Chapter Twelve

"I blame the grief."

"Susie, honey?" My mom called through the thick wood that made up the door. I'd learned to love that door – that and the old, rusty but still-functioning lock. Both worked to keep me locked in my room, away from the sympathetic smiles and understanding looks of my mom and her new family. All of them claimed to know what I was going through, my mom having lost my dad and Andy and his sons having lost his wife and their mother. But, with Jesse, it was different. No one could possibly have known the heart-wrenching despair I felt just over thinking back over the past summer. "Someone's here to see you."

"I don't want to see him," I called back petulantly. "I want to be alone."

I knew who it was, of course. Some Catholic priest by the name of Father Dominic had rung the house an alarming number of times, asking for me, saying that he could help me. I didn't need a stranger telling me how best to cope with grief, or that Jesse was in a better place.

Another knock came on the door. "Suze?" This voice was masculine, familiar. "Let me in?"

Quickly, I forced the sticky lock open and flung open the door, throwing myself into the arms of my best friend, my tears quickly soaking his shirt.

"Paul," I sobbed, throwing composure out the window. "Jesse … he … he's –"

"Shh, Suze," he pressed his lips to my forehead as his strong arms banded around me, hugging me close. "I know. I'm here to help you through this."

I don't know how long I stood there, crying my eyes out and breathing in the scent that made Paul, Paul. His hands were slowly rubbing my back in slow, soothing motions as he whispered soft assurances into my ear.

Eventually – and don't ask me how, I have no idea – I pulled away and took a step backwards, forcing myself not to cringe at the sight of me in the mirror.

My hair was a mess, my eyes bloodshot and the skin around them burnt pink from the onslaught of tears. I was wearing my most slouchy clothes: hot, I was not. But I figure, who am I trying to impress? With Jesse … gone my love life was officially over. I didn't want anyone else.

"Thank you, Paul." I whispered. "For being here. I need you right now."

"That's why I came," he smiled but it was strained; his eyes betrayed his worry. "I'll always be here when you need me."

A hazy glow appeared at the corner of my eye, the sight familiar enough not to warrant my notice. Since Jesse had died, my hysterical mind kept conjuring up images of Casper the very anti-social ghost. Every time I turned, my breath caught in my throat and my heart skipped a beat, hoping that this time would be the time I'd see Jesse's face again. But every time the ghost covered his face and disappeared before I got a good look.

The most I could gather was tight black trousers and a swish of a flowing white shirt before the ghost shimmered into nothingness.

"Uh, Suze …?" Paul's calm hands froze and his arms tensed up around me. Frowning, I looked up at him, raising my eyebrows in a question. The ghostly glow vanished. "Nothing, I just thought I saw …" he shook his head. "Nothing."

"Paul," I spoke quietly and pathetically, if I do say so myself. I never thought I'd sound like this. Ever. I was totally kick-ass back in New York; I'd never heard of the word pathetic, in conjunction with myself. "Please don't leave me. Don't go."

"Susannah," my full name was usually only said when coloured with Jesse's Hispanic accent and tears welled in my eyes at the memory. "Suze," Paul tried again after catching my expression. "Always. I promise. I'll never leave you." He tried to smile again but his effort was weak. Clearly he didn't know how to act, just as much as I did. "There's no getting rid of me that easily."

Thirteen days. Just under two weeks. Had it really been that long since I'd last seen Jesse? Last spoken to him? And today, we were burying him.

I say we; I thought there'd be more of a turn out. Apparently Jesse's family couldn't be contacted, no one knew them and Jesse had had no health insurance of any kind. No next of kin listed. Maybe that's why he didn't want to come home. Didn't want to return to the lonely isolation.

Maybe his family had disowned him? Maybe they'd all died?

"Suze," Paul's soft voice brought me out of my spiralling thoughts. We were alone, now, in the small cemetery behind the Mission Church that doubled up as a school. "Suze, are you ready to go?"

My eyes, of their own compunction, fell on his gravestone and the mound of disturbed soil just in front of it.

Hector de Silva.
Known to his friends as Jesse.
Beloved Son.
Beloved Brother.
Beloved Friend.

Under that his dates of birth and death were listed.

I couldn't help the irrational anger that raced through me. It just didn't make sense. If Jesse was so beloved - and he is, he was - then why weren't his family here to mourn? To grieve? Why did I feel like it was only me who cared about him?

Well, me and Father Dominic, who'd taken the service and – surprise! – pulled me aside to tell me, yet again, that he needed to speak to me in private, that he could help me.

"Look, Father," I'd said tiredly, raising my heavy eyes to his own. "I appreciate all of this, I really do. I just really need to be alone at the moment."

"Of course," he'd stated with a firm nod. "I realise that. It's just that, I owe Jesse a favour and I know that he'd want you to speak to me. You see, I knew about his gift."

Intrigued though I was, I shook my head. "I'm sorry. Maybe ... another time?"

I'd walked away before he had the chance to say anything else.

"Suze?" Paul attempted again. "Can we go now? It won't do you any good to stay here all night."

He was right, of course. Paul always was. He was my rock.

Holding out my hand for his, I smiled when I felt his warmth seep into me. His strength support me. "Yeah," I nodded. "We can go."

I don't know what came over me. I'm blaming it on the grief – it can do terrible things to a person. And when that person has someone as nice, as caring and as good-looking as Paul Slater comforting her, well, then …

I blame the grief.

But for whatever reason, when we arrived back at the Ackerman house, and had locked ourselves in my trusty bedroom, my haven of the past two weeks, I pretty much stopped just short of jumping him.

My arms wound around his neck as I pulled him harshly down so that our lips collided forcefully. Taking quick steps backwards, I dragged Paul with me until I fell onto the bed, Paul landing on top of me with an oompf.

"Suze, I don't think you should be doing this," Paul began to object but I was way past rational thought. All I knew was that I wanted – needed to feel something other then sadness and depression. I wanted someone to make me feel alive.

In answer to his statement, I pulled his lips back to mine. They were nice lips. I wonder why I hadn't thought of kissing him before.

Oh, right. Because I had Jesse. Obviously this whole losing myself in someone else thing wasn't working as well as I'd planned.

So I brought out the tongue. I blame the grief.

My fingers nimbly went to his shirt, undoing his buttons as quickly as I could as Paul broke away from me with a gasp, asking one more time. "Are you sure?"

Nodding hastily, I undid the last button and ran my hands up to push away the shirt as Paul brought his lips back to mine.

Before he wrenched them away just as quickly.

And threw himself across the room.

Dazed, I realised the ghost was back. And, apparently, pissed.

Judging by the way he was pounding my best friend's face in with a few quick, powerful punches, at least.

"Stop!" The cry tore from my lips before I'd had the chance to register what was happening and immediately, the ghost stopped his beating. But he was still angry. He stood stiffly, his shoulders tight and wracked with tension. Every inch of this ghost – who was finally sticking around for once – screamed familiarity to me.

I knew him.

And only when I placed my hand hesitantly on his shoulder and the tension left his body, and he relaxed into my touch did I realise why.

Though, Paul realised first, being able to see his face and all.

"Jesse?!"