Seven Days to a Kiss

My husband, Ethan, and I had a simple rule for our five-year marriage: we could have affairs, but our mansion was off-limits. It was our only sanctuary.

Then, on my birthday, he broke it.

He walked in with a girl named Tara, who looked disturbingly like my deceased sister, Gabrielle. Without even looking at me, Ethan' s voice cut through the air: "Jocelyn, I want a divorce. I' m going to be with her."

A strange calm settled over me.

I should have felt the familiar sting of betrayal, but I felt nothing.

Perhaps because two days earlier, I died. On our fifth anniversary, a truck swerved, and I died on impact. Yet, my soul, consumed by obsession for Ethan, refused to leave, binding me to this world. That' s when Papa Legba, a spirit of the crossroads, appeared.

He offered me a deal: seven days to get a true kiss from Ethan, and my life would be returned. Fail, and my soul was his.

I knew it was impossible; Ethan had never kissed me with genuine emotion. But I accepted. Now, watching my husband replace me, I was already on day two.

"Ethan, please. Just one kiss," I begged, but he scoffed, "I only kiss women I love."

Then, he kissed Tara deeply, passionately, right in front of me. The pain was so sharp, it felt like I was dying all over again. I was trapped, a phantom in my own life, with a magical red thread on my wrist visibly fading, signaling my impending eternal demise. And no one, especially not the man I loved, believed me.

Ethan and I had a rule.

Five years of marriage, and the rule was simple: you can have your affairs, I can have mine, but no one comes home to the Garden District mansion. It was our only sanctuary, the one place we didn't have to perform our roles for the public.

Tonight, on my birthday, Ethan broke that rule.

He walked in with her, a girl named Tara. She was young, with wide, innocent eyes and a guitar slung over her back. She looked exactly like my sister, Gabrielle. The same long, dark hair, the same way she held her head, even the same style of folk music she played. Gabrielle, the jazz prodigy Ethan was supposed to marry before she died. Gabrielle, the ghost that lived in our marriage.

"Jocelyn," Ethan said, his voice cold and final. He didn't even look at me. "I want a divorce."

He gestured to Tara, who was looking around our home with a proprietary air.

"I'm going to be with her."

I felt a strange calm settle over me. I should have been screaming, throwing things, feeling the familiar sting of betrayal. But I felt nothing.

Maybe because I was already dead.

Two days ago, on our fifth wedding anniversary, I was driving to Ethan' s office. I had a gift for him, a vintage Gibson guitar, one he' d loved and thought was lost forever in a fire years ago. I' d spent months finding it, getting it restored to perfection. I was on the interstate when a truck swerved into my lane. There was a crush of metal, a flash of light, and then... nothing.

I died on impact.

But my soul refused to leave. My love, my obsession with Ethan, was a chain that held me to this world. That' s when he appeared.

He called himself Papa Legba, a spirit from the crossroads, a gatekeeper. He was drawn by the sheer force of my refusal to pass on. He looked at me, a shimmer of a man in the wreckage, and made me an offer.

"You love him that much, child?" his voice echoed in my soul.

I couldn't speak, only feel.

"Alright," he said, a slow smile spreading across his spectral face. "I'll give you a deal. Seven days. You have seven days to get that man to kiss you. A real kiss, one with feeling. You succeed, you get your life back. You fail... your soul is mine."

I knew Ethan. In five years, he had never once kissed me with any real emotion. It was always a duty, a peck on the cheek for the cameras. Getting a kiss with genuine feeling was impossible.

But I accepted.

Now, standing in my own living room, watching my husband replace me, I felt the clock ticking. I had seven days. And I was already on day two.

I looked at Ethan, my voice barely a whisper. "Ethan, please. Just one kiss. That's all I'm asking."

He scoffed, a look of pure disgust on his face. "Are you serious? After everything?"

"I feel like I'm dying," I said. It was the truest thing I'd ever told him.

He laughed, a cruel, sharp sound. "Don't be so dramatic, Jocelyn. I only kiss women I love."

Then, to prove his point, he turned to Tara. He cupped her face in his hands, looked into her eyes-my sister' s eyes-and kissed her. Deeply. Passionately. Right in front of me.

The pain was so sharp, so real, it felt like I was dying all over again.

Tara moved in the next day. She didn't just take a guest room; she moved into my room, our room. Ethan let her.

I watched as she went through my closet, pulling out my clothes, my jewelry. She held up a silk dress, one of my favorites, and asked Ethan if she could have it. He nodded without a second thought.

Then she found the box. It was tucked away in the back of the closet, filled with Gabrielle' s things. A few dresses, some sheet music, a silver locket. Ethan had given it to me for safekeeping.

Tara opened it. She pulled out a simple white cotton dress and held it against herself. "She had such beautiful taste," she said, her voice soft and reverent.

"It would look better on you," Ethan said, his eyes filled with a tenderness I hadn't seen in five years.

She wore it to dinner that night. Sitting across the table from me, in my sister' s dress, she looked so much like Gabrielle it was unnerving. She was a ghost at my table, erasing me from my own life.

She was good at it, too. Subtle. A misplaced file on Ethan' s desk, and she' d hint that I must have been snooping. A scratch on his vintage record collection, and she' d look at me with wide, wounded eyes, saying nothing, which was worse. Ethan' s resentment toward me grew with each passing day.

I was fading. I could feel it. A faint, red thread had appeared on my wrist after my deal with Papa Legba, a visual timer. It was already starting to look transparent. I retreated to my music study, the one room Tara hadn't touched yet. It was my sanctuary within the sanctuary. I opened a hidden drawer in my desk. Inside was a small, worn photo album.

It was filled with pictures of Ethan.

Candid shots I' d taken over the years when he wasn' t looking.

Ethan laughing with a friend. Ethan asleep on the sofa, a book on his chest. Ethan staring out at the rain from his office window. Hundreds of photos, a secret history of my unrequited love. Underneath the album was a letter I' d written to him on our first anniversary, a letter I never gave him.

It was full of hope and love, a pathetic monument to my own foolishness.

I remembered our wedding day. Just before the ceremony, he had pulled me aside.

"Jocelyn," he' d said, his voice flat. "Let's be clear. This is a merger, not a marriage. I'm doing this for our families. Don't ever make the mistake of thinking this is about love. I will never love you."

I had nodded, my heart a cold, heavy stone in my chest. But I hadn't believed him. I thought I could change his mind. I thought my love would be enough.

For five years, I had been completely faithful to him. The public affairs were a sham, a carefully constructed facade to match his own. I paid actors to be seen with me, to create a story of mutual infidelity that protected my pride. I never touched another man. I couldn' t.

My body and soul belonged to Ethan. He just never knew it. He never wanted to.

A knock on the door startled me. It was Tara.

"Ethan said I could have this room now," she said, not unkindly, but with an air of finality. "He thinks it's best if you move into the guest suite downstairs."

She was smiling that innocent, Gabrielle-like smile.

"He said you wouldn't mind."