He Looks Like My Dead Boyfriend, So I Kissed Him

"Sam!"

I drove my shoulder into the heavy wood, forcing the door backward.

Ryan cursed, stumbling out of the way as I shoved past him into the living room. My sneakers skidded on the hardwood, narrowly missing a stack of flattened cardboard boxes. I ignored the mess. I ignored the tall man rubbing his shoulder behind me.

My eyes locked onto the far wall. The red string. The eight-by-ten glossy print.

"Get away from that," Ryan snapped. His heavy boots thudded against the floorboards as he crossed the room.

I reached for the photograph. The man on the dock. The wind blowing his dark hair. The exact slope of his cheekbone.

Before my fingers could brush the photo paper, a large, calloused hand clamped over my wrist.

"I said back off," Ryan warned. He pulled my arm down, stepping between me and the makeshift bulletin board. His broad chest completely blocked my view.

"Move," I demanded, pulling against his grip. "That is him. That is Sam."

"You are seeing things." Ryan released my wrist and crossed his arms. "That is a stranger. A guy standing on a pier in Nova Scotia."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I expect you to respect my apartment." He pointed a finger toward the open doorway. "That photo is B-roll reference for a documentary I shot two years ago. I do not know the guy's name. I never even spoke to him."

"You pinned a random man to your wall?"

"It is a location scout board, Della. We map out visual tones." His jaw tightened. "Now, please leave."

"No." I stepped closer, tilting my chin up to meet his dark, frustrated gaze. "You are lying to cover for him. Or you are him, playing some twisted game."

"I am not playing a game."

"Prove it." I grabbed his right forearm, flipping it palm up.

Ryan tried to yank back, but I dug my nails into his skin, holding fast. I dragged my thumb across the center of his wrist, searching for the jagged, raised skin where a rogue fishing hook had torn Sam's flesh four years ago.

Smooth skin met my touch. A faint network of blue veins. No scar.

I dropped his arm. My chest tightened.

"How do you take your coffee?" I asked, my voice dropping to a rapid, frantic whisper.

Ryan massaged his wrist where my nails had dug in. "What?"

"Answer the question. How do you take your coffee?"

"With almond milk and two packets of sugar," he said, his tone flat and unyielding.

"Sam drinks it black." I stared at his unmarked wrist. "He hates sugar. He says it ruins the roast."

"Then I am definitely not Sam."

I looked back up at his face. The identical jawline. The exact same cheekbones. But the eyes were wrong. Sam's eyes crinkled when he was annoyed. Ryan's eyes just looked tired.

A heavy, suffocating weight pressed down on my lungs. The frantic energy that carried me across the hallway evaporated, leaving me hollow. My knees trembled. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, fighting the sudden, sharp sting behind my eyes.

I failed. He was not Sam. The photo was a coincidence. The face was a cruel trick of genetics.

I waited for the lecture. I braced myself for the pitying sigh, the fake smile, the inevitable phone call to my mother to come collect her crazy daughter.

Instead, Ryan turned his back on me.

He walked into the small kitchenette. The faucet squeaked as he turned the handle. Water splashed into a glass.

I stood frozen by the documentary board, struggling to swallow the lump in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to let the tears fall.

Footsteps approached.

"Here."

I opened my eyes. Ryan stood two feet away, holding out a clear glass. Condensation beaded along the sides.

"I do not need pills," I whispered, backing away.

"It is just warm water." He pressed the glass into my hand, wrapping my numb fingers around the smooth surface. "Drink it. It helps with the shock."

I stared down at the water. No forced smiles. No frantic dialing of a hired boyfriend. No shouting about ghosts and delusions.

Just a glass of water.

"You are not calling my mother?" I asked, my voice cracking on the final syllable.

"You are an adult," Ryan said. He leaned against the kitchen counter, giving me plenty of space. "If you want to stand in my living room and cry, that is your business. Just do not break any more of my mugs."

A small, broken exhale escaped my lips. The heat from the glass seeped into my icy palms. I took a slow sip. The warm liquid coated my dry throat, easing the tight knot in my chest.

He watched me drink, his dark eyes entirely neutral. He did not judge me. He just waited.

"I am sorry," I said, staring at the floorboards. "I should not have barged in here."

"No, you should not have."

"My mother hired a man to pretend to be my boyfriend today." I tightened my grip on the glass. "She wants me to forget. But I cannot. Sam is out there."

Ryan did not offer a comforting lie. He simply nodded once, acknowledging the statement without endorsing it.

I set the empty glass on his folding table. The laptop screen beside it was dark, reflecting my pale, exhausted face.

"I will leave you to your unpacking," I told him, turning toward the door.

My hand found the brass knob. The cool metal felt grounding after the chaos of the afternoon. I pulled the door open, ready to face the empty hallway and the closed door of my own apartment.

"Della."

I paused, looking over my shoulder.

Ryan stood by the makeshift bulletin board, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark jeans. He stared at the photograph of the man on the dock.

"That Sam you mentioned earlier," Ryan asked, his rough baritone slicing through the quiet room. "Is his last name Beckett?"