Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 52976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
In this moment, you utilize milliseconds to try and steer yourself away from death’s greedy embrace.
Milliseconds to save your own life.
As your brain processes a hundred frames a second. Then two hundred frames a second. Then a thousand.
The world drawing to a standstill.
Just you, and the front of that bus rushing forward.
I may never know if the bus driver saw me. If he or she turned the wheel ever so slightly. If a subtle twist of my foot keeps me from slamming head-on into that charging body of metal and glass.
But the next thing I know, my phone flies straight out of my hand, and a blast of wind with the fury and unmatchable power of a jet engine rockets past my eyes.
I don’t even have time to scream.
I am completely silent at the time of my near-death.
The next moment, the bus is gone, and I’m standing on the edge of the curb as stiff as the streetlamp next to me. I feel like it’s only my body that stands here; my soul was taken by the front of that bus, ripped straight out of me, gone before I knew it was there.
My hand still hovers near my face where my phone was a second ago. My other hand, hovering near my ear where I was plugging it.
It must be a full ten seconds before I take my first breath, as if realizing I still can.
The commotion of the city around me continues on, completely oblivious to what just happened. No one at all seems to have paid witness to the demise of my poor phone—or the fact that I nearly lost my life.
Have I ever been so close to death before?
My life didn’t even flash before my eyes. Only the gray-white blur of metal and glass and nothing else.
Is that what death’s like?
To be honest, I’m kind of underwhelmed.
It’s a mere eight minutes after my dance with death that I’m back in my dusty apartment sitting at the table by the fire escape with slices of sunlight painted across my face. I stare at my hands as my poor heart jogs on its never-ending treadmill of worry.
“Griffin, dude, seriously, it’s not that big a deal.”
This profoundly useless opinion comes from my roommate Westley Harmeyer. He’s in his usual plain white t-shirt and jeans, looking like a college jock who spends all his free time in the basement smoking weed with his buddies while comparing figurative trophies of their latest chick-scoring conquests. A total bro. Straight as they come. Pigheaded, boorish, and argumentative.
A limp slice of pizza hangs from his hand, which he just took a rough and gooey bite out of, and now chews with annoyingly demonstrative flair.
I lift my weary eyes to Westley’s. “Not that big a deal that I almost fucking died …?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. I’m basically an expert. I went through it myself. Not much to it. It’s like a hangover that never ends. Or a sneeze where you accidentally fart at the same time in front of your high school crush.” He takes another bite of his pizza, then talks through it. “Yeah, it’sch schomething like that.”
Yes.
Westley is dead.
As dead as dead can be.
Westley Harmeyer died on Halloween three years ago in an inglorious way involving that creaky fire escape outside. Halloween is also his birthday. It’s also the day, two years ago, that Byron and I went on our first date. It’s a complicated time of year for all of us, to say the least.
And it’s about to become my wedding date, too.
“I’ll tschell you what the real ischue is,” he starts.
I wince and shoot him a look. “Can you tell me without a bite of pizza in your mouth? It’s gross.”
He doesn’t swallow; instead he merely arranges the bite in his mouth so he can speak more clearly. Typical Westley. “The real issue is: you’re freaking out because you’re about to marry a man who still doesn’t know you live with a ghost.”
He isn’t wrong.
In a number of days, Byron and I will be husbands. Husbands who share each other’s lives. Who share one another’s hearts and souls. Many successes and failures. Experiences. Thoughts. Fears. Hopes. Dreams.
And secrets.
Yes, I’ve shared all of my secrets with Byron.
All of them … except this one.
“I mean, if I was your husband,” West goes on, “I’d think it’s pretty bad-ass you have a ghost roommate.”
“Do you even realize what that entails? Telling my fiancé about you? Even if I can convince Byron that it’s true in the first place, I’d also have to spell out what else it’s meant for the past two years.”
“That a ghost hangs out in your apartment?”
“Yeah. In my apartment … all the time.” I give him a pointed look. “Even when Byron and I are … having some private time.”
West snorts. “Dude, I’m not a pervert. I keep in my corner of the apartment when you guys are doing your thing, so long as there isn’t any stupid candle lit.”