He reached out slowly, softly, and took her hands in his. “Don’t worry,” he replied, “it would be a song with only the good notes.”
I wrote. And I wrote. For three months, as April turned to May, turned to June and into July, I polished and I edited and I cleaned the draft as I sat in front of a fan and drank sweet tea and fell in love over and over with Amelia and Jackson and their magical Isle of Ingary. I checked my texts, though they were mostly from Rose checking in on me, and Carver asking about plans to propose to Nicki, and even Alice a few times! Though whenever she texted it was mostly about Rose.
I could see that trouble coming from a mile away. My best friend and my little sister? God help me.
I ate takeout Thai from the restaurant down the block and went to bed too late and woke up at noon to fix myself a pot of coffee I would take one sip of before abandoning it as I fell into the story again.
I hadn’t written like this in years, not since I first began writing for Ann.
It felt like everything over the last year, all of my pent-up frustrations, all of my failures, all of my wants and hopes and dreams, they all came tumbling out of me. On the page I could make sense of all of them, mold them into a beginning, a middle, and an end—because all good love stories ended.
And then, just like that, I was no longer in the dark night. I was stepping out into the daylight, into the happily ever after, and it felt good and whole and bright.
And something to be proud of.
One evening, Carver called to tell me, “He said yes,” on a video chat with Nicki, showing both of their golden engagement bands. “And we’re gonna have the wedding in a few weeks at the funeral home. I figured since Alice basically owns it now, she could bump a wake or two and give us a family discount. Bruno is officiating.”
“Elvistoo?” I asked, surprised. “I didn’t know he did weddings, too.”
Three weeks later, on the hottest day of July on record, I finished the last book I would ever write for Ann Nichols.
And it was good.
I sent the novel attached in an email to Molly, who then forwarded it to Ben’s new assistant editor, Tamara, the one who had done a lot of the heavy lifting while he was away on medical leave. Tamara knew I was Ann’s ghostwriter, too. I wasn’t expecting to hear back. It had been three months, and if Ben remembered me, if he missed me, then he would’ve found me. He knew how.
A few minutes later, Molly called. And offered me representation.
“I know your work is good, and since the contract is over, I thought I’d poach you before anyone else got you,” she said frankly. “So, what do you say?”
I told her I’d think about it, just to make her sweat a little for keeping Ann’s death （albeit a secret） from me. Molly was one of the best agents in the business, and I liked working with her, so it was a no-brainer, but you know, I had time to sit and think on it, since I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do next.
I’d just finished a book, after all.
Was Ben going to love it? No, I already knew he would. He was going to love it because for a few days during a chilly spring in Mairmont, he loved me, and like Jackson singing a song with only good notes for Amelia, the book was filled with only the good parts of us.
That evening, instead of takeout, I decided to make some celebratory mac and cheese while Rose stopped by the discount liquor store to get our favorite pineapple wine on her way home. My phone dinged as I was draining the noodles. An email.
I looked at who it was—
And my heart slammed against the bony cage of my chest. I almost dropped my phone into the hot noodles.
The email was from Ben.
Miss Day,
It was a pleasure working with you. I wish you all the best on your future endeavors.