Two people haunted by their exes find that love isn’t dead in this heartfelt romance from the beloved authors of The Roughest Draft.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Emily Wibberley and Austin Siegemund-Broka’s Seeing Other People, which releases on December 9th 2025.
Morgan is being ghosted by her ex. No, really. It’s sad Zach died and became a ghost. But Morgan and Zach only ever went on the one date, and now she’s being haunted by him. Zach has no desire to spend eternity with Morgan, but he can’t recall his past and doesn’t know how to move on.
At a support group for humans and their haunters, Morgan and Zach run into Sawyer, whose fiancée-turned-ghost has started to fade. Unlike Morgan, Sawyer isn’t ready to part ways with his ghost. Although they face opposite issues, Morgan and Sawyer decide to work together to solve their problems.
As Morgan and Sawyer try to solve their paranormal conundrums together, they find something even more surprising—a tender, growing affection between them that threatens any unfinished business they’re seeking to close. The ghosts of their past might be there in spirit, but the connection between Morgan and Sawyer is as alive as anything they’ve ever felt.
I resentfully follow Morgan to one of the leather booths beneath a photograph of a classic California bungalow. Morgan leans in to read the plaque, then points to a smudge on the window. Maybe it is the spirit of some 1920s Hollywood ghost, or maybe the camera’s flash caught in warped glass. We’ll never know, and I don’t care to speculate.
When Morgan opens a laminated menu, however, my disloyal stomach groans.
Reluctantly, I inspect our options. The Great Beyond Burgers. The Blair Sandwich Project. Wings with “haunt sauce.” On Sundays they have Paranormal Flapjacktivity.
Of course.
Morgan eagerly orders the Blair Sandwich. I only muster enthusiasm for the least whimsically named menu item, fries with ghost-pepper ranch dip. The fact ghost peppers happen to be named that doesn’t mean I’m disrespecting the dead.
While we wait, Morgan picks up an EMF detector nearby. She waves the plastic unit in our vicinity.
“Zach,” she says to the empty seat next to her, “is there another ghost here?”
Obviously, no one replies. I keep wishing I could disbelieve her—it would mean I had gained nothing from the meeting Kennedy sent me to.
But everything Morgan has said is impossible to ignore. So here I find myself, in a ghost bar with a woman who is talking to someone invisible.
“He says he can’t see one,” Morgan informs her living lunch companion—me.
“Those don’t work,” I cannot help remarking, nodding to the EMF detector.
Morgan smiles. “You’re such a skeptic for someone who lives with a ghost,” she comments playfully.
“You don’t need a device to measure where they are,” I reply. “You just feel them. Haunting is . . .”
I hesitate. Is what? What wouldn’t Morgan scoff at? Haunting is the visible echo of countless dreams that won’t happen. Haunting is the future you imagined, playing out in the shadow of your worst fear.
“Nothing like this,” I conclude, hoping Morgan hears the finality in my voice.
If she does, she ignores it.
She studies me without judgment. “What’s it like for you then?”
I meet her gaze. Though I find the question silly—like wondering what’s memory like? or what’s feeling like?—Morgan’s interest seems genuine. It’s sort of impressive. Openheartedness radiates from her like sunshine.
Despite the EMF detector she’s clutching, her interest relaxes me. “It’s love. Grief so real it’s palpable. Not . . . jump scares and green slime,” I say, gesturing to the menu references.
Morgan doesn’t sneer like in the support group. Instead, she looks to her left. To no one. “I hope you know that if you ever green-slime me, I will re-kill you.” She pauses. “You don’t even want to know how.” Seeming satisfied, she looks to me. “I don’t grieve Zach, though,” she replies. “I definitely didn’t love him.”
Her bag, perched on the table, starts to wobble suddenly. When it tumbles from the edge, Morgan catches it clumsily, looking relieved.
“He doesn’t like it when I’m mean to him, but I don’t like it when he cock-blocks every date I’ve been on since he appeared,” Morgan explains matter-of-factly. “Does your ghost ruin your sex life?”
I shift uncomfortably.
“No,” I say.
“You’re lucky,” Morgan informs me.
Unbeknownst to Morgan, I hear the phantom echo of my own promise to Kennedy. I’m the luckiest man in the whole world.
“Maybe Zach loves you,” I say.
Morgan laughs.
“If you could see Zach’s face right now,” she replies. “I promise you. He doesn’t. Okay, okay, dude”—she glances to her other side—“no need to rub it in! I have feelings!”
Our food is delivered. Promptly Morgan produces from her bag shining pieces of black crystal. She sets them up forming a secure perimeter surrounding her sandwich.
“Leave my food alone,” she warns. I know I’m not the person she’s speaking to.
I start in slowly on my fries. The ghost pepper sauce is decent, even if eating ranch from a B-rated restaurant may have me joining Kennedy on the other side real soon.
Morgan continues in between bites. “I went on one date with Zach three months ago, and neither of us wanted a second date. I didn’t even know he died until he popped up in my bathroom mirror while I was brushing my teeth. I have no idea why he’s haunting me. Was it similar for you?”
“Not really,” I say, hoping one- or two-word responses will communicate that I do not want to elaborate.
No such luck.
“How did you first discover you were being haunted?” Morgan presses me.
I sigh. I keep to myself mostly these days. I’ve forgotten how pushy the living can be in conversation.
“Kennedy showed up shortly after she died. I didn’t realize it was her at first. Things in my house just kept being moved around. A folded blanket. A dish I left out moved to the sink. Mail brought in,” I explain.
“Man, I wish Zach were helpful like that,” she says. She reaches for one of my fries, then clenches her hand, withdrawing in reconsideration.
“Maybe if he were, you wouldn’t be in such a hurry to get rid of him,” I reply.
Morgan considers. She grows serious, the sunlight quality of her eyes clouding.
“I still would,” she finally says. “He’s . . . not supposed to be here,” she explains. “I don’t think he wants to be here either. I mean, it’s not really a life, just hovering around me. I think it’s better he move on, or whatever.”
She clutches the edge of her plate, expecting retribution from Zach, but nothing happens. Her bag sits motionless on the table. He . . . agrees with her.
My stomach knots.
It’s different with us, I insist to myself. Kennedy and I had a life. Have a life.
“Maybe,” I concede.
Morgan studies me more closely. I feel suddenly self-conscious, like when I shared in the support group. I offer her one of my fries, hoping to defuse.
She looks pleased and hits the ghost-pepper sauce unflinchingly. Her focus on me doesn’t let up, however. “Doesn’t Kennedy keep you from living a normal life? Surely it must be hard to explain to coworkers why the office feels haunted around you,” she ventures. “Your friends must be creeped out at your place.”
“I work from home,” I say.
Morgan raises her eyebrows, unsatisfied. “And your friends?”
“Kennedy is my friend.”
Morgan’s shoulders slump. “Dude,” she pronounces. “You need to have at least one friend who isn’t dead.”
I shrug. Defiantly, I dip my fry. “Why?”
Skepticism crosses Morgan’s expression when she opens and then closes her mouth. She lifts the EMF detector up and waves the unit closer in front of me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Making sure you’re not a ghost,” she informs me. “Can’t end up in a Sixth Sense situation here.”
I nearly laugh, surprising myself. “Well, what does the very science-backed ghost-hunting tool tell you?”
“According to this, you’re alive, but I’m not convinced,” she informs me. “You’re right. Probably doesn’t work.”
Excerpted from Seeing Other People by Emily Wibberley and Austin Siegemund-Broka Copyright © 2025 by Emily Wibberley. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
