The Dead Romantics (77)

“That’s what you like about me? I thought it was my perfect breasts?”

The tips of his ears went pink, and he quickly looked away. “Yes, well, they’re not why I like you. They’re a bonus. Like a book sale. Buy two, get one free.”

I chewed on the side of my cheek, trying to hide a smile. “And that’s what I like about you.”

“My broad and very perfect chest?”

“It is very broad,” I agreed, and he laughed. It was soft and throaty, and I really liked it.

The last crisps of winter clung to the chilly evening air as a spring wind blew its way through the budding oaks and dogwood trees, and I felt the itch in my fingers to write this all down. To paint the sky in dark blues and purples and silvers and paint the sidewalk in shards of glittery glass, and wax about how it felt to walk quietly beside someone who enjoyed your company just as much as you did theirs.

I couldn’t believe that I was swooning over the bare minimum—decency.

Dana was at the counter when we came into the inn, and they smiled at me over another romance novel. This time Christina Lauren. “Evening, Florence.”

“Good night, Dana!” I greeted.

Ben walked me up the stairs to my room at the end of the hallway, where he stood and waited as I fished for the room key in my purse. “Your family is really cool.”

“Oh, you saw them on a good night.”

“I’ve seen them every day this week while dealing with the worst,” he reminded.

I winced. “True. Imagine us during weddings. We’re a riot.”

“I’d love to see that,” he replied with a soft sadness. Because the chances were, he wouldn’t. I’d finish Ann’s book and release him from this weird half-life before any of that happened.

Trying not to think too much about it, I found my key at the bottom of my purse and unlocked the door. “Honestly, it’s not that special—Ben?”

He’d gone pale, suddenly, and caught himself against the side of the wall to keep from falling. I dropped my key and reached for him, but my hands passed through his arm.

“Ben—Ben are you okay?”

“Do you hear that?” he asked. His eyes had gone glassy.

“I—I don’t hear anything.”

“It sounds like—like—” But then he winced. The lamp on the table began to rattle.

Dana called from downstairs, “Florence? Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” I called back, hoping they didn’t come up the stairs to see the portraits slowly sliding wonky on the walls. I shoved open my door. “Inside, please,” I whispered, and he nodded and slipped through the wall into my bedroom.

Well, that was one way to do it.

I got inside and closed the door. The lamp outside stopped rattling. “Please, sit. I’m worried.”

He was holding his chest, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

“You are not.”

He pursed his lips, about to rebuke me, but he must have thought better of it and eased himself down on the bed. He swayed gently. Did he look fainter than usual? Paler? I couldn’t decide—though I did know that I was frightened enough that it killed my buzz.

“You’re not fine,” I decided. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replied, rubbing his face with his hands. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing—”

“I’m dead so why does it matter?” he said, and his voice was gruff and thick. “I’m dead and every time I disappear I come back a little less. I’m dead and I can still hear my heart beating in my ears, fainter and fainter. I’m dead and gone and I’m here and it’s not the book—it can’t be the book, Florence.”

“Of course it is.”

“I don’t want it to be. Because when you finish it . . .”

My heart jumped into my throat. “You’re just tired. You can stay here and rest all you want. I’m going to wash my face, okay? I’ll be back.” And as I left for the bathroom, I thought I felt a chill of cold brush through my wrist, but I ignored it because if I didn’t, I was afraid we would start dancing on a tightrope, and the ground was too far down.

I took a long time in the bathroom. Too long. I didn’t know if I wanted him gone by the time I got out, or if I wanted him to still be there sitting on the side of my bed. No, I did know what I wanted, but I was afraid.

I wanted him to stay.

“Ben—” My voice caught in my throat as I left the bathroom, and found him lying on the bed, turned onto his side. He was so long that his feet almost reached the end. He was still—of course he was, he was dead—but it unnerved me until I crawled gently under the covers on the other side.

His eyes fluttered open. “Mmh, I’ll get up—”

“Stay,” I said.

“You’re very bossy. It’s cute.”

“And you’re stubborn.” Then, quieter: “Please.”

He put his head back on the pillow. “On one condition.”

“What?”

“Tell me to stay again.”

I scooted closer to him, so close that if we were alive, our breaths would mingle and our knees would knock together and I could pull my fingers through his hair. I said softly, a secret and a prayer, “Stay.”