“Fine,” I called back, hoping they didn’t come up the stairs to see the portraits slowly sliding wonky on the walls. I shoved open my door. “Inside, please,” I whispered, and he nodded and slipped through the wall into my bedroom.
Well, that was one way to do it.
I got inside and closed the door. The lamp outside stopped rattling. “Please, sit. I’m worried.”
He was holding his chest, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”
“You arenot.”
He pursed his lips, about to rebuke me, but he must have thought better of it and eased himself down on the bed. He swayed gently. Did he look fainter than usual? Paler? I couldn’t decide—though I did know that I was frightened enough that it killed my buzz.
“You’re not fine,” I decided. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he replied, rubbing his face with his hands. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s notnothing—”
“I’m dead so why does it matter?” he said, and his voice was gruff and thick. “I’m dead and every time I disappear I come back a little less. I’m dead and I can still hear my heart beating in my ears, fainter and fainter. I’m dead and gone and I’m here and it’s not the book—it can’t be the book, Florence.”
“Of course it is.”
“I don’t want it to be. Because when you finish it...”
My heart jumped into my throat. “You’re just tired. You can stay here and rest all you want. I’m going to wash my face, okay? I’ll be back.” And as I left for the bathroom, I thought I felt a chill of cold brush through my wrist, but I ignored it because if I didn’t, I was afraid we would start dancing on a tightrope, and the ground was too far down.
I took a long time in the bathroom. Too long. I didn’t know if I wanted him gone by the time I got out, or if I wanted him to still be there sitting on the side of my bed. No, I did know what I wanted, but I was afraid.
I wanted him to stay.
“Ben—” My voice caught in my throat as I left the bathroom, and found him lying on the bed, turned onto his side. He was so long that his feet almost reached the end. He was still—of course he was, he was dead—but it unnerved me until I crawled gently under the covers on the other side.
His eyes fluttered open. “Mmh, I’ll get up—”
“Stay,” I said.
“You’re very bossy. It’s cute.”
“And you’re stubborn.” Then, quieter: “Please.”
He put his head back on the pillow. “On one condition.”
“What?”
“Tell me to stay again.”
I scooted closer to him, so close that if we were alive, our breaths would mingle and our knees would knock together and I could pull my fingers through his hair. I said softly, a secret and a prayer, “Stay.”
30
Strange Bedfellows
MORNING LIGHT POUREDin between the violet curtains as I woke up, and I rolled over to check my phone. Eight thirty. Thursday, April 13. Today was my dad’s funeral. I hugged a pillow tightly to my chest, and buried my face into it—when I remembered Ben.
He was lying beside me, eyes closed, still as stone. Ghosts didn’t breathe, and they didn’t sleep, either, but there were the beginnings of dark circles under his eyes. There was a bit of stubble on his cheeks, too, and I thoughtlessly reached to touch it when he opened his eyes.
I retracted my hand quickly. A blush crept up my face. “You’re awake—sorry. Of course you are, you don’t sleep. Good morning.”
“Good morning,” he replied softly. “Sleep well?”