Page 25 of Lucky Night

Oh no, she says. You’re too exalted. Too busy reading your, whatever. Dead Russians. Translations of obscure Austrian novelists.

Whoa, hey. Why the vicious attack on obscure Austrian novelists? What have obscure Austrians ever done to you?

They’ve bored me. She flops back against the pillows. They’re so fricking boring! Reading is supposed to be fun.

Yes, it is. And her books are fun. Unquestionably. He knows because he has read them. She thinks he hasn’t because, well, that’s what he tells her. Or strongly implies, whenever he teases her about them, pretending he wouldn’t lower himself to that kind of trash, et cetera. And normally he wouldn’t. He bought the first one for Jill when it came out. Caroline gave him such hell—Our daughter is twelve, Nick! This is for teenagers!—so he never gave it to her. One night he flipped it open, to check out her author photo, glance at the acknowledgments—of course he wasn’t in there, why would he be?—and he skimmed the first page, to see what all the fuss was about.

He stayed up until dawn readingit.

He keeps her second book at the office. A paralegal came across it one day.Bought that for my daughter,he said. Which didn’t explainthe cracked spine, but the paralegal was too intimidated by him to inquire further. They’re well written, her books. Moderately engrossing, if you like that sort of thing. Millions do, as noted. They’re a phenomenon. The second book ended with a twist that was truly breathtaking. Usually he sees that sort of thing coming. He was impressed. It must have been hard to pull off.

So yes, her books are fine. Probably good, given the genre. Again, he doesn’t have much of a point of reference.

Is there penetration? he asks. Phantom jizz?

My characters are teenagers, Nick. I can’t exactly douse them with jizz.

Well, one of them is four hundred years old or something, right?

She sets her glass on the nightstand. I’m going to explain this to you one more time. Then we’re never going to talk about it again. My ghosts, my main ghost, really, the protagonist—

JoJo, he says.

Julian, she says, making a visible effort not to slap him, can assume a form, become, you know, a body, thanks to having studied certain…oh God. She covers her face. This is awful.

What?

When I have to explain it like this I feel so dumb! Of course, it’s all dumb, it’s—

It’s not dumb, he says. Now he feels bad. JoJo. He knows her hero’s name is Julian. He also knows how ghost-human banging works, since it’s described in detail in the second book. Which he’s read twice.

Yet here he is, giving her a hard time.

Keep going, he says.

Okay, let me just…she glances at her phone, then sets it face down on the nightstand. Right. So, Julian discovered an ancient book in the library of the estate he haunts. He was alone there for decades while the house was vacant, so he studied, and practiced, and when the moon is in a certain phase, and he feels a lot of desire…

He’s motivated, he says.

Exactly. Meaning that when Sophie shows up—that’s my human heroine—and they fall in love, this overwhelming and passionate love, he can become corporeal and, you know, do the deed. Though I focus on the kissing, the touching. The feelings. I kind of blur over the act itself.

The slipping of the ghostly p into the corporeal v, he says.

Nicely put. The film version will be a lot more explicit. And sensual. Juan Pablo wants to create a whole atmosphere of decadence and—

Juan Pablo?

The director, she says. Juan Pablo Torres.

She gets out of bed, picking up her phone on the way. He watches her move to the window, typing.

Juan Pablo? You can’t just call him Juan?

That’s his whole first name, so…

You met this guy last week?

But she’s gone, lost in her screen. She twirls a lock of hair while she scrolls, twisting it into a little knot. Then she releases it and starts twisting it again.

---