The Dead Romantics

by Ashley Poston

“I would drive you crazy,” I commented. “Florence, you already do.”

“Can I stay? Like this—with you?” My heart leapt into my throat. But what about Ann’s last book? I thought, but I didn’t want to voice it. I didn’t want him to change his mind because—“I’d like that.” Because people always left. If they had a choice—they left. And Ben wanted to stay.

my blood rushed with the thought of all the corny moments I could have with Benji Andor. Even though he was dead. It didn’t mean he was gone.

Ben, who saw me for all my chaotic flaws and my stubbornness and still wanted to stay. He wanted to stay. I wanted him to stay, too.

Because Dad was right, in the end, about love. It was loyal, and stubborn, and hopeful. It was a brother calling before a funeral to ask how the latest book was going. It was a sister scolding her older sister for always running away. It was a little girl on a stormy night tucked into the lap of an undertaker, listening to the sound of the wind through the creaky Victorian house. It was a ballroom dancer spinning around in an empty parlor with the ghost of her husband and a song in her throat. It was petting good dogs, and quiet mornings waking up beside a man with impossibly dark eyes and a voice with the syrupy sweetness of third-shelf vodka. It was a best friend flying in from New York on a moment’s notice. It was life, wild and finite. It was a few simple words, written in a loopy longhand.

“I’m sorry, but I—I think I know why I’m here. With you. It isn’t because of Annie’s book. It’s because of yours. To thank you.” And he smiled. It reached his eyes, but in the way smiles did when you were trying to swallow down a sob. “The last year of Annie’s life was hard—I was her only family left, and she was mine. I can’t begin to express how much your book helped me. That entire year was bleak, but I could open it and get lost in your words, and in those moments it felt like everything would be okay. I don’t know why it was that book, exactly, but it was. So, thank you for giving me words when I didn’t think there were any left. I hope you never stop giving the world your words.” I couldn’t count how often I wanted to hear those exact words from someone—anyone—and here was this man telling me he loved them. Cherished them.

“I’ve said goodbye to so many people—shouldn’t it be easy now?” Alice gave me a strange look. “Who told you that lie? It’s never easy. It’s also never really goodbye—and trust me, we’re in the business of goodbyes. The people who pass through here live on in you and me and everyone they touched. There is no happy ending, there’s just . . . happily living. As best you can. Or whatever. Metaphor-metaphor-simile shit.”

when I thought about Ben, about his disheveled hair, his timid smile and soft voice, a heartstring pulled so taut in my chest it almost broke, and it hurt. Because I thought I could— I thought I could love him. Cautious and organized and stoic as he was. Just as he was. He didn’t need to fit into a perfect place in my life. He just . . . needed to be. He existed. And the rest of my world made room. He was right in the end. Romance wasn’t dead, after all.

Rose told me that Wednesday that if I spiraled any more, I’d drill myself to the center of the earth. So I tried to spiral more quietly.

Mood

“Beautiful day,” I commented to a man sweating through his Armani suit. He grunted and patted his forehead. It was summer in the city, and the men in the elevator looked like they were about to sweat to death in their ironed business suits, the women in flouncy skirts and kitten heels.

as he stepped closer still, and suddenly he was in front of me, and cupped my face in his hands, the recognition in his eyes blooming like dandelions, and the ache in my chest turned into something warm and bright and golden.

“Wait, wait.” I eased away from him a little, thinking. “Does this mean I’m literally the girl of your dreams?” He scrunched his nose. “Wouldn’t that be a bit cliché?” “You’re right, you’d probably flag it for being too unrealistic.” “Especially considering one of us thinks love is dead,” he agreed. “Okay, to be fair, you were mostly dead.” I ran my fingers across his face, his stubbly jaw and red scar, and twined into his raven-soft hair. “But you aren’t anymore, and I was wrong.” “I’m glad you were,” he agreed, and bent his head down to kiss me again. His stubble brushed across my cheek, rough and real, and I wanted to drink all six-foot-whatever of him in like one of those stupidly large cowboy-boot beer glasses at roadside bars. Then he anchored my head and kissed me deeper, and for a moment I knew I was still in Falcon House Publishers, but I felt like I was shooting through the stars, infinite, with my heart beating brightly.