The Dead Romantics (85)

“It’s not,” he interrupted resolutely, and winced in pain.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Why? What haven’t you told me?”

He shook his head. He hadn’t been able to meet my gaze since I came over to the bench. Why was I just noticing this? He couldn’t meet my gaze because he knew I’d see the truth if he did. “I . . .”

“Ben.”

He clenched his jaw.

“Benji.”

“It’s a long story,” he began, staring down at a patch of dying grass by his left loafer, “but I think I need to tell you. I think I should have told you from the beginning.”

I clenched my fists. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. If he wasn’t here because of the manuscript, then . . . what else could there be? “Okay. What is it?”

“Ann Nichols was my grandmother.”

I forced a laugh. Really? “Ben! C’mon, I know you love her. She was like the matron saint of romance to all of us—”

“I don’t mean like that.” Slowly, he drew his eyes to mine. They were glassy and wet. The world slowed. Oh no. “She was my grandmother.”

There was a lot of information in that sentence that could have surprised me. The fact that he hadn’t told me the myriad of times we talked about his grandmother. The slant of his nose that perhaps looked a bit like hers. The sharpness of his jawline. How much he knew about Ann Nichols. How he always called her Annie.

No, it wasn’t any of that. What surprised me was one simple word: “Was?”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “She passed away five and a half years ago.”

Five . . . and a half years? Just about the time when I met her, when she sat down across from me and offered me a job. I was shaking my head vehemently. “That—that can’t be right. No, we met at that coffeehouse . . .”

“She couldn’t have,” Ben replied gently. “She had been bedridden for at least a year prior while she was writing her last book—The Forever House. We had a quiet funeral. She wanted it that way, because she had an idea. There were four books left in her contract, and she wanted them written, but she didn’t want the cloud of her passing to define them. So she laid out a plan to find a ghostwriter and finish those books. She also told me not to notify her publisher.”

“And her agent?” I could just imagine the flames spitting from Molly’s mouth when she found out—

“Molly knew.”

I wasn’t sure if that made things better or worse, actually. I tried to keep myself calm, but I was anything but. My head was spinning. “And—you—the estate—just let me? Without knowing she was dead?”

“No.” He finally opened his eyes, and faced me. “I had been on the hunt for a ghostwriter for a few months at that point, but none of the writers fit. Then you asked, and I thought perhaps Annie had reached out to you before she died and just never told me.” He shrugged a little half-heartedly.

“But she didn’t. She asked me herself. After she died,” I realized, and sighed. “I took a job from a ghost. Never had that on my bingo card . . .”

Ben let out a soft laugh, leaning close to me. His hand was so near mine, I could almost reach out and take it if he were alive. “Annie did used to say the universe sends you the things you need exactly when you need them, and I want to think it sent you. I don’t know about afterlifes or what happens after—after this but . . . finding your book was divine. Giving you Annie’s legacy and watching it flourish under your pen was a blessing. And this?” He looked into my eyes, and suddenly this no longer felt like a conversation. It felt like a goodbye. “These last few days have been . . . beautiful. It’s a good ending, darling. As your editor, I have no notes.”

My throat constricted. “Ben . . .”

“I’m sorry, but I—I think I know why I’m here. With you. It isn’t because of Annie’s book. It’s because of yours. To thank you.” And he smiled. It reached his eyes, but in the way smiles did when you were trying to swallow down a sob. “The last year of Annie’s life was hard—I was her only family left, and she was mine. I can’t begin to express how much your book helped me. That entire year was bleak, but I could open it and get lost in your words, and in those moments it felt like everything would be okay. I don’t know why it was that book, exactly, but it was. So, thank you for giving me words when I didn’t think there were any left. I hope you never stop giving the world your words.”

I couldn’t count how often I wanted to hear those exact words from someone—anyone—and here was this man telling me he loved them. Cherished them.

My mouth grew dry, and I didn’t know what to say. If I said, You’re welcome, would he disappear in a sparkle of dust? Would the wind carry him away into the afternoon?

“I’m sorry I have to go,” he said softly, guiltily, “but I promise that not all of your companions will be ghosts, darling.”

I’d heard that before. “Not even the ones I want to stay,” I replied. My heart was breaking.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and gave me a sad sort of pleading look. It twisted my gut. “I want to be with you—but not like this. I want to grow old with you. I want to wake up every morning and see you on the pillow beside me. I want to cherish every moment of our lives and—”