After My Lover Erased Himself to Be My Ghost

The smell of cinnamon and melting brown sugar filled the kitchen. I sat at the marble island of my Malibu home, a new script open in front of me. I wasn’t really reading it. I was just enjoying the quiet.

Briggs placed a ceramic bowl down in front of me. Steam rose from the warm oatmeal.

For months, he had made me avocado toast with poached eggs. It was Evan’s favorite breakfast. Evan, my first love. The man I buried years ago. When I brought Briggs into my life, it was because his face was an uncanny mirror of Evan’s. I wanted a ghost. Briggs played the part perfectly. But a few weeks ago, I offhandedly muttered that I actually craved warm oatmeal. I never asked him to change the menu. But the very next morning, the toast was gone. The oatmeal was there.

It was a small shift. But it meant Briggs was looking at me, not the ghost I wanted him to be.

I looked up from my script. Briggs stood across the counter, wearing a soft, eager smile. He looked like he always did—gentle, compliant, waiting for my approval. I reached across the island to brush a stray curl from his forehead.

My fingers stopped an inch from his skin.

I stared at his face. Right beneath his left eye. The skin there was smooth and faintly pink.

His teardrop mole was gone.

It was the one feature that perfectly matched Evan. The detail that made the illusion complete. I blinked, my hand hovering in the air. The pink patch looked raw, fresh from a laser clinic.

He had burned a piece of his own face off. He did it to deepen the resemblance. He did it to make himself more indispensable to my grief.

The air in the kitchen suddenly felt too thin. My stomach turned to ice. He wasn't just playing a part anymore. He was erasing himself.

I slowly pulled my hand back. I didn't scream. I didn't ask why. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Briggs's smile faltered. His eyes darted to my hand, then back to my eyes. He swallowed hard.

I picked up my spoon, took exactly one bite of the oatmeal, and set the spoon down.

I stood up and walked away.

I moved through the rest of the morning with mechanical efficiency. I stepped into the shower and turned the water scalding hot. I put on my armor—a tailored silk blouse, sharp trousers, impeccable makeup. I sat at my desk and answered emails from my agent. Two Academy Awards sat on the shelf behind me, watching the room. I was Saylor Montgomery. I controlled my world.

Briggs hovered. He paced the hallway outside my office. He leaned against the doorframe, his knuckles white as he gripped the wood. Panic rolled off him in heavy waves. He knew he had made a mistake, but he didn't know how to fix it because I wouldn't give him the words