“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—”
“We can’t,” I interrupted. “I know.”
Something inside of me gave then. Not hope, exactly, but the small thread of happiness I had this past week, because it couldn’t support me. I was balancing precariously on a string that snapped, thinking it was made of sturdier stuff.
“Florence—” he began, and winced again. He clutched his chest. “I—I want to stay but I . . .”
He couldn’t. He was begging me to let him go.
I took a deep breath. The good goodbyes were what you made of them. Elvistoo crooning The Supremes’ “You Can’t Hurry Love” in the background, Mom laughing through her tears as Seaburn spun her through the grass.
I turned back to Ben, and I smiled the only kind of smile I could muster. It was sad and broken, but it was mine. “Thank you, Benji Andor, for letting me live in your grandmother’s world for a few years. And thank you for wanting to live in mine.”