Hi Readers,

I know it's been a while since I've updated a story regularly, but I have decided to participate in NaNoWriMo here on Wattpad. I'm taking a break from my outside projects and hope to update my new story daily. I know some of you are still waiting for me to finish The Senior Trip, but for NaNo I needed to start a new story.

I promise I will get back to The Senior Trip as soon as the month is over. Please enjoy Giving up our Ghosts (YA Romance)!

Thank you!

Sarah

https://www.wattpad.com/801738078-giving-up-our-ghosts-chapter-one?utm_source=web&utm_medium=email&utm_content=share_reading

Chapter One Preview:

My mother's expression was an ironic contradiction; her cheeks lifted with her perfect, strong smile while her eyes told an entirely different story. I watched as they slowly slid closed in a pause that stretched beyond what was automatic and lingered in the territory of drifting off into sleep before lifting open again so agonizingly unhurried my father nudged her with his elbow. She shifted in her seat. This was something I'd seen her do before, another trick to try to stay awake when she'd over done it again. I couldn't watch it today. It had been three years since the last time we'd been inside this place, and if it had been a hundred it wouldn't have been long enough.

"Would you like a cup of coffee, Mrs. Copland?" Mr. Davies asked.

"That would be great. Thank you," my mother replied.

"Losing someone can be a very difficult time for families. I'm confident we'll plan a beautiful service and make the arrangements your father would be very happy with so you can get a good night's rest." Mr. Davies pushed back his chair behind the solid oak desk and made his way past my parents.

I rolled my eyes from my position on the small couch at the edge of the room. I was finished watching my parents fumble through another social interaction. I was tired of my mom's inability to be functional.

I turned my head and watched as Mr. Davies left the showroom and headed to the front room before starting up the large staircase that lead to the top floor. I couldn't imagine living above a mortuary. I hated the business of death and dying. At least he had updated the place when he'd bought it this summer. It was more modern now, but if you asked me, it was still creepy to sit in a space full of open caskets above a room meant to store dead bodies. I slouched down on the couch and pulled out my phone, tucking the ear-buds into my ears so I could drown out the sound of my parents arguing in a hushed whisper just beyond the caskets between us.

I didn't need to listen to them to know what was being said. The only thing that I didn't understand was how my dad was still surprised by it. I looked up at him quickly, the music blasting into my ears as I watched him shake his head and run a hand through his short, unruly hair. Did he think today would be different? Did he think that she'd make it through this door—of all doors—without it?

My mom cried, but I didn't know if it was because of their argument—the perpetual one they'd been having for years—or because the presence of grief in this place was unbearable. These walls seemed to cage you in with your bereavement and submerge you unceremoniously in the feeling of loss. It was like jumping into the deep end of a pool in winter with all of your clothes on and trying to keep your head above the surface, as your shoes become anchors and your arms couldn't move against the weight of your coat. And maybe if it hadn't been for the last three years I'd have understood why she'd had to do it, but those three years were between us in a space so wide I'd stopped trying to reach across it.

Mr. Davies came back into the room and took his seat behind the desk again. He said something to my parents and they nodded. My mom would behave better now, and my dad would over compensate by holding her hand or trying to make more jokes. It wouldn't take long for Mr. Davies to learn the truth; maybe he already had. He'd moved here on his own at the beginning of summer and had been working hard on the renovations. The rest of his family hadn't arrived until last week. You couldn't do much in this town without people hearing about it. That was getting better as the town got bigger, but word still traveled fast around here.

I'd heard he had two children, a teenage girl who would be attending my high school and a son that would be starting at the elementary school.

Do they always live in houses like this?The thought made a chill run up my spine. I couldn't imagine coming home to this everyday or worse yet, falling asleep above it each night.

My eyes found the large staircase again as I wondered what it must be like to have only a few dozen steps separating your life from those that were now over. My grandfather's body wasn't here yet, but it would be as soon as the hospital released it. Whoever was living at the top of those steps would have to do so above the deceased people of this town. I felt my stomach jump and tuck itself tightly beneath my ribs. My fingers tapped away a rhythm on the arm of the couch much quicker than the tempo of the music I was listening to and sweat was beading on my forehead. Death and I were not on good terms.

I moved to make an exit. I decided to wait outside for my parents, but movement at the top of the staircase caught my attention before I'd had the chance to stand up. Bare feet padded down the steps almost whimsically, attached to tan legs from a summer clearly not spent indoors. She wore a pair of sweat shorts with a painted school label that was cracked from wear along the hem, the top rolled once at the waist. A tight cotton t-shirt finished off the comfy-casual look and made her stand out in the house that gleamed with polished wood and satin fabric.

A few more steps and she landed near the front door, her eyes wide as she steadied a cup full of steaming coffee. Her long, brown hair was piled on top of her head, purple ends poking out from where they were unsuccessfully tucked inside some sort of band. When she was satisfied the liquid was stable, she looked up in the direction of her father and my parents. Mr. Davies motioned for her to come inside and I pulled the ear-buds from my ears, not wanting to miss anything they might say.

"It's for Mrs. Copland." Mr. Davies cleared a spot on the desk, moving aside glossy brochures and samples of fabrics.

She set the coffee on the desk. "Sorry for your loss." It was something that had been said to us many times and it was even something I'd been taught to say to other people when they had lost a loved one, but from her lips it sounded more genuine. Maybe this business was in her blood.

"Would you like any cream or sugar?" she added.

"Thank you," my mom replied.

My back teeth clenched as her words slowly fell from her mouth. I wanted to tell her it sounded like she had marshmallows stuck to her tongue when she spoke. Instead, I just prayed that she'd stop speaking at all.

Drink your coffee Mom.

"It's fine like this," my mom replied slowly.

Mr. Davies raised a hand in his daughter's direction. "This is my daughter Morana. Morana, meet the Coplands."

"Nice to meet you," she said. "Sorry I'm not really dressed for this. I was trying to register for school."

"We're not fancy," my dad cut in. "Will you be at the high school?"

"Yes," she answered. "I'll be a senior this year."

Mr. Davies nodded at her as if to dismiss her and she took the signal and a large step back. Her olive skin was darker than his in a way that was more genetics than sun inspired and I couldn't help but notice the almond shape of her eyes and the tiny splattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose. She looked nothing like him.

"I should get back to it. I don't want all the good electives to be taken." Morana turned and caught a look at me for the first time, her feet stopping mid flight from the room and almost skidding on the large throw rug beneath the most elaborate casket on display.

I gave a small wave which was more of an arc with my free hand, the other was holding my phone and tangled ear-buds.

"Hey," I greeted her.

"Hi." She looked down quickly at her clothes and winced slightly then gave me an apologetic smile. "Sorry for your loss."

"Thanks," I said with a shrug. I looked past her at my mom who was trying to bring the mug of hot coffee to her mouth. It was like watching a sleepy toddler try to feed herself. The mug made a few slow passes toward her pouted, puckered lips, but never quite met its mark. My dad looked on like an overanxious parent and Mr. Davies himself seemed perplexed at the behavior. I shut my eyes and sighed heavily.

"You look like you could use some air," Morana said quietly. "If your parents don't need you I could show you the cool new porch swing my dad installed."

"What about registration?" I asked as I stood.

She glanced back over her shoulder at our parents who were now dabbing at the coffee my mom had sloshed onto the desk. My face felt as hot as the coffee must have been as I watched my mom make an even bigger mess when she tried to soak up the spilled liquid with the fabric samples nearby—so much for decorum. Morana leaned closer and whispered, "I finished registering an hour ago and now I'm just avoiding my chores."

"If you had a black hole I could disappear into I'd prefer that, but if not I guess a porch swing will do. How many walls will it put between me and my parents?" I asked as I tucked my phone into my pocket. It chimed with a message—the third in the last minute alone—but I ignored it.

Morana smiled as she tapped her temple as if she was thinking about the answer to my question. She motioned for me to follow her and began to lead me through the front entry way and out the large doors. "Two," she answered. When she reached the bottom of the front steps she turned and walked backwards so she could face me as she said, "But you're in luck today." Her smile tilted mischievously, "I don't think you told me your name."

"Cade," I said as she turned and unlatched a tall white gate at the side of the mortuary.

"Well Cade, those two walls aren't just any walls, they belong to the chapel." She let her hand drag along the light blue paint on the side of the mortuary as we followed the walkway around to the back porch. "It might not be a black hole, but some people talk to their God in there." Her delicate profile was outlined by the morning sunshine as she glanced back at me again over her shoulder. "And many believe it's within those walls that the essence—or soul—of their loved one leaves this existence and travels to another." Her face tilted up to look at the blue sky above us. "Sounds about as close to your black hole as you're going to get here on earth."