I Should Die

THIRTEEN



“VINCENT?” I CALLED, UNSURE IF HE HAD FOLLOWED Jules down the stairs.

I’m here, Kate, came his words.

I put my head in my hands. “Okay, that was awful.”

Was it?

“I mean not awful in the oh-my-God-it-was-amazing-to-feel-like-I-was-touching-you way, but I . . . I couldn’t help taking it further. It seemed like it was you.”

It was me. It was also unfortunately Jules.

“I didn’t mean to kiss him.” I curled up into a ball on the couch, wrapping my arms around my knees. I wished I could rewind time by fifteen minutes and do a retake of the whole possessed kissing scene.

You meant to kiss me.

“Yes. You, not Jules. Oh my God, I practically mauled him.”

He didn’t seem to mind much. And there is the fact that it stopped when it did.

I held my fingers to my burning cheeks to cool them down.

“I am not doing that again.”

I think that’s probably a good decision.

“But then how can we . . .”

Don’t worry, mon ange. Even though that wasn’t a huge success . . .

“‘Total fail’ is more like it.”

There are other ways that we can connect.

“Without actually connecting of course.” I paused, my blush flaring to sunburn intensity. “I mean . . . ,” I stammered, “I didn’t mean in the anatomical sense. Although, yeah, I guess I kind of did.” I shook my head. “This is one of the most awkward conversations we’ve ever had.”

That’s because it shouldn’t have to be a conversation. Not a problem we have to solve. When we have to think practically about things like . . . how a ghost can make you feel like a flesh-and-blood boy could, it kind of strips away the seductive side of things.

I grinned, his words bringing some very interesting images to mind. “And just how does this ghost plan on making me feel like a flesh-and-blood boy could?” I was actually able to get the words out without wanting to bury myself in the couch cushions, probably because I was genuinely intrigued by what he thought was possible.

Well, since we blew my plan A sky high, you need to give me some more time to come up with a plan B. But, Kate . . .

“Yes, Vincent?” I said hesitantly. There was something about his “but” that made me nervous.

Plan A. Plan B. These are only temporary solutions. You and I can’t really—Vincent’s pause stretched miles—we can’t be together like this, mon amour. You can’t put up with having a spirit as a boyfriend for long. You need more. You deserve more.

“I don’t want more, Vincent. I want you,” I said.

I can’t touch you. Can’t hold you in my arms. Bring you flowers. Row you down the Seine in a rowboat.

“I don’t need that,” I insisted.

Kate, you’re not listening to me. All I can do is talk to you. He paused. Can you feel this? Or this?

I felt nothing.

That was me touching your face and your hair. Don’t you see, Kate? I can’t be yours in any kind of real way. But what I can promise you is that I will always be here for you, watching out for you, making sure you are safe. And happy.

A tar pit of anger began bubbling deep in my chest. “So you want me to find someone else? A human boy?”

That would be the best thing for you, mon ange. Someone who is flesh and blood. Who can give you a good life. A normal life.

“And you’re just going to float around like my invisible bodyguard and watch me love someone else,” I prodded, trying to control my voice.

I’m not saying I’m going to like it. But I can’t have you. And I can’t leave you. What other choice do I have?

“That is total bullshit!” I yelled. “For one thing, who are you to say what’s best for me? Maybe I don’t want flesh and blood. Maybe I don’t want a normal life. Maybe I still have hope that there is some way of having a life with you. Violette found that arcane binding spell. Maybe there are other spells out there that we don’t know about. You’re giving up before we even start to look for answers.

“So don’t go telling me what I’m going to do. What I’m going to feel. Even if you have my heart, I’ve still got my brain. And I am going to keep using it to find a solution, damn it!”

I sat there fuming, wishing I could see where Vincent was so that I could stare him down. There was silence for a good long moment, and then I heard something that sounded like laughter. “You better the hell not be laughing at me,” I growled.

I’m not laughing at you, chérie, came his voice, which sounded muffled by an effort to sound serious.

“You are totally laughing at me, Vincent Delacroix.”

It’s just that you’re so cu . . . I mean incredibly attractive and seductive . . . when you get angry and curse, he replied, stifling serious laughter.

My anger melted in a second, and I couldn’t repress a smile. “Vincent, you are seriously impossible,” I muttered, and then started laughing myself. I flopped back onto the couch grinning irrepressibly as I heard his laughter bubble forth in my mind.

Stretching out, I laid my head on a cushion and, kicking off my shoes, pulled a cashmere throw up to my shoulders. I waited to see if Vincent would talk first, but he seemed to be fine with just hovering. “Are you still there?” I asked finally.

I am as close to you as I can possibly be.

I hugged the cushion tightly and wished it were him.

Vincent was quiet for a long time after that. I savored the silence, knowing that he was near. When I closed my eyes I could imagine his lean muscular form stretched beside me. After a while it seemed so real, I could almost feel the weight of his arm draped over me and his head nestled next to mine. He was like the ghost lover in one of those tragic Victorian stories. But unlike the swooning, fainting heroines of those tales, I felt empowered by my resolve that tragedy would not be our fate.