Page 58 of The Art of Loving You

How was that possible?

It wasn’t.

I held up my shaking hand, never tearing my eyes away from my reflection.

Counted my five fingers.

I folded my thumb across my palm.

Four.

Quickly dropped down my index finger, observing whether my eyes could be fooled into thinking they still saw the finger when it wasn’t there but no …

Three.

My middle finger.

Two.

Ring finger.

One.

Little finger.

My eyes and my brain agreed.

Nothing. There was nothing left. Nothing to give, nothing to see here. Move along.

Libby.

A whispered name.

Jack?

What was happening to me?

Libby.

I turned towards the sound. It was only the breeze drifting in through the space between the sash window and the frame. A breeze that sounded like my name.

I was hearing what I wanted to hear.

Seeing what I wanted to see.

And yet, it had all felt so real. The sense of Jack still being around growing stronger with each passing day.

I cast my mind back; snuggled up on the sofa with Jack, the opening credits toGhoston the TV, him pre-empting my tears with tissues already placed on the coffee table. Sharing buttery popcorn, warm from the microwave. Me gulping chilled Chardonnay, forcing it down my throat which was already beginning to swell at the thought of what was to come.

‘We’ve seen this movie a million times and it still gets you,’ Jack said affectionately.

‘But Patrick Swayze … he’s right there.’ I gestured at the TV. ‘And Demi Moore should just know.’ Jack had pulled me close to him and dropped a kiss onto the top of my head. ‘I’d know if it were us,’ I had muttered. ‘I’d be looking for signs.’

Is that what was happening? Was my subconscious recalling the times we’d watchedGhost? Jack’s promises he’d never let anything take him away from me? ‘Nothing in this world, or the next could keep me from you, Libs,’ he had murmured into my hair.

Was I remembering? Manifesting?

Hoping?

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