How he was so big, and his hands were big, and how they would feel against my body, cupping my breasts, his lips pressed against mine, tasting like spearmint and—

Because music was a heartbeat, too, in its own way,

They were words I didn’t think I needed to hear. Lee Marlow had never said as much—he said it was fluffy, it was lighthearted. It was candy, though even candy could be good—sweet and flavorful and exactly what you needed exactly when you needed it.

“Good! I’d hate for my own daughter to think I was crazy,”

It sounded like he was referring to his own predicament.

“Wanted to leave early. Dad’s wrapping up a meeting with a client,” he added, which meant he was talking with the bereaved about funeral arrangements, caskets, and pricing.

like the way they paint the world in this Technicolor dreamland, where the only rule you have to follow is a happily ever after. And I’ve spent most of my adult life chasing after that high.”

And I didn’t want to feel that anymore. It had been a year. Why wasn’t I over him? Why did I still want him to look at me like I was the only story he wanted to learn (irony, that one), and tuck my hair behind my ear, and kiss me like I was the heroine in a romance, and tell me I was loved? That he loved me. I missed that the most. I missed it so

I would be, if I found out I was dead and the only person who could see me was a failure of a ghostwriter who gave him a plant instead of, you know, the manuscript that was due.