Page 12 of Gone for the Ghost
The words emerge more sharply than intended, carrying implications I don’t entirely understand myself.Lily sets down her coffee mug—which still contains too much cream, a domestic detail I have no business caring about—and turns to face me with the expression of someone trying to solve a puzzle whose pieces keep shifting when she’s not looking directly at them.
“Julian,” she says carefully, “are you upset about what happened during the storm?”
The question strikes like a physical blow, forcing me to confront exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid examining.Am I upset about our merger?About experiencing the most profound connection of my existence, living or otherwise?About discovering that the woman I’ve been trying to keep at a safe emotional distance cares for me in ways that make solitude feel like self-imposed exile?
“Not upset,” I say, which is technically accurate while being completely inadequate.“Concerned about the implications.”
“What implications?”
How do I explain that loving her feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, exhilarated by the view but terrified of the fall?That every moment of happiness she brings me is shadowed by the knowledge that I have nothing substantial to offer in return?That caring for someone who deserves a full life with a living partner feels like the height of supernatural selfishness?
“You’re alive, Lily,” I say finally, settling on the simplest version of our impossible situation.“You have a future, possibilities, the chance to build something meaningful with someone who can offer you more than philosophical discussions and transparent companionship.”
“What if I don’t want something meaningful with someone else?”
The question hangs between us like a bridge I don’t dare cross, weighted with implications that could reshape everything we’ve carefully constructed around our supernatural cohabitation.The hope in her voice makes me want to reach for her and retreat simultaneously, to claim what she’s offering and protect her from the complications that accepting it would create.
“You should want that,” I tell her, though the words taste like ash.“You deserve someone who can take you to dinner, meet your friends, build a life that exists in the daylight rather than the shadows.”
“Someone like Blake.”
“Someone exactly like Blake.”The admission costs me something essential, but it’s also the truth she needs to hear.“He’s everything you moved here hoping to find: stable, reliable, capable of offering you the complete life I cannot.”
“And what if what you can offer is what I actually want?”
Her persistence reveals the heart of our dilemma with painful clarity.What I can offer—intellectual companionship, shared creative passion, the kind of emotional intimacy that transcends physical limitations—might indeed be what she wants.But wanting something and being wise to pursue it are entirely different considerations.
“What I can offer,” I say quietly, “is limited by the fundamental impossibility of our circumstances.I’m dead, Lily.However much we might wish otherwise, that reality imposes certain constraints on what we can build together.”
The words sound logical, responsible, exactly what someone should say when faced with the temptation to pursue connection that defies natural law.But as they leave my lips, I realize I’m not just explaining practical limitations.I’m talking myself out of the first genuine happiness I’ve known in nearly a century.
Lily stares at me for a long moment, her expression cycling through confusion, hurt, and finally something that looks disturbingly like understanding.
“You’re scared,” she says, and it’s not a question.
The observation strikes with the force of absolute truth, cutting through all my careful rationalizations to the naked fear that drives them.Yes, I’m scared.Terrified, actually.Caring for Victoria had been the greatest joy and deepest wound of my existence, and losing her had taught me that love and devastation often arrive in the same package.
“Of course I’m scared,” I admit, since denial would be pointless with someone who’s witnessed my emotional landscape from the inside.“Caring for you means risking everything I’ve spent nearly a century learning to protect.”
“What if it also means gaining everything you’ve spent nearly a century mourning?”
Her question reframes our entire dilemma, suggesting that my fear of loss might be preventing me from recognizing the possibility of genuine restoration.But restoration requires hope, and hope requires the courage to risk heartbreak again.I’m not certain I possess such courage, however much I might want to.
Days pass in this strange limbo of careful distance and growing tension.Lily continues working on her manuscript, which has become extraordinary under our collaboration, though I can barely bring myself to acknowledge that truth.Her writing has gained depth and authenticity that speaks to her growing understanding of complex emotion and genuine human connection.
When she receives the call from her agent, I’m hovering at the edges of the living room, close enough to hear but far enough to maintain the illusion of detachment.
“Cynthia?”Lily’s voice carries breathless excitement.“Please tell me you have good news.”
I watch her face transform as she listens, joy spreading across her features like sunrise.She’s gotten an offer—a real publishing contract for the manuscript we crafted together through countless hours of argument and collaboration.
“I can’t believe it,” she says into the phone, tears streaming down her cheeks.“This is everything I dreamed of.Thank you so much for believing in the story.”
She should be celebrating.This is the validation she moved to Maplewood Grove hoping to find, the professional success that could launch the writing career she’s worked so hard to build.Instead, as soon as she hangs up, she turns toward my usual corner with desperate hope.
“Julian!”she calls, her voice bright with triumph and the need to share it.“Did you hear?They want to publish our book!”
Our book.The phrase hits like a blow to whatever I’m using for a chest these days.She sees our collaboration as partnership, recognizes my contribution to her success in ways that make my withdrawal feel like betrayal rather than protection.
