Page 54 of The Dead Romantics

But he never knew the full story. I never told him that I pulled inspiration from his and Mom’s romance, that I memorized all of the stories they told me of their grandparents, all the lovestories they had passed down from generation to generation. I had been so caught up with being the exception to the rule—the one family member who would never have a glorious love story—that I’d forgotten why I wrote about love.

Because a gray-haired woman in an oversized sweater asked me to, yes, but also because Iwantedto. Because I believed in it, once upon a time.

“Did I upset you?” Bruno asked, and I realized I hadn’t touched my lemonade.

I took a deep sip and shook my head. “No,” I replied, and winced because my voice was anything but convincing. “I actually came to ask you a question about Dad. Would you be available Thursday around three?”

“I—I mean, I’d have to check with Perez—”

“Yes,” Perez replied. “He is.”

“I guess I am?”

“Then would you do the honors of singing at my father’s funeral? I’ll pay you, of course—is there a special rate you have for... strange venues?”

Bruno blinked at me. Once. Twice. Then he leaned forward and asked, “Lemme get this straight: You want me to sing at your father’s funeral.”

“Yes. In that.” And I pointed to the poster.

His bushy black eyebrows shot up. “Huh.”

“I know it’s strange but—”

“Hell yeah.”

That took me back. “And your going rate?”

The man grinned, and finally I noticed that his left canine was gold plated. “Miss Day, Elvistoo honors the dead for free.”

17

Dead Hour

I CURLED MYfingers around the wrought iron gate to the cemetery. It was already locked—I forgot that it closed most evenings at 6p.m.—and I didn’t really want to walk the graveyard tonight, but I didn’t know where else to go. There was a storm rolling in. Lightning lit the bulbous clouds in the distance, and there was a distinct smell in the air.

Damp and fresh, like clean laundry hung out to dry.

Thunder rumbled across the hills of the cemetery.

“A bit early for one of those moonwalks, isn’t it?” asked a familiar voice to my left. I glanced over, and there was Ben, his hands in his pockets, looking a little worse for wear. His tie was a little askew, the top button of his shirt undone, exposing enough of his collar and a necklace hanging there—with a ring on it.

A golden wedding ring.

His? Or someone else’s? I didn’t know why, but I was startled by it. I really knew nothing about him, did I? I didn’t know why it bothered me. I never cared before what kind of jewelry ghostswore.Silly, I chastised myself, letting go of the gate, and turned to him. “Yeah. Storm’s coming in, anyway.”

He inclined his head toward the clouds. “You can tell?”

“You can smell it in the air. Want to walk me back to the inn?”

“It’d be an honor, Florence.”

Again, he said my name, and again each vowel curled a chill up my spine in a not-too-unpleasant sort of way. It was actually very pleasant. I liked the way he said my name. I liked that he evensaidit. Lee only ever called mebunnythis andbunnythat.

But oh, what power there was when Ben saidmy name.

A gust of wind scattered a few green leaves. I pushed my hair behind my ear, to keep it out of my face, while it blew right through him. It didn’t ruffle his hair, or his clothes. He was stagnant, forever like this. A portrait now, something never to be changed. Like my dad—forever sixty-four. His experiences ended. His life frozen.

Ben put his hands in his pockets and began, “You know, I’ve been thinking about our conversation in the graveyard.”

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