Who Said I Was Dead?

By morning, I had decided two things.

First, Julian was terrible at being dead.

Second, I needed someone else to hear about it before I began answering him in public.

Dana took one look at me and said, “Were you up all night?”

“More or less.”

“Working?”

“No.”

She waited.

I lowered my voice.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Her eyebrows rose.

“Is that what kept you awake?”

“I think I’ve got one.”

“In your apartment?”

“Where else would I keep it?”

She laughed, then stopped when I didn’t.

“Evan, you’ve barely slept all week.”

“I know.”

“That can make everything feel strange.”

“He’s not strange. He’s annoyingly familiar.”

“Who?”

I looked at her.

Then I shook my head.

“Forget it.”

She offered to take one of my deadlines.

I refused out of pride, then accepted ten minutes later out of exhaustion.

Around noon, Miles finally replied.

I’m off today. Dinner?

I sent him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Then he quoted my earlier message about hearing Julian.

And you’re explaining this.

I sent a less enthusiastic thumbs-up.

***

At the restaurant, Miles ordered tea before I could order anything stronger.

“I wasn’t going to drink.”

“Good.”

“You look very pleased with yourself.”

“I’m waiting until you explain the ghost.”

I leaned closer.

“Not so loud.”

“Sorry. Your extremely private ghost.”

I glared at him.

He raised both hands.

“All right. Tell me what happened.”

I explained the blackouts, the voice, and the way it always seemed to know exactly what to say to irritate me.

I also told him about the gaps in my memory and the unexplained marks.

His expression became serious at that part.

“You need to get those checked.”

“I know. I’m not ignoring them.”

“Okay.”

He waited until I had taken a drink of tea.

Then he asked, “What does he say when he’s being less irritating?”

“He said he missed me.”

Miles looked at me.

“He also asked if I was happy he’d died.”

“And what did you say?”

“That I wasn’t.”

Miles continued looking.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ve got a face on.”

“This is my face.”

“No. This is the face you make before saying something stupid.”

He put his cup down.

“Is there any chance you miss him enough that you’re dreaming about him?”

I nearly spilled my tea.

“I knew it.”

“I’m asking.”

“You’re asking whether I’ve invented Julian because I secretly want him in my bedroom.”

“I was trying to phrase it more delicately.”

“Well, don’t. The answer’s no.”

Miles nodded slowly.

Far too slowly.

“I’m serious,” I added.

“I heard you.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I believe you’re upset. I don’t know whether you’ve worked out what kind of upset.”

I reached for a dumpling.

He let me eat it.

Then he said, “When was the last time you went a week without talking to him?”

I frowned.

“Why?”

“Just think.”

There had been a week after graduation when I worked late every night.

Julian had texted.

There had been a vacation.

Julian had sent weather warnings.

There had been the argument about his job offer.

Three days.

Then he sent a photograph of a hideous chair.

I looked at my plate.

Miles’s voice softened.

“He was part of your routine.”

“So was the leaking faucet in my first apartment. I didn’t fall in love with that.”

“No. But you probably noticed when it stopped making noise.”

I hated that comparison because I had made it possible.

Miles took out his phone.

“A coworker gave me the name of a psychologist. Would you consider talking to her?”

“Will she know how to get rid of him?”

“She might help you sleep. Let’s start there.”

That sounded reasonable.

It also sounded cheaper than moving.

I agreed.

***

The practice was newly opened, and the introductory appointment cost half the normal fee.

That settled my remaining hesitation.

Julian had once told me I was too easily influenced by discounts.

I had told him he was too easily influenced by having money.

Both statements remained true.

Dr. Laura Bennett met me at the door the following evening.

“Evan Brooks?”

“Yes.”

“Come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

I chose the chair closest to the lamp.

She sat opposite me and opened a notebook.

“What would you like to talk about?”

“There’s a man I’ve been arguing with since college.”

“All right.”

“He died last week.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So was I, eventually.”

She looked up.

I rubbed my forehead.

“That came out wrong. We had a complicated friendship.”

“What made it complicated?”

“He kept finding reasons to be around me. I kept telling him to stop.”

“Did you want him to stop?”

I looked at her.

“That’s a surprisingly difficult first question.”

“We can leave it for now.”

I liked her immediately for that.

Then I told her about the nights.

She listened. Asked about sleep, alcohol, and what I could remember clearly. When I mentioned the injuries, she advised separate medical attention rather than guessing at their cause.

I understood.

I was still disappointed.

“So you can’t explain the voice?”

“Not from one appointment.”

“Or the power?”

“That’s outside my expertise.”

“Fair enough.”

She smiled gently.

I leaned back.

“He sounds so much like himself. If I were inventing him, you’d think I could at least make him nicer.”

“What does he sound like?”

“Like he expects an answer. Like he knows I’m going to argue and wants me to do it anyway.”

She wrote something down.

I tried not to look.

“When you heard he’d died, what did you feel?”

“I said I was happy.”

“That’s what you said. What did you feel?”

I looked toward the window.

Traffic moved below us.

“He was supposed to give my scarf back.”

She waited.

“I keep thinking about that. It’s ridiculous. I could buy another scarf.”

“But it wouldn’t be the same conversation.”

I swallowed.

“No.”

For a while, I didn’t say anything.

Then I admitted, “I don’t know what to do with all the things I still wanted to tell him.”

She helped me make a simple plan for the night: stay with Miles, eat, rest, and follow up rather than trying to solve everything alone.

At the end, she explained that she couldn’t give me a reliable answer yet. Since part of the appointment had been spent discussing concerns that needed other kinds of help, she waived the introductory charge.

I thanked her.

Free was usually enough to improve my mood.

Today, it barely helped.

***

Outside, every available ride seemed to cost more than I wanted to pay.

The nearest rental-bike station was empty.

I looked at the bus route, sighed, and started walking.

Miles had told me where to find his spare key. He would be home later.

I pictured his guest room.

A normal bed.

Normal electricity.

No Julian.

That last part should have been reassuring.

Instead, I found myself wondering whether he would follow me.

At the next corner, a voice asked, “Are you planning to walk all the way home?”

I stopped.

Then I shut my eyes.

Of course he would.

“I’m going to Miles’s,” I said.

“You’ll miss the bus.”

“Then I’ll take the next one.”

“It’s cold.”

“I noticed. I’m outside.”

“Evan.”

I turned toward the empty space beside me.

“What? What do you want? You’ve been following me around for years. You could at least give me a week off now.”

A passerby glanced at me.

I didn’t care.

My fear had finally worn thin enough for irritation to get through.

“If you’re worried about the scarf, keep it. If you’re worried about the job, I’m still not taking it. And if you’re here because I said something stupid to Miles, I’ve already told you I didn’t mean it.”

There was a pause.

Then the voice said, “That’s not why.”

“Then stop making me guess.”

The words came out louder than I intended.

I tightened my grip on my bag.

“You’re dead. Can’t you leave me alone?”

The answer came from directly behind me.

“Who said I was dead?”