As soon as she touches me, I feel an electric shock course through me at its strange familiarity. We must have hooked our pinkies together a million times for a million promises.

Pinky swear you think this outfit doesn’t look ugly.

Pinky swear you’ll call me after.

Pinky swear you really heard him say that.

Pinky swear we can leave the second it gets weird.

Pinky swear we’ll never stop being friends.

She releases before I do, and then looks down at her mug. “I need another cup of coffee.”

While she gets it, I work on breathing in deeply and trying to steady my shaking hands. It’s Aimee. It’s her. Walking. Talking. Being suspicious. Asking things. Drinking things. It is beyond surreal. Beyond weird. It’s more than my feeble human mind was ever meant to comprehend.

Although, that’s how losing her had felt too.

She comes back after a few minutes, this time with a frozen drink. “I need the sugar,” she says.

I remember then how she has always been about sugar. It was always her comfort. When she felt sad or off, she would get a bag of Sour Skittles or a milkshake and then she’d feel better.

“So, what am I doing in this other life of yours?” she asks. “Am I famous too?” She smiles, teeth on her straw.

Everything comes crashing down. Like that avalanche was being held at bay by a twig, but begins to fall the second that it finally snaps. I feel my blood run cold and I wish that I could wade back in time to a few seconds earlier. Back to safety.

I’ve felt that way before.

I don’t know what to say to Aimee.

How do you tell your friend she’s dead?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I take a sip of my drink, stalling.

“Oh, Jesus, I’m not dead, am I?”

The elderly couple at the nearby table pause in feeding their enormous Great Pyrenees pieces of muffin to look at us.

I’m so shocked that I choke on my drink, laugh, and say, “No!”

She eyes me and says, “Oh my God, I’m dead. Am I fucking dead?”

I don’t know why I don’t use the opening to tell her the truth. Maybe it’s the panic in her eyes—she must really believe my story—or the fact that, as usual, I can’t say it out loud. I am not only used to living in sunny California; I’m also used to living in denial.

Instead, I kick into acting mode and give it my best shot. “God, how morbid. No, you’re not, you’re fine. You live in New York and you’re directing plays on Broadway. Not huge ones, some smaller stuff, but I mean, it’s Broadway. I only acted weird about it because … we don’t see each other all that much.”