The Dead Romantics (41)

I made a face. “God forbid it’s legible.”

He chuckled. It was a warm, throaty sound that reminded me of red velvet cake. In a book, I would’ve called it a delicious sound. “Did you read it?” he asked. “Marlow’s book.”

“Oh,” I replied distantly, “I’m very familiar with it. You?”

“No—I have an advance copy but it never piqued my interest.”

“Might’ve saved yourself there. The heroine in the book is so dry and salty and apathetic—about everything.”

Ben winced. “He probably thought that meant a strong female character.”

I threw up my hands. “I know, right? A woman can be emotional and vibrant and love things. That doesn’t make her weak or inferior—argh! I’m not going to rant about it, it’ll just make me upset,” I added, forcing my hands down by my sides again. A blush crept over my cheeks. “Not that I care what he wrote. At all.”

It’s not like he wrote me into his book. I wasn’t that dry and salty. At least I didn’t think I was.

And I definitely wasn’t apathetic.

“And,” I added, unable to stop myself, “he made her a bad kisser. Like, pathetically bad. And I don’t know about you, but I think salty bitches kiss great.”

He nodded, agreeing. “In my experience, women with sharp tongues usually have soft lips.”

“You kiss sharp-tongued girls often?”

His gaze lingered on my lips. “Not often enough.”

My ears began to burn with a blush, and I glanced away from him. He was a ghost, Florence. Very much dead. And off-limits. “You know, if I was any other kind of person, I’d ask you to haunt Lee Marlow’s hipster ass.”

“A ghost for hire.”

“You’d be chillingly good at it.”

“I have a bone to pick with him, anyhow.”

“Oh?” I laughed. “Were you in love with him, too?”

“No, but you were. And I can tell that it hurts.”

That surprised me. “Am I that obvious?”

“No—yes,” he admitted. “A little. You don’t seem like the person who wrote Ardently Yours anymore. Not in a bad way, but in the way you feel when you’re reading something and realize what you’ve been looking for—are you listening?” he added as I stood and began to pace in front of the bench. “I don’t think you’re listening—”

“Shush, wait.” I held a finger up to him to get him to quiet. My brain was thinking, and it was connecting dots like a constellation. “The manuscript.”

“What about it?”

“What connects us! It’s not Ann, it’s the manuscript. You’re here because I’m not done with it. That’s your unfinished business!”

He tilted his head. “Well, you’re almost finished with it, right?”

“Um . . .”

“Florence,” he said sternly, and a shiver went up my spine. “You’ve had over a year.”

“Yeah, and a lot of things have happened in a year!”

“But—”

Suddenly, a flashlight blinded me. I shielded my eyes with the back of my hand and winced away from the blaringly bright light. There was the crunch of gravel, and the jingle of keys. Shit. I hadn’t even noticed him unlocking the cemetery gate or coming inside. I’d been too wrapped up in flirting with this ship called Disaster.

I dove behind the bench. Ben hid with me.

“Hello?” the police officer called. “Hey, you kids, you’re not supposed to be in here.”

“Shit,” I whispered. “I think that’s Officer Saget.”

“Bob?”

“What? No—was that a joke, Benji Andor?”

“Too dated?” he asked, ashamed.

“A bit—shit.” I ducked down lower as the flashlight beam searched overhead again. How could I possibly explain to Ben the years of hate accumulated between Officer Saget and me? “So, fun story: I might be banned from this graveyard.”

“Florence!”

“I was a kid!”

The police officer called out to us, but I pressed my finger to my lips and told Ben to be quiet. He wasn’t going to trick me this time. I was an adult. With a functioning and fully formed brain this time!

Well, mostly functioning. On good days.

The officer walked closer, over the dark grassy hill, toward us. While I didn’t have any outstanding warrants, I did absolutely have a parking ticket I hadn’t paid in ten years. I didn’t want to think about what that cost now. Never mind the other misdemeanors I had on my record. Starting a fire at school. Stealing Coach Rhinehart’s golf cart. Trespassing in the Mairmont County Museum . . .

Enough to make me a public nuisance.

Suddenly, with a startled caw, the murder of crows sitting in the oak tree took flight at the same time. They scared Officer Saget, who cursed and ducked as they swooped in and broke out into the night sky. Then I saw Ben try to grab for my wrist, but his hand passed through it. He looked momentarily annoyed.

“Hurry!” he hissed.

He didn’t have to tell me twice. I turned on my heels and leapt into a sprint toward the back of the cemetery, cutting around tombstones and fake flowers propped up against plaques, and headed for the back corner. It got darker the farther we ran, and a little sliver of wall had fallen down behind the old oak there—