Layla

“We both know what answers mean for a ghost,” she says, talking between bites of mint chocolate chip. “It means I’ll be done here. Whatever the reason is for me being stuck here, if that man is right, I’ll get unstuck. I won’t be here anymore. You’ve seen all the movies. Patrick Swayze had to die twice in that movie. Twice!”

“They’re just movies, Willow. Written by people in Hollywood who get paid to use their imagination. We don’t know what actually happens next.”

She waves her spoon at me while she paces, tucking the ice cream tub against her chest. “Maybe not, but it’s a consensus. It’s the theme in every ghost story. Every ghost is a ghost because something went wrong. They were either evil in a past life, or they have unfinished business, or they have to find forgiveness. Or give forgiveness.” She plops down in a chair at the table. Her energy is all channeled into a frown. “What if I don’t like what I find out? What if I don’t like what’s next?” She takes another bite with the spoon upside down, and then she just lets the spoon hang from her mouth while she leans forward, clasping her hands behind her head, digging her elbows into the table.

The spoon is just dangling from her mouth.

I never intended to upset her.

Before Layla and I showed up, Willow didn’t have these concerns. She didn’t even consider herself a ghost. She just existed in whatever realm she’s in, and she was content with that until I came along. Nothing good has come from her crossing into this realm.

It’s only caused Layla to stress about her fatigue.

It’s turned me into a liar.

It’s instilled a fear into Willow that wasn’t there before.

“Willow,” I say quietly. She looks up at me and pulls the spoon from her mouth. “Do you think what we’re doing is wrong? Using Layla like we’re doing?”

“Of course it’s wrong. Just because we’re able to do this doesn’t mean we should be doing it.”

As much as I don’t want her to be right, I know she is. I’ve known all along, but the selfish side of me has been excusing it because I’ve been telling myself I’m helping Willow.

But before I got here, Willow didn’t even want help. She took over Layla simply because she wanted to taste food. And even that might have been fine, but then I got way too involved. I became morbidly fascinated to the point that I’ve been putting Layla at risk. Maybe even Willow.

There may not be a handbook for how to deal with a ghost, but a person doesn’t need it to be written down in order to know the difference between right and wrong.

Willow walks the ice cream back to the freezer. “You look tired,” she says flatly.

“I am.”

“You can go to bed,” she says, waving toward the stairs. “I’m gonna watch a movie.”

I don’t want her to watch a movie. I’m not sure I want her using Layla’s body anymore. “Layla’s tired too. She needs to sleep.”

Willow stiffens at my words. She can see in my resolute expression that I’ve reached my immoral threshold. She just stares at me, silently, sadly. “You want me to get out of her?” she whispers.

I nod, then turn and head upstairs because I don’t want to see the look on Willow’s face.

She isn’t far behind me. She walks into the room a minute later, her eyes downcast. She doesn’t look at me as she makes her way to Layla’s side of the bed. She’s still wearing the shirt she took out of Layla’s closet earlier.

“Layla wasn’t wearing clothes when she went to bed.”

Willow pulls the shirt over her head and walks back to the closet to hang it. She doesn’t bother covering herself on the walk back to the bed, but I’m not even looking at her body. I’m looking at the moon’s reflection on her face, and the tears that rim her eyes.

She crawls into bed and pulls the covers up to her neck. Her back is to me, but I can hear her crying.

I hate that I’ve upset her. I don’t want her to be upset, but I don’t know how else to deal with this. She’s a ghost who doesn’t want help. I’m a guy who doesn’t want to leave her. We’re communicating through a girl we have no right to be using like we have been.

It feels like a breakup, and we aren’t even intimate.

Her breaths are coming in short and shallow bursts, like she’s trying her hardest to fight back her tears. The need to comfort her is overwhelming, especially because I’m the one who has made her feel this way. I move my head to her pillow and find her under the covers, then wrap my arm over her stomach.