Hereafter. Tara Hudson

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      So I couldn’t help but grin right back.

      The boy dropped his hands and smiled fully at me. And, with that, the little ache exploded in my chest like a bomb, warming every limb.

      Warmth. I felt warmth. Really felt it, just like I’d felt the touch of his hand in the water. My smile widened.

      “Does that smile mean I can keep walking toward you?”

      “No,” I said quietly.

      He stopped moving, surprised by my words, or maybe just by the sound of my voice. “Really?” he asked after a moment.

      “Walk over to the grass,” I instructed.

      He frowned, knitting his dark eyebrows together. “Why?”

      “I don’t like this road. I want to go back over there.” I jerked my head in the direction of the embankment I’d only recently left.

      He kept frowning, but that grin twitched at the corners of his mouth again.

      “O-kay.” He gave me a thoughtful look, holding my gaze. The message was clear: I was the frustrating puzzle with which he was calmly dealing.

      Then he smiled, closed lipped and dimpled like a little boy, and gave me a quick nod. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, turned on one heel, and began strolling back to the embankment.

      Slowly. Too slowly. Swinging his legs in an exaggerated, deliberate way. I sighed loudly.

      “Could you hurry up, please?”

      He laughed, still walking away from me.

      “You have a way with giving orders, you know that? Not a master of the casual chat, are you?”

      Given that you’re the first person I’ve talked to in God knows how long since my death …

      Aloud I muttered, “You have no idea.”

      I could tell he’d heard me because he hesitated just a little. Then he kept walking forward, minus the mocking swing of his legs. After he’d gone about ten feet, I began to follow him. I walked even slower than he did, trying to think, think, think of what I was going to do, or say, when he stopped.

      Blessedly, he kept going, past the black car and past the end of the bridge. Then onto the grass of the embankment. I was worrying so deeply about our upcoming exchange, I didn’t notice when he stopped and turned toward me. I looked up in time to jerk to a stop just a foot from him, within touching distance.

      Terror raced through me. I could have run into him. If that had happened, I would have either felt him, skin against glorious skin, or I would have felt nothing but the numbing, impossible barrier. Either way, he surely would have realized something was wrong and do exactly what he should: get away from me.

      “So,” he began, casually enough.

      “So,” I responded, my eyes going to my bare feet. I felt ashamed, terrified, excited.

      “I’m Joshua.”

      “I know.”

      “I thought so.”

      The humor in his voice made me look up, finally meeting his eyes. As I suspected, his eyes were very dark, but not brown. They were a strange, deep blue—an almost midnight sky color. I was certain I’d never seen eyes that color before, and they had a disconcerting effect on me. I felt even more flustered just staring into them.

      I was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of my own appearance: the tangles in my hair; my deathly pale skin; my hopelessly inappropriate dress with its strapless neckline, tight bodice, and filmy skirt. I probably looked as if I was headed to some sort of dead girls’ beauty pageant. For the first time in a very long time, I wished I had access to a mirror, whatever good it would do someone who couldn’t cast a reflection or change clothes.

      He didn’t seem to notice my discomfort, however. Instead, he looked right into my eyes and grinned at me, although his expression had lost some of its amusement. He looked more speculative now, as if he knew there were mysteries between us. Questions.

      “So,” he started again.

      “You already said that.”

      “Yeah, I did.” He laughed lightly and looked down at his shoes, absentmindedly running one hand through his hair and then leaving it on the back of his neck.

      There went my little ache again, flowing out of my core like a pulse. That absentminded gesture—the guileless sweep of a hand through his hair—was utterly endearing. He looked so vibrant, so alive, that the words spilled right out of me.

      “You want to know what happened, don’t you?”

      I recoiled from my own words, blinking like an idiot. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

      “Yeah, I do. I really do.” He dropped the hand from his neck and stared at me more intently, the playfulness entirely gone from his eyes.

      Crap.

      “Well, that’s a matter of opinion, Josh,” I said aloud.

      “Joshua. Joshua Mayhew,” he corrected instantly. “But my name’s not really important right now.”

      Deflect. I had to deflect, and fast, so I blurted out the first question that came to mind.

      “Why am I supposed to call you Joshua if everyone else calls you Josh?”

      “You’re not everyone,” he said bluntly. “Anyway …”

      He knew I was stalling and meant to lead me back to the original trail of conversation, that much was clear. What was less clear was whether or not he meant any flattery by his words.

      “Um …,” I floundered, and did something I hadn’t done since my death: I fidgeted. I grabbed at my skirt and began to twist it. I had no idea where to go from here.

      Neither did he, it seemed. He watched me worry at my skirt and then he stared at my face until I eventually met his gaze.

      “What’s your name?” His question was soft, gentle. He wasn’t trying to lead me back to the conversation. He really wanted to know.

      “Amelia.”

      “What’s your last name, Amelia?” His voice wrapped so well around my name, I flustered out yet another stupid answer.

      “I don’t know my last name.” Or, at least, I’d never felt brave enough to try and find it in the graveyard.

      He blinked, taken aback.

      “Huh. Where do you live?”

      “I don’t know that, either.”

      Disarmed. I was completely disarmed. That was the only reasonable explanation for my stupidity.

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