Page 16 of Gone for the Ghost
“Julian?”My name emerges like prayer, like a question, like the word she’s been waiting months to say.
I walk toward her—actually walk, my feet solid on the bakery’s wooden floors—watching her expression shift through wonder, hope, and the kind of happiness that rewrites your understanding of what joy can accomplish.
“Did you really think,” I say, stopping directly in front of her table with the confidence of someone who’s finally learned the difference between existing and living, “that I’d miss your book launch?”
She’s on her feet and in my arms before I can say anything else, her warmth flooding through me like resurrection, like homecoming, like every metaphor for completion I thought was merely a literary device.Holding her—really holding her, with arms that feel her heartbeat and hands that can thread through her hair—proves that some forms of magic are too powerful for death to diminish.
“You’re here,” she whispers against my chest, her voice muffled by fabric and emotion.“You’re actually here.”
“I’m here,” I confirm, marveling at the simple truth of it.“I chose to be here.I chose you, Lily.”
She pulls back to look at my face, searching for signs this might be hallucination or wishful thinking, finding instead the solid reality of someone who’s learned that love requires presence, not just feeling.
“I love you,” she says, the words I’ve been dying to hear delivered with the kind of certainty that transforms declarations into foundations.“I’ve loved you since you started critiquing my terrible comma usage.”
“I love you, too,” I respond, the admission carrying the weight of ninety-eight years of emotional evolution.“Though your comma usage still requires considerable improvement.”
Her laugh is bright and perfect and exactly what happiness should sound like when it’s been earned through courage rather than stumbled upon through convenience.
“There’s something else,” I say, producing the ring box with hands that somehow remain steady despite the magnitude of what I’m about to risk.Her eyes widen as I drop to one knee right there in Sweet Curves Bakery, surrounded by the lingering scent of coffee and pastries and new beginnings.
“I’ve been carrying this ring for nearly a century,” I begin, opening the box to reveal the art deco masterpiece that’s been waiting for exactly this moment, exactly this woman.“Waiting for someone worthy of the promise it represents.Waiting for love that’s strong enough to transcend every obstacle, including my own fear.”
The ring slides onto her finger like it was designed specifically for her hand, which perhaps it was.Some promises require patience measured in lifetimes rather than seasons.
“Marry me, Lily,” I say, looking up at the woman who taught me that some risks are worth taking precisely because they might not succeed.“Choose the impossible love story.Choose us.”
“Yes,” she says before I finish asking, pulling me to my feet with hands that shake with emotion rather than uncertainty.“Yes to everything.”
I stand and kiss her properly, right there in the middle of Grace Carter’s bakery, tasting hope, determination, and the particular sweetness that comes from choosing each other completely.She fits against me with the rightness of puzzle pieces finally finding their proper configuration, solid and warm and absolutely present.
“Take me home,” she whispers against my lips, and the way she says “home”—our apartment, our sanctuary, our space—makes my dead heart feel capable of resurrection.
The walk back to Maple Street feels like floating, her hand warm and real in mine.The engagement ring catches the streetlights like captured starlight.She keeps glancing at me as if afraid I might fade back into translucent uncertainty, finding instead the solid reality of someone who’s learned that love means choosing presence over protection, vulnerability over safety, partnership over solitude.
The moment we’re through the apartment door, she’s kissing me again, her hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer like she can’t quite believe I’m substantial enough to touch.The desperation in her embrace speaks to months of missing someone she thought she’d lost forever, relief at discovering that some disappearances are temporary preparations rather than permanent departures.
“I missed you so much,” she breathes between kisses, backing me toward the bedroom with the determination of someone who’s learned not to waste opportunities for connection.“I thought I’d lost you forever.”
“Never,” I promise, catching her face in my hands and marveling at the warmth of skin that responds to touch, the reality of eyes that see me completely and choose to love what they find.“I’m not going anywhere.”
When we reach the bedroom, she begins unbuttoning my shirt with the reverence of someone unwrapping something precious, her fingers trembling slightly as they encounter skin that’s real again because she made it real.Each brush of her fingertips sends sparks through nerve endings that remember sensation after nearly a century of numbness.
I catch her hands, stilling them as I study her face in the golden afternoon light.“Are you certain?”I ask because even though I’ve been dead for ninety-eight years, I remember what it means to be a gentleman.“We don’t have to—”
“Julian,” she interrupts, looking up at me with eyes that are clear and certain and dark with want that makes my blood sing.“I’ve been in love with a ghost for months.I’m sure.”
The words break whatever restraint I’ve been maintaining.I capture her mouth with mine, tasting the sweetness of her lips, the warmth of her breath, the reality of someone who chose to love me back to existence.Her hands resume their exploration, pushing my shirt from my shoulders with growing urgency.
“Your turn,” I murmur against her lips, my fingers finding the buttons of her blouse.But instead of rushing, I take my time with each one, pressing kisses to every inch of skin I reveal.The pulse at her throat flutters under my lips.The curve of her collarbone begs for attention.The swell of her breasts, revealed as I push away silk and lace, demands worship.
She gasps when I take one peak into my mouth, her back arching as I explore the texture of her skin, the way she responds to gentle suction, to the edge of teeth.Her hands tangle in my hair, holding me to her as if afraid I might disappear again.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise against her skin, understanding her fear.“I’m here, love.Completely here.”
She’s beautiful in the afternoon light streaming through our windows—not just physically, though she is that, but beautiful in the way she looks at me like I’m a miracle instead of a supernatural complication.Beautiful in the way she accepts the impossible as merely another adventure to navigate with optimism and determination.
When I lay her down on our bed, she reaches up to touch my face, wonder in her expression as her fingers encounter solid cheekbone instead of translucent suggestion.“You feel real,” she marvels, her thumb tracing my lower lip.
