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.”
30
Strange Bedfellows
MORNING LIGHT POURED in between the violet curtains as I woke up, and I rolled over to check my phone. Eight thirty. Thursday, April 13. Today was my dad’s funeral. I hugged a pillow tightly to my chest, and buried my face into it—when I remembered Ben.
He was lying beside me, eyes closed, still as stone. Ghosts didn’t breathe, and they didn’t sleep, either, but there were the beginnings of dark circles under his eyes. There was a bit of stubble on his cheeks, too, and I thoughtlessly reached to touch it when he opened his eyes.
I retracted my hand quickly. A blush crept up my face. “You’re awake—sorry. Of course you are, you don’t sleep. Good morning.”
“Good morning,” he replied softly. “Sleep well?”
I nodded, and hugged the pillow to my chest tighter. “I don’t want to go today.”
“I know. I’ll be there.”
“Promise?”
He nodded. “Though I don’t know how much it’ll help.”
“More than you think,” I replied, pressing my mouth into the pillow, my words muffled. He looked doubtful, so I pushed the pillow down and added, “I don’t feel so sharp or raw with you around. I feel . . . okay. I haven’t felt that in so long—like I don’t need to put on any masks for you. I don’t have to pretend to be cool or cute or—or normal.”
His eyes softened. “I like being around you, too.”
“Because I’m the only one who can see you.”
“Yes,” he replied, and my heart began to sink into my chest, until he added, “but not because I’m a ghost, Florence.” Then he reached to brush a strand of hair out of my face. When his fingertips passed through my cheek, it felt like a bloom of cold. I shivered—I couldn’t help myself. He retracted his hand, his lips pursed together. “I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I haven’t finished that manuscript. I don’t know when I will. I—I feel like I just keep failing you.”
“There’s more to life than work, and you are grieving for your dad right now. Asking you to do that . . . no. I don’t expect you to kill yourself trying to finish it.”
“Says the workaholic.”
“I wish I wasn’t. I wish I’d taken a vacation—done something.” He rolled onto his back, and stared at the popcorn ceiling. He swallowed hard, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in trepidation. “I wish . . . I had closed my office door after you walked in and kissed you until you saw stars.”
I let out a squeak. “You do not!”
“Oh yes I do,” he replied. “I would’ve asked first.”
I could imagine that, in some alternate timeline. Where he stood, and shut the door behind me, and knelt down beside where I sat, clutching a cactus, and asked me in this exact soft, growling voice—“May I kiss you, Florence Day?”