I said, shaking my head, “That was a terrible pun.”
“Yours weren’t much better. And you’re supposed to be a writer for a living.”
“Ex-writer,” I reminded. “My editor didn’t give me another extension.”
“Ex-editor,” he reminded. And then he said very softly, gently, “Thank you, Florence.”
I couldn’t touch him—this wasn’t my first ghost, and probably wasn’t my last—but it was instinct. To comfort him. Even though I wanted someone to comfort me, too. I just wanted someone to stop me, and sit me down, and tell me that things would hurt for a while, but they wouldn’t hurt forever.
I wanted to tell him that this wasn’t forever.
My fingers slipped through his shoulder, numb and cold—
And then he was gone.
Again.
14
Moonwalks
FINDING A THOUSAND wildflowers would be the death of me.
I didn’t want to take Mr. Taylor up on his offer because I didn’t want anyone to go out of their way for me. If I was going to do something, I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone else. It might’ve been because I was stubborn, or because I just didn’t like help, but I resolved to do all these things on Dad’s list alone. So, I called a florist within twenty-five miles from me and asked about the price and delivery fees of a thousand fucking wildflowers. Turns out, they cost more than my first apartment in Brooklyn, and that was the place that I shared with a cockroach big enough to contend with Godzilla.
“They’re weeds!” I cried, slamming my phone down on the bar. “Why do weeds cost so much?!”
After Ben disappeared, I went back to the inn, where I returned to my search for a thousand wildflowers. I had moved from my room to the tiny bar downstairs that didn’t have a bartender, but a bell I could ring to summon Dana and ask them for another rum and Coke. Which I did. Often. I had my laptop with me, opened to Yelp and Google Maps and twenty other tabs that I’d rather not mention.
Could I pick the flowers in the wild? Where even was a wildflower field? Maybe the Ridge? But it was April. And there had already been more than one cold snap. They’d be dead and crispy by the time I found them. And it was the Ridge.
I didn’t want to go there. Not ever.
Dana poked their head through the doorway behind the bar that led to the check-in counter. “Everything okay in here?”
“Weeds!” I cried, throwing my hands up. “They want a thousand dollars for weeds!”
“I think I got a dealer who can cut you a deal—”
“Wildflowers,” I corrected.
“Ooh. Yeah, I’m afraid I can’t help you there.” The front door opened, and Dana glanced back and smiled. “But you know what can help?”
“A bullet to the head?”
“The mayor! Dun, dun, DUN!” they sang as the clatter of paws came up behind me on the hardwood floor.
I turned around on my stool.
And there sitting so perfectly behind me was a golden retriever named Fetch. A little grayer than I remembered around his snout, he was still just as fetching as he had been the day I met him, before I left for college.
That was ten years ago—holy shit, I suddenly felt old.
“Doggo!” I cried, sliding off my stool onto the ground. He gave a soft yip, tail wagging, and smothered me in kisses. A laugh bubbled up from my throat. There was no way to not feel a little happy when you’re being licked by a dog with breath that could knock an elephant out cold.