Vanilla Heartbeat

TW: Mentions of murder, and themes of death.

White. Champagne. Clear.

Painfully translucent.

Sickly gold!

And—burnt.

My lips rub together in a hard line. I glance at him. His expression is almost the same… though a tad more warm… and perhaps a bit more pissed.

“Great,” he mutters, then abandons the wooden spoon onto the messy counter. He turns off the full-flame with a snap—not like it was doing him any favors anyway.

We sigh in sync. I was really hoping he’d get it right this time. But the distractions from his phone got the better of him—Pinterest! Of all things.

He hauls open the microwave that’s keeping his steak warm—resting. That’s good. Least he got that step right.

He spoons a heap of sad onions from the distressed skillet onto his steak.

Honestly, if it were me, I would’ve just tossed ‘em. But he’s resilient. Not much can crack him, and I’ve seen him go through a lot.

We’ve lived together for two years now, though some days when I look at him, it feels like I’ve known him for a lifetime.

We sit at the small table, barely big enough for guests. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t usually have any—either that, or because his apartment sort of smells. Cigarettes, must, and old pizza. But when he’s not looking, I rub vanilla extract on the lightbulbs. He always stops in place once the sweet, warm scent flicks him in the face. I try hard not to laugh at his puzzled expression each time.

He’s ready to dig in.

I tap my fingers in a wave, waiting for his famous, forgetful sigh.

Three, two, one…

Sigh.

He pushes his chair back with enough energy to rattle the small vase that holds a single, plastic daisy—his efforts at decorating are cute.

It wobbles in a circle, ready to crash, but I catch it with my index finger.

He does a double take, looking at the vase with a question, then his eyes flick upwards. A buzz jolts through me. I swear his brown eyes stole the warmth from the setting sun. And if the summer heat hadn’t already threatened to make me melt, his eyes could.

The corner of his lips upturn. Mine copy, matching his playful energy.

He snags a beer from the fridge, which I frown at. I’ve always disapproved of him drinking, but he also collects today’s pills—two small, yellow tablets to ensure his heart stays in rhythm. I smile—that is until he chases the pills with the beer.

I shrug. Oh well. At least he took the pills.

He reclaims his spot and stabs into the meat like it was the one responsible for burning the onions. His phone vibrates. He’s quick to reply to his buddy’s text. I lean in to see what they’re chatting about: Dylan suggests they surf tomorrow. Lord knows it’s hot enough to want to obliterate the waves that the moon diligently tugs at while the sun blazes in protest.

He replies with a simple thumbs up. Dylan shoots a fast response with a clock emoji. Adam responds with 7 A.M. Then another thumbs emoji from Dylan.

I smirk. Guys are so simple. I would have tangled up the plans with too many activities and heavy gossip.

He’s enjoying his late-night dinner as he scans his phone—back on Pinterest. (See—I knew guys were into it too.) What’s he looking at?

Women.

Very disproportionate women at that—breasts too big, waists too small.

I roll my eyes.

I squish my cheek in my hand, unimpressed. But as his thumb flicks away—saving here, saving there—I perk up at a misplaced photo of a woman who looks a lot like me, lost in the sea of AI Playboy bunnies. I quickly jab my finger at the screen, stalling and confusing the phone from the both of our touches.

His brows tighten, trying to figure out the glitch, but the longer he focuses, the more he sees the photo. His finger relaxes as he takes in the features of the earth-toned woman with equally brown eyes. Her hair, a waist-length of dark spirals and cork-screws, all with a lively smile… the same kind I used to own.

His eyes pick apart the image with a small smile lifting his expression. I retract my finger. His remains in place. And though the woman in the photo is fully clothed in a sundress with a significantly smaller chest, he still hits save, just the same.

My smile stretches, and my tummy feels light.

He slowly scrolls again, his search more thoughtful this time. I interject mischievously once more and select another. This woman looks like me when I used to fuss over my nighttime routine. Her hair is pulled back, with a soft and serene face as she applies lotion to her hands.

I tilt my head; I miss my routines. Maybe I’ll try to create one with his things.

…On second thought—the thin bar of soap that has seen his entire body and the cheap hand lotion that I suspect never moisturizes anything above his waist— can’t be good for my complexion.

He softly laughs as if he heard my thoughts, then hits save on this one too.

He sets the phone down, returning to his dinner.

But he pauses for a moment, his hand halting the knife from completing the slice, and terrifyingly looks my way. His stare is almost in line with mine. Is it possible for me to sweat?

The man who’s always reminded me of a Tim Burton character who got lost in California smiles, then nods toward the phone. “That you?”

I hesitate, but reach for his phone and scroll. He watches as the screen takes on a mind of its own. I select the very best photo that represents me and hit save.

His smile challenges the eighty-degree midnight breeze, and tonight, we draw a little closer.

***

I’ve always been a good girl—hardly swore, went to church regularly, and always recycled. So you tell me why it feels like I just woke up in Hell.

The hot air in the room is stuffy and unbearable—and I know unbearable. It only went hand in hand with the attack that killed me. But this—after years of peace—my threshold for discomfort has thinned. This heatwave is threatening to evaporate me twice!

I glance at the thermostat that’s struggling to do its job: ninety-three degrees. Yep, that thing is busted.

Poor Adam’s wallet isn’t going to like this.

I ponder the thought of opening a window. I used to never make myself known—or at least not intentionally. Last night was a first. Though even with my hidden efforts, Adam has always had a keen sense and picked up on peculiar signs early on.

“A woman was murdered here,” the realtor had stated, her expression uneasy as the news threatened to sabotage her sale—again.

I stood sagging against the wall, waiting for him to hightail it out of there. But instead, the eager young man frowned. He genuinely looked saddened by the news.

He thought about it—about me, someone he didn’t know, but he still respectfully gave me the time of day. Then he looked around the empty space once more, inhaled, and confirmed, “I’ll still take it. Maybe she can teach me to cook.”

I laugh at the memory. He put a smile on my face that day. One that I hadn’t held in a long time.

I had to watch as my once-cozy apartment was slowly transformed into a man cave. At first, it annoyed me, but over time, Adam’s messy habits became a comfort.

He’d leave damp towels on the floor for too long, but the way he’d sing in the shower made me laugh to the point where I’d forget about the sketchy fabric growing who-knows-what.

He never made the bed, but the rumpled blankets always felt okay because of his warmth.

And when it finally came time for repairs—he patiently painted the walls himself, but left the small potted plants that I had painted along the trim of the baseboards untouched.

It actually made me cry—and that was the first time he’d picked up on my presence.

I was perched on his cluttered sofa that day, remembering how happy painting had made me. How much the potted plants made me miss my mom. And how a stranger had unknowingly touched the dead with kindness.

My overcast energy had gravitated him toward the couch, where he brushed aside some papers, tucked his foot under his leg, and just sat there. He played some kind of sad alternative music that, at the time, I wasn’t fond of, but he made me feel better—like it was okay to try and live again.

These days, it’s different. I no longer feel haunted by what happened to me, and I can genuinely say I feel as alive as I did that year when I stayed twenty-three forever.

I suck in a breath as I have to put in some effort into pushing open the window that has always caught three-quarters of the way. But this time, I got it. Hot air rushes in. Well, that’s not going to cool us down, but at least it’s fresh.

The heat has been the topic of the news this past week. The temperature keeps climbing higher and higher each day.

I overhear some chatter outside, and I recognize it as Adam and Dylan.

“You sure you’re going to be okay, man?” Dylan asks.

“Yeah, just need to lie down,” Adam says.

“K—hit me up when you get a new phone.”

Adam halfheartedly laughs. “For sure. Later.”

My brows come together. Something is wrong.

I hear his steps approach. The keys in the door sound frantic. He bursts through, tossing down his surfboard to make a dash for the kitchen trash, where he barely makes it before vomiting.

Concern spikes me. I hurry to him.

He gags and strains again. This is bad.

Our worry captures the same thought, and he checks his pulse. He holds his fingers there, counting the beats.

Adam has AFib—specifically the kind that is brought on by vomiting. It’s landed him in the hospital more than once.

He slowly exhales, trying to steady himself, then staggers to the cupboard, and reaches for a bottle of Excedrin.

The heat must’ve triggered another migraine.

“Call Dylan, and have him come back,” I say nervously, as if he can hear me.

Instead, he fills a glass with ice water, takes a few sips, then makes his way to the couch. He manages to take his shirt off, then collapses against the suede and focuses on his breathing.

I look for his phone. It’s on the floor, next to his board. My eyes widen. The entire thing is shattered. I press the power button, but it only glitches. What on earth happened to it?

I return to him, wringing my hands anxiously. What can I do to help?

I’ve heard him say that as long as it doesn’t last more than twelve hours, he should be fine.

I exhale and kneel next to him. His skin’s sunburnt. I hold my palm over his arm—I can feel the warmth radiating.

I leave him only for a moment to check the time on the microwave. It’s noon.

I return and examine his handsome face. His forehead is slick with a sheen of sweat, his hair damp.

I gently sit on the edge of the couch, thinking. I glance over my shoulder at him—he’s nearly asleep already.

Rest is good. Sometimes that alone has corrected the irregular rhythm. Giving it faith, I wedge myself alongside him and place my ear against his chest to listen.

He stirs at my touch and adjusts his position, slightly turning with his chin now subtly resting atop my head.

Normally I would have smiled and giggled like a schoolgirl, but with the way his heart is performing, it’s placed a ban on my joy.

The staggering rhythm, the long pauses, the thumping—it all causes my body to feel stiff.

I tighten my hold, exhale slowly, and say a silent prayer for him.

His soft breathing then lulls me to sleep.

***

The warm breeze from the window dances across my face. I slowly blink. It’s dark. It’s quiet…

I stare, realization slapping me.

It’s quiet!

Panic fully jolts me awake. I press my ear against him harder.

W-where is it!?

Softly—ever so soft—does his heartbeat make an appearance, but the spacing in between is too long.

I leap off the couch and flick on the lights. He’s pale, and his lips look lifeless. I shake his face. He doesn’t react.

I pull up his eyelids—eyes rolled back, barely responsive, and his breathing is shallow.

I go for the phone again, then remember.

“Shit!”

I head for the door, but stop—I can’t leave. I’ve never been able to. Each time I’ve tried, something has corrected the action and planted me firmly back in place.

I return to him and shake him harder. “Adam!”

Nothing.

I try another approach. I bang on the walls, surely that’ll get the neighbor over here. But all that delivers is angry thuds in return. I persist—but the outcome is the same, and no one comes.

I yell in frustration and rush to him again.

Think, think, think!

I pause.

Maybe I could…

My hands shake with uncertainty. This isn’t the movies! And I’m not exactly an expert in spirit possession… But what if?

And that small what if is all I have.

I say another prayer, then focus.

My eyes burn for tears as I squeeze his hand. Nothing is happening. I keep a finger on the pulse in his wrist, and soon familiarity dawns on me—he’s slipping. I can feel it.

It’s the same haunting feeling of loss that slipped through my fingers.

My absent heartbeat makes me shiver as I fight to save his. I know I’m losing time fast.

“Please, work, please!” I cry.

There’s a static in the air and a sort of buzz in my soul.

I place a hand to his chest. I can feel his heart murmur—a soft cry for help.

I try to concentrate on the tingling sensation. But the static becomes quiet, like a dimming lantern. I scream and beg for it to come back.

“No, Adam, please!”

The murmur flickers, then… silence.

I’m too scared to think. Too petrified to move.

A chill runs up my spine.

Then—there’s a beat. A soft, fragile heartbeat hangs in the air.

My eyes open, but it’s dark. I try to move, but my body is heavy, and I’m weak.

“Adam…?” I whisper.

“Hey,” he softly says. His voice sounds distant, like he’s barely hanging on.

Real tears form, but they roll down his cheek.

It worked. I’m inside of him.

I try to sit up, but the weight is like lead, a resistance I can’t understand.

He softly laughs. “This is one hell of a way to meet. God… you’re beautiful.”

I stammer. “You can see me?”

“I can. I finally can.”

I’m breathless but still struggling.

“Adam—what are you doing? Work with me, I need you to fight!”

He softly exhales. “What if it’s too late?”

“It’s not—I promise it’s not!” I cry. “Please, this isn’t your time.”

His face comes into view, like a veil has been pulled from my eyes. He’s looking at me. Truly seeing me for the first time. It freezes me to my core.

His hand brushes my face, his touch feels like the sun.

He smiles. There’s a look in his eyes that I’ve never seen before. Something vulnerable but certain, a sense of happiness that feels like we’ve already gone to Heaven.

“Tell me your name,” he says softly.

Another tear falls, and my breath slows. I locate the distant sound of his heartbeat and hold onto it for stability.

“Erin,” I whisper.

He sort of laughs. “Well, tricky little Erin, you’ve been caught.”

I slowly shake my head. “What do you mean?”

“The vanilla. I found the hack on Pinterest, saw the marks on the bulbs.”

A smile finds me. “Well, your apartment smells.”

He laughs. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Adam… please don’t do this. I can’t go through this twice.”

His smile fades. “But what’s going to happen if you walk out of that door with me? What if you can’t come back?”

I shake my head, and mouth empty words.

We watch each other, trying to hold onto what time we have left.

“Adam, I don’t know how, but we’ll meet again. If not now, then I’ll wait for you. But please… please don’t give up.”

He’s thoughtful for a moment. Heartache has crept into his eyes.

I hesitate, then reach for him. When our lips touch, his heart sparks, a jolt that moves through us both.

I pull away, and lock eyes with him. “If you love me, you’ll get up.”

A slow smile curls at his lips, and the warmth returns to his eyes.

“Okay.”

I softly smile, then like a feather, his body moves this time.

The movement breaks the veil, but I can still feel him. His vision is blurry, and each step feels impossible, but we work together and get him to the door.

The night air warms his cold skin, and he stumbles against the stone wall, using it as a guide. We press the neighbor’s doorbell several times, then he collapses.

The door cracks open—there’s a gasp, then an urgent command is spoken to get help.

The gentle light spills onto his face. The veil fades again.

I take his face in my hand, and smile. “When I come back, the onions better be perfect.”

He softly laughs. “Deal. And Erin, thank you.”