Page 116 of The Dead Romantics

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 hemissedme, 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 ano-brainer, but you know, I had time to sit and think on it, since I wasn’t surewhatI 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 lovedme, 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.

Best,

Benji Andor

And that was all it said.

For the next four hours, I paced the apartment trying to decode every secret message within those twenty-two words with Rose and a bottle of pineapple Riesling.

“We didn’t even work together!” I cried, carving a hole in the hardwood floors the faster I paced. “What does hemean?”

Does he remember?No—he couldn’t. If he did, then he would have contacted me so much sooner than this. That couldn’t be it.

Rose watched me pace from her perch in the middle of the couch, sipping on her wine. “Perhaps it was just a polite email?”

“I didn’t even get one of those frommyold editor.”

“You should respond.”

I stopped pacing. “What?”

She took another large gulp. “Tell him you’d like to meet, and then finish up your unfinished business.”

“I don’thaveany—”

“Florence.”

“Rose.”

“I love you, but you do.”

“I love you, too, but you just expect me to waltz into his office and—and tell him what? That I’m a chaotic mess? Seven drunk ferrets in a trench coat?”

In reply, Rose forcibly set down her wineglass onto the coffeetable and reached behind her on the couch to our bookcases. She grabbed one and presented it to me. “Sign, seal, deliver.”

I stared down at my own book,Ardently Yours. The book that Ben said was his favorite in the whole world. And I let out a very long sigh. “Remember your last idea involving Ben?”

---