Page 8 of Gone for the Ghost
“But?”I prompt, hearing the hesitation she’s trying to hide.
“But nothing,” she says quickly and then pauses as if reconsidering her own words.“He’s exactly the kind of man I moved here hoping to meet.Stable, kind, clearly interested in building something real.”
There’s that word again.Exactly.She’s describing Blake like he’s a checklist rather than a person who made her pulse race, and the distinction fills me with something that feels close to hope.
“Yet you don’t sound particularly enthused about the prospect of building something real with him,” I observe.
Lily closes her laptop and turns to face me fully, her expression shifting from careful neutrality to something more direct.“You know what’s funny?The whole evening, I kept thinking about what you’d say about his technique.Whether you’d approve of how he held doors or ordered wine or asked about my family.”
The admission hits me like a physical blow.She spent her romantic evening thinking about me—not in any way that matters, obviously, butstill.The knowledge that I occupied space in her consciousness while she was with someone else creates a flutter of emotion I’m not prepared to examine.
“I hope my theoretical approval added something to your dining experience,” I say, aiming for levity to deflect from the unexpected intimacy of her confession.
“Julian,” she says, and something in the way she speaks my name makes me look at her more carefully.“You give really good advice about romance for someone who claims it’s all academic interest.”
The observation hangs between us like a challenge, weighted with implications I’m not ready to explore.She’s asking about my expertise, about the personal experience that informs my understanding of attraction and courtship and the delicate dance between two people discovering they might matter to each other.
“I may have some theoretical knowledge,” I say carefully, but Lily’s expression suggests she sees right through my deflection.
“Theoretical,” she says, the word carrying gentle skepticism.“Come on, Julian.You understand romantic dynamics better than anyone I’ve ever met.That doesn’t come from observation.It comes from experience.”
Her persistence should irritate me.For ninety-eight years, I’ve successfully avoided discussing the personal history that led to my current supernatural circumstances.But something in her voice—genuine curiosity mixed with what might be concern—weakens my carefully maintained defenses.
“Perhaps I had some personal experience with romantic attachment,” I admit reluctantly.“Though it was a very long time ago.”
“Tell me,” she says simply, and the request isn’t demanding or invasive.It’s the voice of someone who genuinely wants to understand, who sees my carefully guarded secrets as stories worth hearing rather than weaknesses to exploit.
The silence stretches between us while I wrestle with decades of self-protective instincts.But looking at Lily’s face—open, patient, free of the pity or prurient curiosity I’ve always imagined would greet my past—I find myself wanting to share what I’ve kept hidden for nearly a century.
“Her name was Victoria,” I begin, and speaking the name aloud after so many years of internal silence feels like unlocking a door I’d forgotten existed.“Victoria Ashworth.She was an actress—Broadway, though she had ambitions far beyond mere entertainment.”
The memories surface with startling clarity, as if Victoria’s presence had been waiting just beneath my consciousness for someone worthy of hearing her story.
“She was extraordinary,” I continue, surprised by how much I want Lily to understand what Victoria meant.“Beautiful, certainly, but that was the least interesting thing about her.She had this way of seeing the world as it could be rather than accepting what it was.Every conversation with her felt like discovering new countries.”
Lily settles deeper into the couch, giving me her complete attention with the kind of focus she usually reserves for solving difficult plot problems.
“How did you meet?”she asks, and I realize she’s not just being polite.She’s genuinely interested in understanding the woman who shaped my understanding of love.
“At a fundraising gala for the arts,” I say, remembering the way Victoria had stood apart from the other performers, refusing to charm potential donors with the simpering gratitude they expected.“She was supposed to provide tasteful entertainment for wealthy patrons, but instead, she used her performance to deliver commentary on social inequality that left half the room speechless.”
The memory brings a smile I haven’t felt in decades.Victoria’s courage, her willingness to risk her career for principles that mattered more than personal advancement, had been like watching someone turn art into revolution.
“She sounds fearless,” Lily observes, and something in her tone suggests she recognizes a kindred spirit across the decades.
“Fearless and idealistic and completely unimpressed by my family’s money,” I agree.“She saw right through the careful facade I’d built around myself and somehow decided I was worth the effort of excavation.”
The next part becomes harder to articulate—how Victoria had challenged everything about my carefully constructed existence, forcing me to examine privileges I’d never questioned and assumptions I’d never tested.
“She changed me,” I say finally.“Not gradually but fundamentally.Made me see that my wealth and connections weren’t just accidents of birth.They were tools I could use to actually make a difference.Through her work, her causes, her complete refusal to accept injustice as inevitable, she taught me what it meant to live with purpose.”
Lily nods as if this transformation makes perfect sense to her, as if she can easily imagine someone’s worldview expanding under the influence of genuine love.
“We started planning together,” I continue, the words coming easier now.“Ways to fund radical theater, underground publications, artists whose work challenged the system.She was going to perform in plays about women’s suffrage, labor rights—all the topics polite society preferred to ignore.”
“That sounds incredible,” Lily says with obvious admiration.“Like you were building something really important together.”
“We were,” I agree, and for a moment, I allow myself to remember the exhilaration of those months—the sense that love and purpose had merged into something larger than either of us could achieve alone.“Until she disappeared.”
