The Dead Romantics (56)

“I know, isn’t it charming?”

“It’s annoying,” I replied. “It’s like you walked out of a Hallmark movie.”

He pursed his lips into a thin line. “Fine,” he replied, and motioned between the two of us, “then set this scene.”

“You mean between you and me.”

“Perfect dynamic. A refined editor and his chaotic gremlin of an author.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“Call this practice—a warm-up. What kind of scene would we be?”

“The kind that doesn’t happen.”

“And yet here we are.” He cocked his head. “You write for Ann Nichols, for god’s sake. Your imagination has been praised as ‘illuminating’ and ‘masterful’—and I’m confident that it still is. So please”—he shifted on the bench to angle toward me—“give me a scene.”

“Well . . . we’re two people. On a bench.”

“A refined editor and a chaotic author,” he reminded me.

“But the editor isn’t nearly as refined as he thinks he is.”

“Ouch.”

“And the author is tired. And maybe she was never good at writing to begin with. Maybe she never really understood romance. Maybe she’s not cut out for love stories—”

He leaned in close to me—so close that if he were alive, I would be able to smell the cologne he wore, the toothpaste he brushed with, the shampoo he used—and he said in a low voice, “Or maybe she just needs someone to show her that she is.”

The tips of my ears began to heat up. They were turning red. I was turning red.

Stupid Florence. He’s a ghost. He knew he was. And he was professional, goddamn it, and orderly, and very straitlaced. The thought of throwing me onto the bed and ripping off my clothes probably hadn’t even crossed his mind—not once.

Not that it’d crossed mine, either, but . . .

Damn it, I was in trouble.

Then he lifted his eyes a bit beyond me. His eyebrows furrowed. “Is—is that your sister?”

“My what?”

The sound of an engine revved behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder in time to watch Alice peel out of a side alley on Dad’s motorcycle, and disappear down the street. Well, I guessed it was fixed now.

And the noise brought me back to my senses.

This was bad—this scene, this moment, this tightness in my chest— “I—I need to go run some errands,” I said, standing, and quickly left the town square. When I was well and truly out of earshot, I glanced back and he was still there, lounging back on the bench. Then a car passed between us— And he was gone.





22





Grave Matters


STOP THINKING! I chastised myself, slapping my cheeks to wake myself up. Snap out of it. He was dead, I was alive. There were tragedies written with this premise. There were no happily ever afters between an undertaker’s daughter and her ghost.

He knew that. I knew that. I wasn’t going to misread his intentions. He wanted to help me so that he could move on. Ghosts never stayed. It was one goodbye I was accustomed to. Why would he want to stay? Where only I could see him? He wouldn’t. He was being nice.

That was all.

With the flowers still impossible to obtain and Elvis booked for the funeral, it was high time to get the receipt from Dad’s will and visit Unlimited Party. Karen was the head counsel at the local law firm in town, next to the bookstore. I purposefully averted my eyes as I passed the store’s window display and dipped into the brick building at the street corner. Luckily, I caught Karen between clients, so I quickly borrowed the receipt from the files and slipped back out again.

Unlimited Party was a good fifteen minutes away, in a larger strip mall, but at least the Uber driver was quiet. He was listening to a murder mystery podcast—it made me think of Rose. It was one she was obsessed with. She’d seen the ladies live at Comic-Con more than once. I missed her.

What’re you up to? New York still there without me? I texted.

Work must’ve been slow because Rose responded immediately. Somehow. The apartment is SO creepy there alone tho. I miss you.

I’ll be home by the end of the week, I replied quickly.

Take your time! How’s everything back home?

Oh, I guess I hadn’t updated her. So I did. About how finding one thousand wildflowers was somehow a lot harder than it appeared. About how I somehow booked Elvis to sing at my father’s funeral and needed to write Dad’s obituary. About the mysterious letter Dad left for his funeral. And now how I was heading toward Unlimited Party because—well—Dad had beat us to the kazoos and streamers, apparently.

I read down the receipt with a growing despondency. Half of the things were smudged out because sometime between 2001 and today, it had gotten wet. Did he think we were going to throw a frat party instead of a funeral?

Probably, in all honesty.

Your Dad always sounded rad, Rose texted. Then there were dots; she was writing. Then nothing. Then dots again. Finally—Are you doing okay? You know with . . . everything.

Everything. I wished I could tell her about Ben. I wanted to. About the strange, muddled feelings in my chest. I was mourning, but I was blushing. I was so fucking sad, and yet there were moments when the tide would go back out and I wasn’t drowning anymore in it—and they were all moments, I realized, with Ben.