Page 41 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

At some point, he nudged me with his elbow. “Hey. Want some? Or are chips also as lethal as smoke?”

I shrugged then stared at the open bag of chips. The criminal chips.

I hesitated.

Then, with the heaviest sigh of my life, I took one.

Ethan grinned. “See? Crime tastes delicious.”

I wanted to argue. I really did. But as I sat there, watching a movie on a barely visible screen, stealing bites from a stolen snack, I had to admit...

This wasn’t the worst way to spend the night.

Chapter 14: Sleep-Deprived, Haunted, and Now Possibly Dead

The first sign that I had made a mistake was when I woke up looking like I had just clawed my way out of the afterlife.

I blinked blearily at the ceiling, feeling like a sentient corpse. My limbs refused to move. My brain was still buffering.

I was pretty sure I had a pulse.

Maybe.

What did a pulse feel like again?

Ethan snored from across the bed, sprawled out like a victorious warlord after raiding a village. I, on the other hand, was dying.

And I knew exactly why.

After our little midnight crime spree and illegal rooftop movie session, I should have gone to sleep like a normal, responsible human being.

But no.

No, I had commitments.

Specifically, freelancing commitments. Because some rich kid in another time zone desperately needed his philosophy paper ghostwritten, and I was too financially desperate to say no.

Which was why I had spent the rest of the night hunched over my laptop, chugging water like it was a life-sustaining elixir—this cursed hotel had no coffee vending machine, at least not where I could access it at 3 a.m.—typing up nonsense about the metaphysics of existence while my own existence was actively deteriorating.

Now, as I lay there, suffering the consequences of my actions, I could practically hear my own body cells screaming.

I groaned and sat up. Bad idea. My vision swam. I felt like a wilted lettuce leaf.

Dragging myself out of bed, I staggered into the bathroom, fully prepared to dunk my face in cold water and pray for a miracle.

That’s when I saw myself in the mirror.

"Oh. My. God."

A ghost.

I looked like a ghost.

Pale skin. Dark circles. Hair that could legally be classified as a bird’s nest. Eyes that held the lifeless stare of someone who had seen things.

I leaned closer, squinting at my reflection. "Is this how I die?"

Behind me, the door creaked open.

---