Second Verse (14 page)

“Is this okay?” He whispers.

“More than okay,” I answer, trying to pretend I’m not trembling inside.

“How about this?” He brushes my hair back and holds my face in his hands. I lean into him, returning each slow and deliberate kiss with one of my own. I’m dizzy when he pulls back to stare into my eyes. He presses his forehead to mine while we share the air in the small space between us.

He gives me another light kiss, and another on the tip of my nose before pulling back, shaking his head as if composing himself. He smiles shyly from behind hair that’s fallen in front of his eyes.

“Well, then. Why didn’t you just say so,” I joke, breaking the tension.

He laces his fingers tightly in mine, his smile stretching wide across his face. “Where were we?”

I lean in again, but he stops me and kisses the top of my head. “Before that,” he says.

“Um, well … ” I laugh, looking up at him. “I don’t really remember. I think we were at the point of you trying to convince me this crazy idea is true.”

A defensive shadow crosses his eyes as he pulls away.

I raise a hand. “I’m not saying it’s not. Deep down, I don’t
think
you’re wrong. I honestly, truly deeply believe I am Ginny Chopain. But what if? What if we aren’t really Ginny and Beau? It’s farfetched to say the least. It’s crazy, really.”

“Of course it’s crazy. And I know you can’t just go on feelings, but if we both feel it, then who’s to say it’s not? Who’s to
say I haven’t been lucky twice? To get to feel this way about you?”

My chest clenches.

“So what’s the other part? You said there’s proof?”

“Well, it’s kind of complicated. Are you open minded for when things get really crazy?”

I nod slowly. “Crazier than this?”

He smiles. “Crazier than this. There is something else. A way to know for sure. If we’re here again. And if we were connected in our last life. Apparently there are things we bring with us, through each life. Things we hold onto. Sort of like a blueprint. It’s why we may be more in tune with things in life. Like, the more you’ve lived, the more certain thinking gets ingrained. Say our compassion for people, our understanding of the world. Sharon says that stuff doesn’t develop overnight. It’s all in our makeup, sure, but over the course of many lives, we grow. Evolve. And some of it, we hang onto. And yes, there’s proof.”

I sit up straight. This I like. Proof, concrete evidence. Something to tell me I’m not completely out of my mind.

“Go on.”

“Well, someone might argue some of it as circumstantial.”

“Like what?”

“Like birthmarks and the like.” He runs his fingers along my collarbone, causing goose bumps to flash across my skin. “The other thing Sharon told me about is kind of weird, though. And complicated.”

When he looks at the floor, I nudge his toe with mine. “And?”

“Did you ever see a picture that looks like it has a ghost in it?”

If my expression is as blank as my mind, it would explain the way his lips turn up at the corners. “I guess not. Okay, let me see if I can explain this right. Sometimes, there are unexplained photographs.
People think they get a picture of a ghost. A shadow of someone, maybe even something that looks like a literal ghost, transparent or whatnot. Most of the time, it’s probably just something with the exposure or some processing error, but sometimes, it’s something else. This isn’t a new idea. People have been claiming to have pictures of ghosts for ages. But Sharon and her family, who have been researching people like us for generations, had another take on it, and one they’ve more or less proven. Thing is, it doesn’t always work perfectly.”

“Which is?”

“It’s a special image that
sometimes
shows up in photos. If it does, what may appear to some as a blur, or to others as an apparition, could actually be the aura or energy of your last life, particularly if it was vibrant or powerful. Sharon says it seems to work best with strong personalities. And purity. The purer your soul, the more likely it is to show up.”

I think of all the photos in my house. All my school pictures, all the random snapshots Mom has covering the walls. There’s never been any weird image in any of them. Doubt creeps in.

“I know what you’re thinking, that you’ve never seen anything like that. But, that’s just it. The developing process is something special, not just common picture development. If that was the case, there’d be fake auras and sprits in everyone’s pictures.”

“Are there that many of us?”

“Pretty much everyone comes back, Lange.”

I let that sink in.

“What else does she say? This Sharon lady?”

“She was skeptical when I told her about you. She said she’s only heard of it once or twice, a couple finding each other a second time around. If it’s true, well … ” He looks away, the tips of his ears turning an adorable shade of pink. “Anyway, I know it sounds weird. It’s hard to explain. I could show you, I have
these pictures in my car … ” He looks at the clock and shakes his head. “No time. I can’t miss second. Besides, there’s bound to be teachers out there. I’ll bring them to lunch. Library again?”

I nod slowly, feeling very much like I’m on a speeding, runaway train.

“Can I take you somewhere later? After school?”

“Where?” As if I wouldn’t go anywhere with him at this point.

“To meet Sharon. She can explain all of this.”

“Sure.” I wave my hand as if I do this type of thing every day. “And I can read you some of Ginny’s diary. It’s mostly all about them.
Us?
Wow, this is weird.”

“A diary huh?” He raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, it’s totally freaky, actually. I’ll bring it with me this afternoon.”

I
T’S IMPOSSIBLE TO
concentrate, of course.

All morning, I stare into nothing and contemplate the past. Having a past life is something I’d never dreamed of considering. Not that I’m religious or anything, but I’ve never actually thought about existing before this life.

At lunch, I sit at the same back table in the library. I’m hunched over my sketchpad when the room goes dark. Warm hands cover my eyes. I blink, fluttering my lashes against his palms.

“Guess who?” Vaughn whispers near my ear, the scent of him surrounding me.

I smile, pulling his hands away from my face to look up at him. Even upside down, he’s adorable.

He drops into the seat beside me, tossing a big envelope on the table between us.

I raise my eyebrows.

“The pictures I was telling you about.”

He chews thoughtfully on his sandwich as I turn the envelope over and slide out a thin stack of pictures. The first one looks like a normal snapshot, featuring a middle-aged man and woman on the overlook of a cliff, blue ocean stretched behind them. They press together, laughing, their hair blown all around them. I’m confused and about to ask when I see it. Just behind her elbow, at nearly the edge of the photo, there is what appears to be a smudge. Like the picture has been doctored somehow. It’s see-through almost, and in the shape of an arm.

Interesting.

I place it face down and pick up the next picture.

This time I don’t have to look twice. It’s beyond creepy. The woman in the photo is probably in her thirties. She sits in a rocking chair, looking out a window. On the side table is a mug, a book and a lamp. Her hand rests on the book, but from the look on her face, she’s thinking about something far away.

But her expression is not what’s eerie.

Next to her, with her hand on the back of the woman’s chair is a younger woman, maybe twenty. She’s bent at the knees, looking over the seated woman’s shoulder. And she’s transparent, like a real ghost. But the woman in the chair doesn’t notice. Her look is one of solitude.

My skin prickles and I look over my shoulder, as if I expect my own recycled spirit to be standing there.

Vaughn watches me with a careful expression.

“Okay,” I say. “This is freaky.”

“Right? The thing is, as much as it looks like a ghost, it’s not. People with strong energies hanging around from the last life can show up this clearly. Intense, right?”

“Very.”

I close my eyes and reconsider everything. Maybe I’m getting in over my head.

W
E STOP AT
my house before heading down to the city. It’s only an hour drive, but it’ll mean I’m gone for dinner. Mom’s at another meeting for her photo conference, so I scribble a quick note to let her know I have plans.

Vaughn and I head up to my room for the diary. I tuck all of it into my bag; Ginny’s notebook, the envelopes of letters, my drawing and the only photo we have of her.

Vaughn leans against the doorway, looking at my closet. “I can’t believe all that was in there. Like it was just waiting to be found.”

I pull on a heavy wool sweater. “It’s pretty creepy actually.”

“What’s all this?” He leans forward, examining the pile of junk on my dresser. When he picks up the guitar pick, I groan, wishing I could melt into the floor.

“Keeping souvenirs?” He smirks.

“Oh please. I didn’t even know you left that here.”

He coughs into his hand, humor lighting his eyes. “Of course,” he says. “I’m sure you didn’t.”

My face burns, but his eyes are back to the dresser, his fingers pulling a scrap paper from underneath. His eyes dart back and forth across it. His jaw, clenched in concentration, slowly slides into a smile.

“Don’t make fun of me,” I say. But Vaughn’s smile is gentle. His expression is soft.

“Pretty good memory,” he says, nodding. On the paper, I’d written most of his lyrics. I’d scribbled it the first night he sang to me, but I’ve been adding to it since, trying to remember them all.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“Seriously,” he says. “It’s cool that you cared about this …”

“How could I not?”

“Come on.” He holds out his hand. “I told Sharon we’d be there by four.”

But when I slide my hand into his, he doesn’t step into the hall. His feet stay planted inside my doorway as he pulls me roughly against him.

“Whoa,” I say into his chest.

“Hmmm.” His lips linger in my hair, his hands buried in it. Tangling. The distinct scent of boy is all around me, his breath skating across my skin.

I bury my face in his soft cotton shirt, running my hands up to his shoulders and down his back again. I shiver with anticipation.

“Lange.” His says my name like a statement.

When I look up, he studies me as if I were a rare, original piece of sheet music by his favorite musician. His eyes follow his fingers as they trace the curve of my face. My lips.

My stomach clenches and unclenches, matching the fast pulse in my veins.

Even though his eyes and hands are moving softly against me and even though my heart is practically thundering out of my chest, it’s like time is standing still.

With his arm pressed to the wall above me, he leans in.

He presses against me, kissing me gently at first, then parting my lips with his tongue.

“Hmmm,” I moan into his mouth. My reaction seems to urge him on and he deepens the kiss, his body pressed against mine. I kiss him back, really kiss him. I can’t get enough.

He pulls back, his eyes searching mine before he moves in again with warm, wet kisses, his hot breath against my lips, my cheek. My whole body tingles as I lose my hands in his hair. It’s just as soft as it is wild. Just like I imagined it would be.

Slowly, he strokes my face. My neck. He kisses me there, too, leaving soft, wet nibbles along my skin that make me tremble. And back to my lips again.

He presses his forehead to mine. “My God, Lange. I’ve waited a long time for that.” His soft breath tickles my skin.

“Hmmm.” I steal another kiss.

I think of Ginny and Beau in the barn and I know exactly what she meant when she described his kisses. His gentle touch. It doesn’t matter what Sharon says, or what any weird pictures show. As I lean in my doorway, Jell-O-kneed and kissing Vaughn, I understand. This is the feeling of love.

Everlasting and true.

Ginny was right. I could do this forever.

T
HINGS ARE DIFFERENT
now. It’s like I can’t get close enough to him in the car, resting my head against his shoulder, keeping our hands clasped as if suctioned. He listens intently when I reread him the letters from Ginny and Beau’s summer apart.

He shakes his head. “Those letters are nuts. Not memories exactly. Yet familiar. Like déjà vu.”

It’s funny, how this has come full circle. When I read them in my room, I fell in love with Ginny and Beau. I couldn’t imagine ever having a love like theirs.

Maybe my life is a dream. Both present and past.

Sure feels like it.

“What’s that?” He motions to the envelope, where I’ve tucked the index card from the attic mirror.

“Not sure. Mom found it on this ancient mirror in the attic and I grabbed it.”

He eyes it curiously. “What’s it say?”

“It must have been the woman who owned the mirror. It says Edith Sellers. Shady Springs, Pennsylvania.”

He makes turns through the city streets in silence, face tight with concentration. Suddenly his eyes widen. They’re huge when he turns to me, big brown pools that could rival the most beautiful paintings.

“Sellers,” he whispers.

What?

“Sellers,” he says again, tapping his fingers on the dashboard. “Sell. Her. Sellers.”

Sell. Her. Sweeney
.

“Holy crap.” I stare at the card quivering in my hand. “Edith Sellers.”

“Sell Her.”

“Could it be?”

“I guess that’ll be our next order of business. After this, of course.” He pulls up at a curb on a quiet side street.

It takes me a minute to stop reading the name.
Edith Sellers
. My head spins.

“I wonder who she is,” I mutter.

He takes a deep breath. In an overwhelmed voice, like we’re at the bottom of a very huge and unclimbable mountain, he says, “One thing at a time.”

Buildings loom above us as we walk. We make a few turns down sidewalks swarming with the going-home crowd, passing vendors on every corner. They sell pocketbooks, scarves, bootleg CDs. Sharon’s building is a squat, brick structure, three stories
high, with wide, tall windows. She buzzes us in and we walk up the three flights of stairs.