He looks around, hunching forward against the wind. The sky looms heavy and dull overhead, the clouds so thick it’s impossible to tell where one stops and the next begins.

There’s an old dock not far from where the trail ends. It’s missing a lot of planks, and the wood that remains is waterlogged and decomposing, but despite this whole area being off-limits, the most daring kids still occasionally horse around on it in the summer. Now, though, it’s covered in a light dusting of snow, and for some reason, Colin isn’t surprised when he sees Lucy sitting at the end of it, perched on an uneven outcropping of broken and rotting boards. Long, blond strands fall almost to her waist, and the wind lifts them, tangling them in the breeze that whips across the lake.

The wood creaks beneath the weight of his careful steps. She’s changed her clothes, though her signature boots sit unlaced on the dock just behind her. The hoodie he left for her rests in her lap.

Now that he’s here, he realizes he’s spent more time trying to figure out how to find her than how to talk to her. Staring at her back, he files through appropriate openers. He needs to say that he’s sorry, that he’s a clueless boy who has no idea what to do with a living girl, never mind one who isn’t. Maybe he should tell her that he’s an orphan and probably needs an anchor as badly as she does.

Slowly, he walks toward her. “Lucy?” he says, and hesitates, taking in the scene in front of him. Her skirt is pulled up above her knees and her skin is pale and perfect in the retreating light, not a scar or a freckle anywhere.

“It’s not cold,” she says, looking down to where her legs dangle in the water below. It has to be thirty degrees out, and the lake has that syrupy look, where the algae is gone and the water looks like it’s hovering between liquid and solid. Colin’s limbs ache watching the icy water lap against her skin. “I mean, intellectually, I know it’s cold,” she continues, “but it doesn’t feel that way. I can feel the sensation of the cold water, but the temperature doesn’t bother me like it should. Isn’t that strange?”

The wind seems to have stolen his words, and he’s not sure how to respond. So instead, he reaches out, placing a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes widen at the contact, but she doesn’t say anything.

“I didn’t know where you were,” he says finally. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” she whispers.

He looks at his hands in amazement. He can feel the weight of her hair as it moves over his fingers, the texture of the skin on her neck, but where there should be warmth, there’s only the tingling sensation of movement, a stirring breeze. It’s as if whatever is keeping her here—keeping her body upright, her limbs moving forward—is pulsing beneath his fingertips.

They stare at each other for a long stretch, and he finally whispers, “I’m sorry.”

A smile twitches at the corners of her lips, dimple poking sweetly into her cheek, before the grin spreads across her face. Her eyes morph from dark to pale yellow in the light of the bright, full moon. “Don’t be.”

He’s not sure how to reply because whether she needs an apology or not, he feels like a jerk for disappearing that night.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” she asks.

He smiles and moves back as she pulls her feet from the water, and he uses the hoodie to dry her legs. They feel like ice against his fingertips. Her eyes drop, and holy shit, he thinks she’s looking at his mouth. Suddenly, his head is full of other possibilities: What would it be like to kiss her? Does her skin feel the same everywhere? What does it taste like?

“When did you do that?” she asks, pulling on her boots.

He struggles to rein in his thoughts. Reflexively, he licks his lips and realizes she means his piercing. “My lip?”

“Yeah.”

“Last summer.”

She pauses, and it gives him a minute to watch the breeze whip her hair all over the place, like it weighs less than the air. She takes a while to say anything else, though, so he watches her lace up her boots while she thinks. “The school doesn’t have rules about that?”

“The rules are so old that piercings never made it into the book, but I dare you to try and wear short pantaloons to class. Dot and Joe say I can look like a ‘no-good punk’ as long as I act like a gentleman. You don’t like it?”

“No, I do. It’s just—”

“You sound surprised that you do.” He laughs, watching her stand.

“I don’t think many boys did that when I was in high school. At least not boys like you.”

“‘Boys like me?’”

“Nice boys. Burnout boys would be inked and pierced and rowdy.”

“Oh, I’m definitely rowdy.”

Her lips curve in a half smile. “I don’t doubt that.”

“And how do you know I’m nice? Maybe I’m a burnout with a ghost fetish.”

She gapes at him, surprised, and he wants to grab a rock and crack himself over the head with it. But then she throws her head back and laughs this ridiculous loud, snorting laugh.

Colin exhales a shaky breath. Apparently ghost jokes are okay.

She grins up at him. “You are nice. I can see it all over your face. You can’t hide a thing.”

He watches her eyes shift from green to silver in the light, and her lips skew into his favorite playful smile. He considers her hair, her eyes, the way she fades into the background for everyone but him. “Neither can you.”

“Really?”

“At least, not from me.”

Her smile leaves her lips but stays in her eyes, even when she blinks away. “Good.”