Page 144 of Ghosts Don't Cry

Me: What time?

His response is immediate.

Ronan: After school finishes. Want me to pick you up, or do you want to go home first?

It’s been two weeks since the board meeting, and hestillchecks to make sure I’m okay about being seen with him.

Me: Pick me up. We could go out for dinner after?

Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again.

Ronan: Yeah. I’d like that.

I press the phone to my chest for a second, warmth filling me, before setting it down on my desk. A quick glance at the clock tells me there are still three hours until the end of the day. But it feels different now.Lighter.

Of course, I could be overthinking things. He might just be asking for someone to sit beside him while he gets the news about his inheritance. But I don’t think that’s the case. I think this is him taking another step forward, and trusting me with something that matters to him.

I should be nervous about what the lawyer is going to tell him. And Iam, a little. But not as much as I’m hopeful that this is the beginning of something neither of us wants to lose.

Chapter Sixty

RONAN

I didn’t stayat Lily’s last night. She had an early start and I was too restless and would have kept her awake, so I came back to the house and worked on things that wouldn’t make noise and disturb the neighbors.

But now, in the early hours of the morning, while the house is still, I’m sitting at the kitchen table with books spread out in front of me. I have a notebook open, and the pages fill with my handwriting, thoughts spilling onto paper while the rest of the world sleeps.

It started a week ago. I’d been lying in bed, unable to sleep, and suddenly I couldn’t stop thinking about the words I used to write. The poetry I’d scratch onto anything I could find. For years, I convinced myself that part of me was dead, that I’d killed it along with everything else when I pushed Lily away.

But then she came back into my life … and the words came back with her.

At first, I was afraid to write them down. Scared that putting them on paper would make them real, and makemevulnerable in ways I can’t afford. But the need built until I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

So, I started writing. Just for myself. To see if I still could.

And Ican.

I trace my fingers over what I wrote last night after Lily left.

Lily drops her shoes by the door without a thought, settling into the space as if she was always meant to be here. She moves through the house, leaving traces of herself in the quiet. When she’s gone, it feels empty.

She falls asleep against me. Her fingers twist into my shirt, holding on even in sleep.

She’s in the air, in the rooms, in the pages I keep filling with her name. I never thought this house could ever be my home. With her in it, I almost believe it could be.

The coffee maker hums in the background while I write. Sleep never comes easily, even now. But these quiet moments are different than before. Instead of waiting for something to break, they feel like breathing space. A time when I can sort through everything I can’t say out loud.

The sun breaks over the horizon, painting the kitchen in shades of gold. I close the notebook, and place it back in the drawer where I’ve been keeping it, along with the others I’ve filled over the past few nights. Later, I’ll take them out again. I’ll write about today, about Lily, and how her presence makes everything more real, more stable.

For now, though, I’ll fill the hours with repairs on the house.

I’ve stopped for a break when a car door slams outside. My body automatically braces—old instincts die hard—but it’s only Tom, standing beside his car with a mug of coffee, cleaning snow off his windows.

My phone buzzes. When I check, it’s a reminder from Mitchell’s office about the appointment this afternoon.

My stomach knots immediately. I have to go in and find out what the remaining terms of Edwards’ will is. Whatever he’s left for last, ithasto mean something. I just don’t know if I want to find out what it is. And there’s a small part of me that wonders if this is where everything falls apart. If the last condition will be impossible to meet, and show that this whole thing has been too good to be true.

Shaking my head, I shove the thought away and head back upstairs to continue working on the bathroom. The tiles wait in neat stacks—simple white hexagons for the floor, large format gray slate for the shower. It’s the kind of mind-numbing work I need to keep my thoughts away from the meeting later.