Chapter 7: Back Where We Started

Until a year later.

Rachel came to me in tears. “Derek, I broke up with him.”

She showed up at my door, shivering in a faded hoodie, her mascara smudged from crying. I let her in, fumbling for tissues and the emergency pint of ice cream I kept in the freezer for lonely nights.

She curled up on my couch, clutching the pint like it was a lifeline. Mascara streaks ran down her cheeks, and her hoodie sleeves swallowed her hands.

“What happened?” I asked.

“He said he doesn’t like me anymore. He’s tired of me. Before, when we weren’t together, he was curious. Now that we are, he found out he doesn’t really love me...”

I didn’t know how to comfort her.

After a long silence, I said, “Don’t cry. If you want, I’ll treat you to dinner, okay?”

Rachel nodded through her tears.

That night, she ate a lot—her stomach was bulging.

We ordered takeout from her favorite diner, and she demolished a cheeseburger and fries before starting on my half of the onion rings. By the end, she sat back, cradling her stomach with a sheepish grin.

She also drank a lot.

“Rachel, stop drinking. Let’s go home.” I took away her wine glass.

She pouted, then suddenly cupped my face and kissed me. “Derek, you really are a good guy... If... if only Caleb were you, or you were Caleb, that would be perfect...”

Her lips were warm and tasted like cheap merlot. I wanted to pull away, but part of me wanted to freeze the moment and live in it forever. Her sudden move startled me, and for some reason, I felt guilty.

After sending Rachel back to her apartment, I went to a bar and drank alone.

The bar was half-empty, the bartender cleaning glasses as I stared into my whiskey. My phone buzzed with texts I ignored. I tried to drown out the memory of her lips and the ache in my chest.

I knew I still liked Rachel.

Even though I didn’t know her well.

Even though she didn’t love me.

After that night, Rachel and I started talking more.

Her texts started coming at all hours—memes, random song lyrics, and once, a picture of her cat in a graduation cap. She would ask about my likes, where I usually hung out, even secretly keep track of whether I was close to any girls.

She’d text me little things—memes, music recommendations, questions about my week. She’d swing by my favorite coffee shop and act surprised to see me there, then laugh at her own terrible acting.

“Don’t like Caleb anymore?”

I spotted her behind the coffee shop window, half-hidden by a potted fern. When our eyes met, she didn’t look away. I walked up, heart pounding, and asked, “Rachel, are you still chasing ghosts—or is it me you’re after now?”