The Love of My Afterlife(6)

Merritt pulls open her desk drawer and hands me a foil-wrapped cookie. I unwrap it and take a bite. She has one too, shoving the whole thing in her mouth so that her cheeks are all puffed up like a squirrel.

“Okay,” she says when she’s eventually finished crunching. “Would you be open to meeting someone at our in-house dating service? I’ll be honest, it’s still in beta so it’s a leeetle glitchy, but I’m one of the team behind it so I’d be happy to get you in there. We could do with a few more willing participants. It’s called Eternity 4U. Isn’t that cute?”

I swallow my cookie. “The afterlife has a dating service?”

“Dead people gotta get laid too. And, hey, maybe we can get to work on showing you what you’ve been missing. So can I sign you up? What’s your type? Tall, piercing blue eyes—like Mr. Taylor the art teacher, right?”

I think it’s the nonchalance with which she says dead people.

I’m dead.

I’m dead?

I’m stuck here? With this woman and her energy? Eternity 4 me?

My body starts to tremble again.

Nope.

All the way nope.

I have to get out of here. This is a mistake. I can’t stay in this place. I can’t do this!

Heartbeat pulsing in my cheeks, I jump out of the chair and run towards the door of Merritt’s office. There has to be someone else I can talk to. Someone normal. Someone who can actually help me figure out what’s going on right now.

“Delphie, wait! Don’t go! Ah jeez, not again.”

I heave open the door and run out into the psychotic launderette waiting room, crashing immediately into the solid chest of a beautiful stranger.





3





“Whoa! Easy!” The beautiful stranger grabs me by the arms, peering at me with concern, light brown eyebrows furrowed over frankly dazzling blue eyes.

“God, I’m so sorry,” I mutter, panting a little. “I need to find a doctor or, like, the boss or something. I can’t stay in this place. Do you know where I can find someone who can get me out of here?”

The man shakes his head, hands still on my arms. The sensation of his warm human skin against mine immediately calms my rapid breathing. I break out into goose bumps.

“I’m afraid I only just…I just woke up here,” the man explains, squinting curiously at the row of washing machines. “The last thing I remember is being given sedatives for dental surgery. Now I’m here, so either this is a really unusual dream or I’m dead?”

I nod emphatically. “That’s what I was trying to work out—dream or dead? Worst trivia game ever.”

The man’s mouth quirks upwards with surprised amusement. “What is this place?” He eyes the framed picture of Merritt on the wall. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Merritt, the crazy woman who works here. She’s decorated it to look like a launderette. She thinks it’s soothing or something.”

“It’s so creepy, though.” The man leans down and peers at the machines. “All the clothes are the same colour.”

He’s right. They’re all the same mustard colour as Merritt’s dungarees.

“That is creepy.” I shudder.

He tilts his head to the side. “Is that ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’?”

“It’s playing on repeat.”

“Of course it is. And the ominous vibes intensify.”

“Right? Even the best song sounds a bit menacing if it’s played over and over again.”

“I listened to nothing but My Chemical Romance for the whole of 2007. Can’t hear their music now without feeling a bit sick.”

“My Chemical Romance?” I raise an eyebrow.

He winces. “They were cool once upon a time.”

“Were they, though?”

He blushes a little. “Fine. But my parents had just gotten divorced and I was in a full emo phase. Dyed my hair black, had the asymmetrical fringe cut in, the whole thing.”

“Wow. And I thought my parents’ divorce fucked me up.”

His eyes soften a little. “How old were you?”

“Fifteen. Mum’s much happier now, but I haven’t spoken to Dad since. I wrote him a letter a few years ago, to see if he wanted to meet up. He never wrote back, but he sends me a Christmas card once every few years.”

“Brutal.”

I shrug. “How old were you?”

“I was sixteen.”

“Still no excuse for an asymmetrical fringe.”

He laughs out loud again. “You’re funny.”

You’re nice, I think to myself. In fact, this is the longest I’ve ever talked to such an aesthetically superior man. To my surprise, my usual nerves and irritation have softened a little. And this conversation feels easy. No stutters, no awkward pauses, no me melting into a puddle of cringe because he’s so ridiculously attractive.

I notice then that his hair is the exact colour of Winsor & Newton’s Burnt Umber oil paint, but with little glimmers of bronze here and there, like he spends most of his time outside in the sun.

“Dead, huh?” He grimaces, reminding us both of the shit circumstances in which we find ourselves. My shoulders slump again. It was a relief to forget reality for a couple of minutes.