara casts a resentful glance skyward. They've been issuing warnings about thunderstorms all week; one look at the dark, gunmetal clouds overhead is proof enough that it's only a matter of time before the first clap rattles the city.

She walks a little faster.

"Honestly, Princess. Your hair."

Sara curses under her breath, casting him a glare as hot and bitter as the weather. His grin is wide and teasing. She hates when he does this. It's bad enough when he taunts her in private, where she can at least snap back. In public, she has to bite her tongue till it bleeds or risk looking insane.

A few drops of rain dot the sidewalk, her only warning before it comes faster—harder. Sara can feel it sliding down her neck, soaking her clothes, and she closes her eyes with an agitated prayer for patience. When she opens them, Seth stands in front of her—grinning and infuriatingly dry. Yet, by some magic she still hasn't wrapped her head around, there is no dry spot on the cement at his feet. The rain passes right through him as if he really was no more real than her imagination.

His gaze flicks pointedly to her hair. "Suppose that's one way to tame that mess of a mop."

"I hate you," she hisses.

He blows her a mocking kiss. In her peripheral, she catches a warning flash before the thunder.

She pulls her messenger bag in front of her, fighting off the urge to glare at him. There's already been a few passerby shooting her odd looks.

Get to school. She just needs to get to school, make it through class, and go have lunch with Jen and Miles so she can convince them she's fine.

Rifling through her bag, she finds an umbrella wedged under her textbook and murmurs a quiet, "thank god."

"Well, I rather doubt he has anything to do with it."

Ignore him.

Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him.

She opens the umbrella overhead, the rain tapping eagerly at the fabric. Sara keeps her bag at her front to avoid the runoff. There's still plenty of time before her class starts, she can probably manage to grab a much needed coffee beforehand. The promise of caffeine is enough to make her walk just a little bit faster.

She hasn't slept well in weeks. Aside from being a snarky asshole, the devil at her back apparently comes with a tv addiction. The murmured voices from the old tube television is tolerable—more white noise than anything—but the sound of his voice, too clear and too real, through the apartment's thin walls is almost unbearable. The one night she refused to turn it on, he retaliated by singing operatic nonsense (she's still not convinced the gibberish coming out of his mouth was a language, despite his claims) at the top of his lungs until she caved.

Seth follows; he always does. Hands tucked into his coat pockets, he flirts at the edges of her vision. The ghost she never asked for. The shadow she can't escape. Sara wishes she could say the last month has made her used to it, but she still catches herself slipping. The first week, she told him to shut up in front of the cashier at her local grocery. She hasn't been brave enough to go back since.

"Art Appreciation today, yes?" he asks. Sara knows better than to believe he doesn't already know. His lips curving into a goading smile. "I'm rather looking forward to it. Last week was more entertaining than I expected."

Her teeth grind, groaning in her skull. Last week he had spent the entire class mimicking her professor's every move and flooding her ears in a never-ending commentary of mundane details Mr. Kent failed to mention. She can feel her blood pressure rising thinking about it.

Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she brings it to her ear without hitting call. Still refusing to look at him, she hisses into the receiver. "No. Stay out of my classes."

Seth huffs, blinking in and out around the various people filling the street. For a ghost, he doesn't really act like one. No floating, no phasing through walls (or anything for that matter), and it's been agonizingly clear that no one else can see him.

Come to think of it, the only ghost-like thing he does is haunt her.

"You're mine, Princess. I'm not terribly invested in heeding your demands, petty as they are. Besides, would it kill you to lighten up? Your attitude is terribly depressing."

Sara hates that nickname almost as much as the reminder. Loathes it with an intensity that's as physical as mental—she can feel her blood pressure rising every time it passes his stupid lips. She'll be damned before she lets him know it, though. The one time she mentioned it, he took it as a challenge to weave it into every sentence.

"Lovely weather today, Princess."

"Princess, your cleaning habits are appalling."

"Tell me, Princess, what were you thinking?"

Sara's lips purse, her steps growing violent. Her foot lands in a puddle, splashing her jean-clad calves with dirty water, and she feels her fraying sense of control snap. "Would it kill you to leave me alone?"

"Possibly. Terribly kind of you to ask. And here I was beginning to worry you didn't care," he mocks, laying a splayed hand over his chest.

"I don't," she snaps, voice as tight as her grip. Her phone case groans under the pressure, knuckles white.

"So cruel," he sighs.

She almost laughs. Almost. She can feel it, cutting and dark, clawing its way up her throat. Sara swallows it down, lets it settle in her chest like a stone. She refuses to let him goad her into embarrassing herself in public (again). "Feel free to go sulk somewhere."

"Don't be ridiculous, I rather like our walks." He smiles, curved and wicked. "I find them incredibly entertaining."

She fights the urge to run back to her apartment and crawl into bed just to bask in the silence. Aside from bathrooms, her bedroom seems to be the only place he won't enter. Whether it's because he has at least some small amount of decency, or because he doesn't want to face her wrath should he cross that line, she's not entirely sure (though she has her suspicions).

He seems more amused than cowed by her temper.

Sara shoves her phone in her pocket, determined to give him nothing but a cold shoulder. It's taken weeks, but she's realizing that's the only leverage she really has on him. She's not half as "entertaining" when she doesn't speak back.

From the corner of her eye, she catches sight of his pout a second before his lips curl into something smug. "Oh, are we giving the silent treatment another go? Pity." He blinks in front of her, so suddenly it nearly makes her stumble to a stop. The glare she sends him is edged with threats, but his grin only widens. "I suppose I'll have to take it upon myself to speak for the both of us. It has been such a long time since I've had the opportunity to discuss the Baroque period."

Her teeth clench, jaw aching, as he falls in step beside her—filling the silence with droning facts about Bernini and Rubens. She tries to tune him out; ignore the lilting rise and fall of his voice.

It's insult added to injury that he makes the topic almost interesting. Even more so, when she goes to her art appreciation class and has to listen to the same lesson in her professor's dull voice.

The little cafearound the corner from her apartment is busy as always, but meeting late morning means she's avoided the majority of the nine-to-five crowd. From a table in the corner, she spots Jen waving to catch her attention. Sara plasters on as wide a smile as she can manage, waving back as she weaves through the sea of bodies and chairs.

She sees a shadow in the peripheral, feels her heart drop, but when she looks it's only a stranger in a charcoal coat. Sara feels as relieved as she does silly. Seth has never followed her here—he avoids any and all cramped and crowded places if he can help it. She suspects it has less to do with her comfort and more to do with his. Once, she caught his shuddered expression after a child ran through him quicker than he could blink away. A place like this—brimming with bodies and furniture—it would be close to impossible for him to avoid all contact.

She wonders, quietly and only to herself, if it hurts him.

Jen hugs her in greeting, firmer than usual, but no less comforting. "How are you?" Only Jen could ask that and mean it. It's never just an effort to make polite conversation; she sincerely wants to know.

Yet, still, Sara can't bring herself to burden her with the truth. "I'm holding up."

Jen's face falls, just a fraction, and Sara knows her best friend has seen right through her. The shadows under her eyes probably don't help. "You look tired."

The truth is she looks like shit and still smells a little like sage (she can't, for the life of her, seem to be able to get it out of her clothes). "I've had trouble sleeping lately. Probably just nerves, you know, with classes having just started." She gives Miles a half-armed hug before sitting across from him and sending him as honest a smile as she can muster. "Hey."

"Hey," he echoes, but behind his thick-rimmed glasses, he raises a dark eyebrow.

Sara knows he's not fooled, either.

Jen sits beside her fiancé, hand linking with his under the table. "It's the Literature class isn't it?"

Sara appreciates that Jen understands her well enough to give her a sympathetic wince. "British Literature."

"It'll be fine," Jen soothes, her nails tapping on the table. They're teal today. "Just, maybe, actually read the assignments this time. That usually helps."

"Jen, I do read the assignments," Sara insists, but the look Jen sends is weighted and knowing. "Except for maybe that one time freshman year."

"Yeah, ok," she says, teasing. "Well, I got you an ice water, but I'm going to go get a parfait," Jen says, pulling out her chair. "Do you want anything?"

Sara chances a glance at the line, cringing. It's long enough for her to know Miles definitely won't be letting her off the hook. But, if she has to suffer through his interrogation anyway, she might as well get food for it. "Can you grab me a cheese danish?"

Jen nods, turning to Miles expectantly.

He shakes his head, leaning further into the chair. "I'm good."

Lips thinning, Jen's eyes narrow pointedly as she adjusts her purse over her shoulder. "You need to eat something."

It's enough to make Sara pause, but Miles only rolls his eyes—a tiny smile tucked in the corner of his mouth. "Yes, dear. I'll have a breakfast sandwich."

She nods approvingly, giving Sara another soft smile. "I'll be right back." Then she's wading through the crowd and leaving them behind.

Sara hangs her messenger bag over the back of the chair. "Hurting?" Jen only ever bugs him about eating when there's a possibility of him needing his pain meds.

Miles sighs, hand rubbing his thigh. "Just aching. Been running around the ER probably more than I should. But I gotta make this last year count if I'm gonna land a job there after I finish my residency."

Sara frowns, leaning her elbow on the table. "Do you have your meds?"

"You're as bad as Jen. Yes, I have them. No, I don't need them." He looks over his shoulder, making sure his fiancée is well out of hearing range before he leans forward. "Now cut the crap. How are you, really?"

Sara flinches, hating that he can tell. Her gaze drops to her drink, stirring with her straw and watching the ice clink against the sides of the glass. "I said I'm fine."

"Yeah, right. You and me? We speak the same language. You saying you're fine is the same way I say I'm fine." His finger taps emphatically against the table. "Which means you're not fine."

"I just don't want to talk about it, ok?" she hisses. "It's hard enough without—" She doesn't finish that sentence. She can't. "I'm just… struggling to adjust. It's no big deal."

"You lost your boyfriend to a traumatic brain injury," he says, voice soft. "I'd say that's a pretty big deal."

"I didn't lose David. He's just, he's just a little lost right now. He'll come back." She wishes she sounded more confident, more convinced. The doubt threading through her voice is as obvious as the pity in Miles' eyes.

"Either way, he ain't here." He lays a hand over his chest. "Now, personally? I think you're gonna be better off without his pasty ass—"

"I'm pasty."

"Yes, but I like you. And I know you love him, but he was always going to hold you back." His brown eyes, a handful of shades lighter than Jen's, pin her to her seat. "You are going to move mountains without him dragging you down, girl."

"Look, I know David wasn't your favorite—"

"Understatement."

Sara sends him a dry, unamused look.

Miles matches it. "Dude never wanted for anything in his life, and it shows."

"That's not his fault!"

"Oh, so his daddy making a donation to the school had nothing to do with David pulling a passing grade out of his pampered ass? That wasn't on him, at all?"

"We can't control what our parents do, Miles."

"Really? Because an honest man would have taken the failing grade and repeated the class like everyone else."

"It was one class."

"He's going to be a lawyer. His daddy buying him a winning grade in legal ethics would be like me sleeping through pharmaceuticals andpassing anyway."

Miles' brows arch, challenging her to disagree. "He got a pass freshman year, but three years in the real world should be enough to make a guy realize he's a pampered brat." He lifts his mug, sticking his pinky out mockingly. "And that's the tea."

Sara's lips purse, irritation growing when he takes a loud, slurping sip without breaking eye contact. "Sometimes, you're kind of a jerk."

"No, sometimes I'm brutally honest. There's a difference. And if you weren't my friend, and I didn't care about you, I wouldn't bother."

"Whatever. Point is, I'm fine. So shut up about it before Jen gets back. You know how she is."

"Wonderful and caring, sometimes to the point of suffocation?" he says, eyeing his fiancé fondly from across the shop. "Yeah, I know."

"No cold feet then?" Sara jokes. If she wasn't so happy for them, the moon eyes they make at each other would be borderline nauseating.

"Only the one," he says, patting his left thigh with a wink. "And it hasn't stopped me from doing anything else, so I think we'll be ok."

Sara nods, sobering. "How bad is it, really?"

His smile is sardonic. "I'll live."

It's a thing between them—a hybrid cross between an inside joke and a code word.

Sara's sure he's remembering the night they all got drunk and Jen passed out on the couch. Jen's enthusiasm had ensured that Sara knew all about him before their first meeting—was well schooled about his time in the military and how his career was cut short by an IED, how the loss of his leg and the hours of physical therapy had inspired him to specialize in emergency medicine—but she hadn't known him. Not yet.

He was wearing shorts that day. The intricate lines of plastic and metal, the way it melded into flesh just below the knee, was fully displayed. The booze made her head foggy and her lips loose.

She asked if it hurt.

Miles laughed. "Only every day, but better my leg than my head, right? I'll live." He followed it up with some joke about veteran's benefits after—something along the lines of at least the army was paying for his school even though the VA was doing a shit job of taking care of his leg.

Ever since that night, there had been an understanding between them. Sara knows the truth behind those two words; knows the pain is worse than he would ever willingly talk about. Miles knows it's the same for her.

"You should take the meds," she murmurs, holding his gaze. "At least enough to take the edge off."

He frowns, looking away. "I don't like the brain fog that comes with it," he says, a soft confession. "I'd rather feel the pain."

"But—"

"Look," he says, cutting her off. "I love you like the sister I never had, but please—and I'm begging here—please, drop it."

Sara goes quiet, absently tearing her straw wrapper into tiny pieces. "Miles?"

"Yeah?" he sighs around the rim of his mug.

"You have three sisters."

"And they ain't even half as much of a pain in my ass."

Sara smiles, wadding up a piece of the paper and tossing it at him. It hits his shoulder before bouncing back onto the table. "You love that about me."

"I'm pleading the fifth."