He Looks Like My Dead Boyfriend, So I Kissed Him

They told me Sam drowned three years ago.

I didn't believe them, so I kept setting two plates every night.

The morning I saw the new neighbor on the eleventh floor, I dropped my coffee and ran to him.

I threw my arms around his neck and whispered that I knew he'd come back for me.

He froze, this stranger with Sam's exact jaw, and gently pried my hands off his shirt.

My mother dragged me back inside and shut the door and pressed her palm over her mouth.

That night she made a phone call I wasn't supposed to hear.

"She thinks the neighbor is Sam," she said. "We have to hire someone before she hurts herself again."

So they paid a man named Jonah to walk into my apartment and pretend to love me.

I laughed in his face and told him he wasn't Sam either.

For weeks I chased the neighbor down hallways, into elevators, across the parking lot, calling him by a dead man's name.

He started leaving his door unlocked so I'd stop clawing at it.

Then Vivienne came to visit, the way she always did, smiling with her head tilted.

She sat on my bed and stroked my hair and told me she was so glad I was healing.

I remembered her perfume from the stairwell.

I remembered a hand flat against my back.

"You don't remember anything, do you, Dell?" she murmured.

"No," Marilyn's voice cut in from the doorway. "And you're going to keep it that way."

***

"Move your elbow, Mom. That is Sam's spot."

I slid the porcelain plate onto the oak table, aligning the edges perfectly with the woven placemat. I adjusted the silver fork, ensuring the tines pointed exactly toward the center of the dish.

Marilyn Whitmore froze, her fingers hovering over the porcelain sugar bowl. "Della, please do not start this today."

"Start what?" I pulled the silver pocket watch from my cardigan pocket. "He likes his toast lightly buttered. You always forget to leave the butter out to soften."

My thumb traced the engraved initials on the inner lid. D.W. & S.B.

Four years we spent together. Four years of shared coffee, tangled blankets, and quiet mornings before he took that overseas surveying contract. He pressed this heavy silver disk into my palm right at the terminal gate, the metal warm from his skin.

Wait for me.

"Della." My mother stepped closer, her slippers scuffing against the hardwood floor. She pushed a small plastic cup across the table. Two white pills rattled against the sides. "Sam isn't coming back."

I kept my eyes on the watch face. The metallic hands ticked in a steady, relentless rhythm. "He is just delayed. The maritime office said they lost contact. That means the comms went down in the storm."

"That phone call was three years ago." Marilyn's voice cracked, sharp and desperate. "Three years, Della. The Coast Guard called off the search after two weeks."

"They didn't find a raft. No raft means they made it to an island." I shoved the pill cup away. It tipped, spilling the medication across the table. "Do not touch his plate."

"You need to take your medication." Marilyn reached for the pills, her hands trembling as she gathered them. "Dr. Aris said you need consistency."

"I am not sick."

"You are setting a place for a ghost!" She slammed her hand flat against the table, making the silverware rattle.

"He is an excellent swimmer, Mom. You know he won state championships." I grabbed two ceramic mugs from the kitchen counter, pouring dark roast into both. The steam curled into the air, smelling bitter and strong. "I am going to get some air."

"Where are you taking those?" Marilyn blocked my path to the foyer, her eyes darting to the two steaming cups.

"Outside. Sam hates a stuffy apartment after a long flight. He always wants coffee first."

"Della, stop it."

I sidestepped her, pushing the heavy front door open with my shoulder. The dim corridor of the eleventh floor stretched out before me, lined with identical numbered doors.

The air out here felt crisp, smelling faintly of lemon floor wax. I took a step toward the balcony railing, balancing the hot mugs carefully so they would not spill.

A shadow shifted near the elevator bank.

A man stood there, wrestling a heavy cardboard box through the doorway of apartment 11B. His back faced me as he kicked the door wider with his boot.

"Do you need a hand with that?" I asked, raising my voice over the hum of the nearby vending machine.

He turned his head.

The overhead fluorescent light caught the hard angle of his jaw. The exact slope of his cheekbone. The slight shadow of stubble along his chin. The way his dark hair curled just behind his left ear.

My fingers went slack.

The mug slipped from my left hand. Ceramic shattered against the concrete floor, sending a splash of scalding brown liquid over my sneakers and up the hem of my jeans.

I ignored the burning heat on my ankles.

"Sam."

I closed the distance in three strides. The remaining mug sloshed in my right hand as I threw my free arm around his neck, burying my face into his shoulder. He smelled like fresh linen and packing tape, not sea salt and motor oil, but none of that mattered. He was solid. He was here.

"I knew you would come back." I laughed, the sound loud and sharp in the quiet hallway. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. "I told them. I told them you were just delayed by the storm."

The man stood rigid as a statue. The cardboard box in his hands hit the floor with a heavy thud, splitting open at the seam to reveal stacks of hardcover books.

"Excuse me?" His voice was a low, rough baritone.

It sounded deeper. Rougher. The cadence was entirely wrong.

He gripped my wrist. His fingers were ice-cold, prying my arm off his neck with firm, unyielding pressure.

I stumbled back, blinking up at him.

Dark eyes stared down at me. A stranger's eyes, filled with alarm and pity. Sam's eyes were hazel, always crinkling at the corners. This man's eyes were flat, dark pools.

"Lady, I think you have the wrong person." He took a half-step back, wiping his shoulder where my cheek had rested.

"No, Sam, it is me." I reached for his shirt collar, desperate to bridge the sudden gap between us. "Stop joking around. I kept your watch safe. Your plate is set on the table."

"Ma'am, please step back." He raised both hands, creating a physical barrier between us. His gaze darted down the hallway, looking for an escape or a witness.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" My voice pitched higher, bouncing off the concrete walls. "It is Della. Your Della."

"I do not know a Della."

"Della!"

Footsteps slapped frantically against the hallway tiles. Marilyn sprinted out of our apartment, her face pale and drawn, her slippers sliding on the slick floor.

She grabbed my waist, yanking me backward with surprising strength.

"Mom, take your hands off me!" I thrashed against her hold, nearly dropping the second mug. "He just got back! Let me talk to him!"

"I am so sorry," Marilyn gasped, keeping a tight, desperate grip on my sweater. "She is unwell. We are so sorry to bother you."

The man frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. The alarm in his eyes shifted entirely to pity. "Is she going to be okay? Do you need me to call someone?"

"Yes. Fine. Welcome to the building." Marilyn dragged me backward across the hallway, her heels digging into the floor for leverage.

"Sam, tell her to stop!" I yelled, reaching my hand out toward him. "Tell her you are home!"

He just watched me, his jaw tight, offering no help. He reached down and picked up his broken box of books, stepping into his apartment.

"Stop it, Della," she hissed, hauling me over the threshold of our apartment.

She slammed the door shut and twisted the deadbolt.

The heavy metal click echoed in the foyer, sounding like a prison cell locking into place.

Marilyn slumped against the wood, pressing one hand hard over her mouth. Her chest heaved with ragged, uneven breaths.

I stood in the center of the living room, staring at the closed door. The remaining mug in my hand trembled, coffee sloshing over the rim and dripping onto the hardwood floor.

"Why did you lock him out?" I asked, my voice dropping to an empty whisper.

Marilyn did not answer. She kept her hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes squeezed shut as if trying to block out the entire morning.

"He forgot his keys, Mom. Open the door."

She shook her head, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes and tracking down her wrinkled cheeks.

I turned away, setting the mug down next to the silver pocket watch on the dining table. My hands shook as I picked up a linen napkin to wipe the spilled coffee. The stain soaked into the fabric, turning it a muddy brown.

A faint murmuring sound caught my attention.

I glanced back at the foyer.

Marilyn had her cell phone pressed to her ear. Her hand shook as she cupped the receiver, turning her face toward the wall to muffle her words.

"She mistook the neighbor for Sam," Marilyn whispered into the phone, her voice tight with panic. "Yes, just now in the hallway. We need to hire someone before she causes another incident."