Unfashionably Dead

Chapter Three

Lanie's eyes are rimmed in red, and the trail of tears on her cheeks glistens in the moonlight as she stands in front of my body. "It's all my fault." Her voice sounds like it's been run through a blender for a few minutes.

"Come on, Lanie," I say, putting my arms around her. She shivers as I make contact with her skin. "There's no way you did this."

Lanie would not harm me. We've known each other since our freshman year in college and have been peas and carrots ever since. We've endured broken hearts, moves halfway across the country, and a ton of fashion revolutions in our seven-year friendship, and we've never really had a fight, or at least one that we couldn't laugh about five minutes later.

It makes no sense that Lanie would do this, yet she's blaming herself for it. In truth, I can't figure my death out. No one had it out for me that I know of. But there are a lot of people who don't seem to like me, possibly because of my Resting Bitchface Syndrome. Well, that and they think I'm shallow and materialistic. I probably am a little bit of both.

But none of them were too keen on calling for help when I could have used it. Instead they stood around, hovering like vultures so they could obtain the best gossip. Even with said rudeness, I can't imagine there's anyone out there that hates me enough to risk a stint in jail. Would my death be worth it to someone? Probably not.

And I've never been suicidal, not even after Grant ditched me at the end of senior prom after we'd dated for most of high school. If ever there was a really low time in my life, that was it. I'd been expecting a night with clothing on the floor of his Mustang and steamed-up windows. When I was trying to unknot his bowtie, and he grabbed my hands, saying that it was time to go our separate ways, I was devastated. I couldn't even attend school for three days the following week out of embarrassment, anger, and resentment. I might have cried that my life was over, but not once did I consider ending it, not once did I consider taking it myself.

I didn't jump through the window.

Maybe it was an accident? Could I have leapt away from a palmetto bug and broken my neck? Or maybe I tripped? I'm not the most graceful person, but a klutz I am not. Then again, the shoe is wobbly. Was it wobbly before I died? Could this beautiful shoe really have caused my demise?

It bothers me that I can't recall any of the details from the past few hours. My only memory of the entire day is when my shoe first wobbled. I just assume that Lanie's apartment was my destination since she wasn't with me and I'd only be here to see her. But I wonder: Do all ghosts lose their memory of the moments leading up to their death? It seems we should be able to access how we died, but for the life...er...death of me, it isn't coming back to me.

The slam of a car door pulls me away from my discontent.

A striped arm cuts through me and wraps around Lanie. The shirt is white with gray stripes, a Charvet. Instantly, I go from being annoyed by the arm sticking out of my neck, to pissed off that it's Adam who is comforting Lanie. I shift a few steps to the right and try to wipe my scowl away. Why is he here and why the hell was he driving Lanie's car?

"Don't be ridiculous," he says to Lanie so everyone can hear. "You've been with me for the past two hours. She couldn't have been here for that long without someone noticing before now."

Lanie bristles and cries again. He gives her a tight squeeze then smoothes his hair. He's typically well put-together, but it looks like he might have missed a haircut. Regardless, he could have just walked off the set of a GQ model shoot, if he were a model, that is.

He's actually an investor, much of his clientele middle-aged divorcees searching for the right plan for them to maintain their wealth or is that the right man for them to maintain their wealth? Anyway, he's popular with the ladies and I suspect that he has a business on the side with him being the only one becoming rich.