Chapter 1

On the third anniversary of my death, I finally realized I was nothing but a stand-in for my husband's true love.

He came to my grave with his new lover, flaunting their happiness, while the friend I'd always hated broke down, crying he'd hidden the truth all this time to keep me safe.

*****

I died three years ago today.

The weather was perfect. Sunlight streamed through the window, landing at the foot of my hospital bed. My mom sat beside me, holding my hand, tears falling one by one. My dad stood by the window, his back to me, and his shoulders trembling.

I wanted to tell them not to cry, that I was okay, really. But I couldn't get the words out.

The line on the monitor slowly turned flat, letting out a shrill beep.

Nurses and doctors rushed in. My mom was pushed out, watching through the glass as they tried to save me. But it was too late. They were just fulfilling their final duty.

My consciousness drifted up toward the ceiling, just watching everything fall apart beneath me.

Turns out, this was what dying felt like. No pain, no struggle—just drifting, just watching.

After that, I got buried on the west hill, facing south. There was a tree out front, and the view was actually pretty nice.

My mom picked the spot. She said it was quiet, so I could really get some rest.

And honestly, I did. For three years, nobody bothered me much, just the occasional visitor.

Today was the third anniversary of my death.

Early in the morning, a black car pulled up at the entrance of the cemetery. The doors opened, and two people stepped out.

The man was dressed in a black suit, his hair perfectly styled, holding a bouquet of white roses. The woman wore a white dress and high heels, holding onto his arm.

It was my husband and his current wife.

Lincoln Rivers and Lily White.

I floated behind the tombstone, watching them approach.

Three years had passed since I last saw Lincoln. He looked a little older now, with a few extra wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his chin was freshly shaven.

Lily hadn't changed at all—still beautiful and gentle, her eyes always crinkling into a smile when she looked at someone.

They stopped in front of my grave.

Lincoln placed the white roses at the base of the tombstone, straightened up, and stared at my black-and-white photo.

The photo was taken three years ago, and I was grinning widely, showing all my teeth. He took it himself, back when we'd just gotten married. He always said I looked best when I smiled and told me to smile more.

I believed him.

"Alyssa," Lincoln said, his voice calm. "It's been three years. Lily and I came to see you."

Lily spoke softly beside him, "Alyssa, are you alright over there?"

I ignored her. I never liked her, not even when I was alive. But she was Lincoln's dream girl, his childhood sweetheart, the one he always loved. And I was just the wife he brought home, just a prop to spite her.

Later, I realized I wasn't even that.

Lincoln fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, tapped one out, and lit up.

Smoking was off-limits in the cemetery, but he couldn't care less. Rules never meant much to him.

He took a drag and let the smoke drift lazily into the air.

"Alyssa, you always wanted to know who mattered more to me."

He turned his head and glanced at Lily. She was holding onto his arm, smiling gently.

"Now you're buried here, and she's standing here beside me," he said, turning back to my photo. "Isn't the answer clear enough?"

I froze.

What?

"When you were alive, you always asked me if I loved you. Whether I said yes or no, you never believed me," he said, flicking ash from his cigarette.

"You asked why I married you, and I told you I liked you. But you never believed me. You always insisted it was because of Lily."

He took another drag.

"I'm telling you now—yes."

His voice was just as calm as ever.

"I pursued you because you looked like Lily. I married you because you shared her birthday. I was good to you just to see if she'd get jealous."

He stubbed out his cigarette on the tombstone.

"She never got jealous. She married me in the end. You died, and we got together. Guess that's a happy ending for everyone."

He stood up and brushed off some imaginary dust from his body.

"Alyssa, thanks. Without you, I couldn't have won Lily over. She's way too proud. I needed a stand-in to let her know she wasn't the only one for me."

He smiled. A smile I knew all too well. Gentle. Beautiful. The kind that could drown a person.

"You played your part perfectly. Did everything a stand-in should. And you died just in time, making space for us."

Lily tugged at his sleeve. "Lincoln, that's enough."

"It's fine," Lincoln said, wrapping his arm around Lily's waist. "She can't hear us. The dead don't hear a thing."

They turned and walked away.

The black car drove off, kicking up a cloud of dust.

I floated behind the tombstone, watching them disappear down the path.

Something inside me shattered all over again.

It took dying for me to finally see the truth. My whole life was nothing but a joke.

I wasn't his wife. I was just a tool he used to chase after his dream girl.

I wasn't the one he loved. I was just a pawn he used to make her jealous.

I died, and they ended up together.

Tears streamed down my face, but as a ghost, they never touched the ground—they just dissolved in midair.

I curled up behind the tombstone, burying my head in my knees.

I didn't cry when I died three years ago, or when they laid me to rest. But now, I finally feel like crying.

Turns out, even the dead could cry.

Turns out, even with a dead heart, the pain still lingered.

I lost track of time, and the sun started to sink toward the west.

The cemetery was about to close, and the caretaker was starting to clear everyone out.

I lifted my head, ready to drift back to my little patch of earth.

Just then, I heard footsteps again.

They were unsteady, stumbling, like someone who'd had too much to drink.

I turned around and froze.

A man showed up, wearing a wrinkled shirt, hair all messed up, and reeking of alcohol.

He stumbled over to my grave and collapsed to his knees with a heavy thud.

His knees slammed into the concrete with a dull thump.

He lifted his face, and I saw him clearly.

It was David Brooks.

My childhood friend, my first love, and the one I hated more than anyone.

His face had gotten much thinner, his cheekbones jutting out. His eyes were red and bloodshot — there was no telling how much he'd had to drink. There was a bruise on his forehead, as he'd bumped into something.

He knelt there, staring at my photo, shaking uncontrollably.

Then he spoke, "Alyssa," he called my name, his voice so rough it barely sounded like him. "I came to see you."

I didn't move, just floated there, watching him.