Page 40 of The Dead Romantics

“Benji Andor got hit by acar.”

Ben.

I bolted up in bed. “He did?”

“Yes! You know Erin? At Falcon House? Yeah, she saw it happen. Like, you know right in front of the building? The intersection? She happened to look up at theexactright time—andwham! She’s so distraught. Like,sodistraught. Poor thing. I’m getting drinks with her tonight to see how she’sreallydoing—maybe I can finally convince her to leave publishing. She could dosomuch better literally anywhere else.”

I was still way back on Ben Andor getting hit by a car. Blood everywhere. For some reason, that one scene fromMeet Joe Blackplayed in my head, over and over again, but instead of Brad Pitt, it was Benji Andor in a dark blue suit and striped tie being flung across the road again and again and again—like a football game’s fourth-quarter touchdown instant replay.

So he reallywasdead. I mean—of course he was. But it also meant I wasn’t going crazy. That he was actually here, haunting me. He hadn’t showed up until last night. And that meant he was sticking around because his unfinished business had something to do with me.

“Shit,” I whispered, because there was only one thing it could be. TheJumanjidrums began to play in my head, coming from my backpack where I left my laptop. A dirge of absolute dread.

“Iknow,” Rose agreed. “The world lost another fine ass.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know—oh,shit,” she muttered, and I heard her cover her phone with her hand so what she yelled was a little muffled. “Um—yes, it’s me! I’ll be out in a minute, Tanya.”

There was a voice on the other side, and then the clip of heels out of the bathroom.

Rose picked up the phone a moment later with a morose tone. “The boss just came to check on me. I gotta go—but if you need me, let me know, okay? I’ll catch the next flight down and be there with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to, but I’m offering. I’ll be your emotional support best friend. I can get some wine and you can go show me around your weird little town.”

That sounded so tempting, but plane tickets were expensive, and she was needed at her job. I’d be fine. I always was. “Nah, but thank you, though.”

“You don’t have to do everything alone, Florence.”

“I’ve got so much baggage, I’m never alone,” I replied jokingly, and she laughed.

“You’re ridiculous. Love you.”

“Love you more.”

I waited for her to hang up, and flopped back down on the squeaky bed. Having some help would be nice, but I didn’t need it. Xavier Day was my father. His funeral wasmyresponsibility. So instead I pulled up Google on my phone and punched in where to find the nearest flower shop. I could do things on my own—I didn’t need to bother anyone else. Alice was up to her gills in funeral preparations and Carver had his own job and Mom—Mom couldn’t do everything.

I wasn’t sure if my siblings could see it, but she was barely holding herself together.

No, this was my job. I was the eldest. I could do this. Alone.

I had for this long, anyway.

13

Ghoul Intentions

THE CROWS WEREon the roof when I left the bed-and-breakfast that afternoon, and that meant Ben was lurking around somewhere. Though at the moment, either he didn’t want to be perceived, or he was hiding in a bush somewhere crying. I would be, if I found out I was dead and the only person who could see me was a failure of a ghostwriter who gave him a plant instead of, you know, the manuscript that was due.

I should tell him what Rose told me—about his accident. He had disappeared so suddenly this morning, I didn’t get the chance to ask if he remembered how he died or not. Though, the fact that he thought he was still alive, somehow, definitely tilted that answer towardnot.

Google Maps on my phone said that the Main Street Flower Emporium was still open after all these years, so I left for the center of town. My senior year prom date bought a corsage from them that ended up being haunted.

I didn’t want to think about how that happened.

Just like I didn’t want to think about the deep, twisting vein of sadness in my stomach, and how as time passed in Mairmont and Dad wasn’t here, it kept growing. Would it go away someday? Would the dagger in my side slowly shrink to a paper cut? Would the grief ever disappear, or was it stagnant? Would it always be there, just under the surface, lurking in the way only grief could?

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