Unedited, but much agonized over, here you go, the next chapter. Perhaps later, I shall edit it and make it actually good (my work seems to get progressively worse I believe). Yes, later sounds good ;P

((edit: okay, so i lied. i edited out the last part. i'll repost it in the next chapter. this chapter had enough going on already without it.))

Chapter Three

If James wasn’t so horribly annoying, I wouldn’t have to go through with this. I definitely wouldn’t be trying to wish myself away while he politely asked me how I kicked the bucket.

Trust me, if I could have punched him, I would have by now, but I physically couldn’t. It was like a glitch I couldn’t fix. I assumed it had something to do with a “don’t harm the mortals” mentality that I don’t remember agreeing to in the first place.

So…by this point, I was fairly caught up in my own self-indulgent thoughts, but it wasn’t as though I hadn’t seen the glass fly out and slice him across the face; I had. And, since I pretty much screamed and jerked forward to help him, I was clearly out of my mind. He hadn’t even started to bleed yet and here I was, flipping out over a stupid little cut when I had been aching to hurt him literally two seconds before that. There wasn’t even anything I could do to help him…in fact, the only thing I had done was make him think that I actually cared about him. As if he wasn’t insufferable enough.

He raised a hand to his face and pressed the heel of it against the jagged cut carved below his eye. “Becky,” he groaned, closing his eyes, “was that completely necessary?”

Like an idiot, I didn’t think things through before I hurried into a rather lame apology of, “I didn’t mean for that to happen! I really didn't know it would...James, I’m so sorry.” I should just keep my mouth shut. I didn't want him thinking that I was going to start being nice to him just because I sliced his face open - especially since it was only an accident...sort of.

He had known for at least a month and had been bothering me about it for the past three weeks, trying to get some answers to questions he never should have been asking. Ever. I couldn’t understand how anyone so young could be so incredibly interfering. Was it his business if I was alive or not? Of course not, but that didn’t seem to stop him at all, much to my disappointment.

No, instead, he pranced around the questions that he actually wanted to ask me and started grilling me about the most random things ever until he was sure that he was right. Alright, so asking me if I wanted a ride home sounded innocent enough, but he had to have already known. He saw my arm go through the door of his car. I don’t think I could have given him much more of a hint if I tried.

James’s own, disgustingly melodic voice dragged me out of my thoughts. “I’m sure you didn’t,” he said with a wry smile, though his tone was almost…bemused. What was wrong with him? It horrified me that he sounded like he was about to laugh after I had basically chucked glass at his face. Even then he couldn’t leave me alone; I was almost scared to try to think about how obsessed he was.

My voice came out wounded, like I had been the one stabbed with a shard of glass. “I didn’t. It was just a reflex, James…I’ll…I’ll answer your question if you want…” I couldn’t stand him or his perfect voice. Both made me sound pathetic and pleading; he got to sound terribly amused while I sounded like a tortured puppy. Of course.

“No, you’re obviously not comfortable with it,” sighed James. A genius, that one. For about half a second, I debated on whether or not to tell him. I was now convinced that I was completely and utterly delusional and it was all his fault. I moaned in the back of my throat as unexpected depression threatened to wave over me…I knew I couldn’t avoid it for very long and it was always worse - a billion times worse - than it had ever been in life.

That James was going to witness my emotion breakdown made me feel sick to my stomach again. Shocking, I know. I couldn’t even steady myself enough to be mad at him anymore. I just wanted him to go.

“James,” I said quietly, vastly unused to the constant mood swings that I couldn’t seem to escape, “is there any way we could get out of here?” He already knew that I was dead, so there was no actual reason why we had to stay here and wait for someone else to find out…God, that was all I needed…

He blinked, and I stared at him impatiently, narrowing my eyes without meaning to do so. He had better say something soon; I was already starting to change my mind and this idiot’s apparent reluctance to answer me wasn’t making things better. “Er, of course. Are you sure you can leave the school, though?” In a span of thirty seconds, he had gone from awkward to arrogant again and I reeled in frustration. There really was no stopping him. Sorely tempted to punch his crooked smirk off his face, I looked away.

“Positive. Please, James, I’ll explain everything, I promise. Anything but how I died.” I was fully aware of how pleading my tone had become, and how sickening his expression had become, but there wasn’t really much I could do about it. If James hadn’t been so horrifyingly attractive, I might not have had such a problem.

When I tore my gaze away from him and lowered it down to my feet, I wasn’t expecting him to create such a sympathetic expression. Obviously, he felt sorry…I had made him feel bad? This was surprising, but I tried not to comment on it. “Could we…” I hesitated in saying this, my pale skin burning with embarrassment, “maybe go to your place?”

The truth was, there was no place else I could go. Well, like, how lame would it be if I was all, “Hey, can we just chill at the park?" I didn’t say that. Instead, I felt obligated to give him an explanation. “I mean, not like I want to, but I don’t exactly have anywhere else to go.” By the end of the sentence, my voice was so low that I was basically mumbling.

James spluttered, tripping on his words. “You – you don’t – Becky, what do you mean you don’t have anywhere to go?” He was looking at me with pity and he leaned forward to brush my hair off my face. “Becky, I’m so sorry,” he said. That was so typical of him: that’s right, feel sorry that I’m homeless, but not that I’m dead.

I gave him a look that even I wasn’t able to discern. The look was almost like a mix of scorn and acceptance and bitterness with an absurd dash of appreciation. “Don’t be sorry,” I told him, trying to sound powerful and failing miserably. “I just...all these strangers have taken over my house now. And I can’t go very far outside of town,” I explained with a guilty, sheepish air.

Why I found it absolutely impossible to speak my mind at this moment was beyond me. I sounded vulnerable, for God's sake!

“You can’t leave?” James asked, sliding his arm around my waist with ease.

I couldn’t even begin to describe the urge that I had to crumble in his arms and cry. Besides the day I died, this was definitely one of the most confusing days I’d ever experienced. “Well, I can, but I won’t…” I hesitated, avoiding completing the sentence as I should have.

“Why won’t you?” he asked, leading me towards the exit, which was about twenty steps away now. Oh, good, he had misinterpreted my sentence when I trailed off…but for some reason, unknown to me, I felt compelled to tell him anyway. “No, I mean…I won’t show up.” I couldn’t believe how much my cheeks had flushed with those words. Honestly, I had never been more embarrassed to be dead.

At first, I didn’t think he’d heard me; he pursed his lips and didn’t say anything for a while. But then, with the most sympathetic look yet, looking actually caring, he said, “We’ll talk about it when we get there, yeah?” He pushed open the door and I closed my eyes against the sun, trying to feel it beating down on me to distract myself from the burning heat of his arm around my waist. He needed to move it, if only to preserve my sanity, but I couldn’t bring myself to make him. Was it odd that I wanted him to hold me tighter? Nodding anxiously, I walked with him…not that I had too much of a choice, of course.

We walked through the parking lot and I glanced around wildly to make sure no one was still there, lurking around. If one more person found out, I’d scream. He seemed to notice my neuroticism, but he was considerate enough not to say anything that alluded to it. Instead, without saying the pleading words that had run through my mind (several times), he pulled me even closer to him. I noticed afterwards that he only did it because I was going to walk right into a car, but he didn’t really need to be worried. I suppose it was only an instinctual thing: if someone’s about to crash into a parked car, you stop them, right? Too bad such a sweet gesture was wasted on a girl who could walk through cars.

I knew which car was his; after all, I had spent the last month waiting for him to leave me alone and drive away in it. It was a silver Audi, a sleek little thing that sat in the student parking lot between Jeff Chamberlain’s dented pick-up truck and Ryan Strayer’s gigantic red SUV. They always parked in the same place, of course. Now that they were seniors, they pretty much had free-reign of the school and did whatever they wanted. Theoretically, I was one of them, but as I didn’t have a car, or any desire to draw attention to myself, I had no place there. I was about as important as, well, say, a freshman.

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was that I hadn’t actually been in anyone’s car in ten years. And I couldn’t even remember the last time someone had held the door open for me. But that was exactly what the egotistical, arrogant stalker had done. For a moment or two, as he pulled the passenger door open and motioned for me to slide in, I wondered why he bothered me so much. I couldn’t even prevent myself from scowling as the warm comfort of his arm left my waist. I wished that I could hate him as much as I pretended to because it would make things so much easier. Even the addition of all the awkwardness that usually came with such close contact would have made things easier.

However, my hormones were, ironically, spiraling out of control. Who knew you could have such mood swings when you were dead? The constant changes in disposition were impossible to handle, especially now that James had come into play. He drove me insane, but I still didn’t hate him. I don’t think I ever had. I mean, really, as annoying as he was, he genuinely cared about people. That was probably why he hadn’t told anyone what he’d found out about me.

The unfamiliar click of the seatbelt sliding into the lock sounded odd to my ears, but I didn’t say anything to James as he got behind the wheel of the car and pushed his key into the ignition. I watched wordlessly as he turned the key and revved the engine to life, his hand pulling back on the gearshift. He kept his eyes trained on the road, but I could see the expression on his face quite clearly…I wondered what it would be like knowing there was a dead girl sitting in the passenger seat. James was handling it better than I thought he would, given the circumstances, but his gaze glanced over to mine every now and then.

I waited for the worst to happen as we left the school parking lot.

Now, I didn’t know exactly when it would happen, only that it would. I closed my eyes and tried not to let myself think about his reaction. In about three seconds, we would be leaving the school zone. Three…two…one…I opened my eyes.

Wincing, I saw him look over once again and plaster his gaze to mine. The quickly guarded horror that flashed through them worried me; his house couldn’t be very far from the school, but he hardly ever took his eyes of me from that moment. It was probably because, with every foot between us and the school, I was fading away. My forehead against the dashboard in front of me, I tried to ignore his stare and steady my habitual breathing.

“Becky,” he said at last, sounding apprehensive, “are you okay?”

Only one thought seemed to run through my mind and I said it without thinking. “Okay? Of course I’m not okay. I’ve been dead for the last ten years. How ‘okay’ am I supposed to be, James?” Immediately, my head shot up from the dashboard and scrutinized his expression, searching for a change. I could still see where he had bled, the smallest hint of a scab below his eye as he quirked an eyebrow.

“Ten years?” he repeated.

“Yes, ten years,” I said again, a bit agitated, “I’m absolutely sure.”

He didn’t look like he doubted me, but the corners of his lips turned upwards ever so slightly and I was instantly reminded of how he had acted only five minutes prior. Trying not to seem distracted, I held my hand up to the light and observed the murky impressions of the trees behind it as they appeared through my skin. James was acting a bit tense, but certainly not as much as before.

“We’re almost there; this is my street,” he told me offhandedly, as though he didn’t truly care, but when I looked at him for what must have been the billionth time that day, I saw his eyes narrow and a smirk overcome his lips. What he found so amusing, I didn’t know.

When we reached his house, I was surprised, to say the least. It had to be about three floors and the siding was a smooth beige, the front lawn immaculate. It figured that he was one of those rich kids with the perfect houses. He was pretty much my polar opposite.

Gliding into the driveway, he shifted the car into park and shut off the engine. I was really close to just walking out of the car, regardless of the shut door, just to see how he’d react, but I wasn’t that mean. I debated on it so long that he had time to come around and open the door for me.

“After you,” he said, smirking infuriatingly. This was hardly comforting for me. I was afraid that the neighbors would see me and wonder whether their eyes were playing tricks on them; now, that simply wouldn’t do. I pushed ahead of James and shot a pleading glance back at him.

“Could you please hurry up? I’d rather people not see me like this.” I realized how dangerously close to a whine my voice was, and James had too, unfortunately. He actually had the nerve to laugh at me, for which I went to smack him.

Alright, so I had forgotten about the stupid glitch. My hand stopped two inches from his obnoxiously beautiful face. And I just left it there. In fact, I refused - refused - to believe that I had actually been stopped in hitting him by any stupid curse put on me in death, to the point where I didn’t even bother to lower my hand. I stood there, my eyes focused on his, my mouth pulled into a tight little line, basically on the verge of tears.

This whole humiliating day too much for me, especially when I realized he hadn’t stopped laughing yet. James tilted his head to the side and laughed at me in an alarmingly endearing way, as if I were some little toy kept on Earth for his entertainment. There were so many insults poised on my lips, but he tore from me the chance to say anything by pushing my hand down and steering me towards the house by the top of my arms.

He seemed to like the feel of his hands over my skin. What's worse is that I was still there, even more so than I had been when we left the school parking lot. Why hadn’t I faded away into nothingness?

It was only then, feeling steadily more sensitive to his touch as we stepped onto the front porch, that I realized the tangible evidence that God wanted me to suffer for all eternity. Here we were, at the only house I had spent more time in than my own. James wasn’t going to be happy about it when I told him, but it wasn’t exactly something I could hide from him. When my hand touched the door after he held it open for me, I was solid enough to hold it open entirely on my own. Oh, this was not good. Not good.

James’s bronze hair, about an inch or so long, skimmed the top of the doorway as he entered. “James,” I called, feeling nauseous already. I seemed to spend most of my afterlife feeling like that.

I heard the clink of the keys hitting his desk and I was hardly shocked when he emerged from his room, a scowl playing on his lips while he folded his arms across his chest. “Becky,” he said, and he had the nerve to raise an eyebrow at me, “explain.” His tone was awfully precise, and he enunciated with amazing distinction; it was as if he was trying to scare me with his oh-so careful dictation into listening to him. Trust me, everything he said was engraved into my mind well enough without him needing to drill it in.

It was appalling to say that I shrunk away from him. I cringed from stupid, intolerable James, who struggled not to laugh at me.

“Fine,” I said, speaking as clearly as he had, if not more so just to spite him, “you want me to explain?”

“That’s the general idea.”

Ooh, if only I could hurt him….he would be a dead man, that he would.

“I’m more of an imprint than anything else.” The words sounded lame even as they left my lips.

He raised a hand to stroke my jaw, which was deeply disconcerting as I tried to answer his prompting, “Meaning?” Why was he doing this? I understood that he wanted answers, but was it possible he wanted anything more than that?

“Meaning that places where I spent a lot of time during my life are places I actually show up in now. The farther away something is, the less visible I am, which is just ridiculous if you-” I was cut off in my lunatic-like ramblings by the one question (well, okay, one of the questions) I wanted to avoid.

“You show up just fine here, Becky.” I nodded, closing my eyes as he parted his lips to speak once more, his voice amused and low. “Why?”

I could only imagine how badly this would end. I imagined so long, in fact, that James became tired of waiting. I couldn’t really blame him, of course. There was no way that I could edit what I needed to say without raising questions I didn’t know the answers to; I had to tell him the honest-to-God truth, for the umpteenth time today.

“Well?” Jeez, impatient much? It took more effort than he knew to work up the courage to admit this next piece of information aloud. Speaking the words made this whole thing seem too real.

“My boyfriend used to live here,” I blurted out. Oh, brilliant, Becky. I stopped breathing (not that I needed to anyway) to judge his reaction.

He furrowed his brow, but I could swear he looked as though he was about to laugh, in spite of himself. He pressed his lips together and I thought that perhaps he was searching for the right words. Finally he asked, shaking his head and looking towards the ceiling in what I perceived as frustration, “You dated my brother?”