Page 80 of Melancholia

“No,” I admit, offering him a shaky smile. “Not really, actually. That was hard. I thought…I guess after all this time, some part of me still wanted something with Dad, you know. I thought maybe—” I blink and tears roll down my cheeks, only for Amir to wipe them away the moment he notices.

“I guess somewhere deep down, I always expected him to come back. Even now. With some grand explanation about why he left. Something that involved the mafia, the CIA…Anything other than his feelings,” I can’t help but sneer. But just as my heart threatens to break all over again, I bury myself in Amir’s warmth.

He lets me. He welcomes me, with his arms curling tight around me and his lips pressed to the top of my head. “Yeah, I know,” he breathes as I cry silently into his chest. “I know, Nell. I’m so sorry. But I’ve got you.”

I don’t know how long we stand like that. Long enough that I’m nearly lulled to sleep in his arms, and only the feeling of the Range Rover behind me keeps me on my feet. “I love you,” I whisper into his chest, testing out the words on my tongue without considering he might hear them.

For a few seconds, I’m sure he hasn’t heard me. His hold doesn’t change; Amir doesn’t stiffen nor pull away.

But then he holds me more tightly, and one arm leaves my back to tilt my face up to his, where I see something raw and vulnerable in his eyes. “One more time,” he urges in a whisper.

“I—” I swallow hard, finding this harder when I know he’s listening. “I love you, Amir. Even though it’s only been a few weeks, and I’m probably headed for another psychotic break, but I freaking love you⁠—”

He pushes me flush against the Range Rover and kisses me so hard I forget how to breathe. Again and again, until I’m gasping and being held up only by his arms. “I love you too, my perfect little mortician. My darling, my Nell,” Amir purrs against my lips. “And now we are going to drive home, where I can show you all the ways I love you, none of which require any clothes.”

That has me giggling, though his hand cups my chin, warm and secure.

“And I will spend the rest of my life teaching you how you should be loved.”

My heart twists, but it doesn’t break. If anything, it seems to hurt less, and I swear some of Amir’s warmth has finally rubbed off on me enough to stay. It sinks into my marrow, into my chest; wrapping around my broken heart like a protective shell of steel like a knife’s sheath.

“After the bone museum,” I whisper, a small smile curling over my lips. “Yeah?”

Amir chuckles and kisses me once more. “Of course, Nell,” he promises, his hand drifting to the jawbone I never even pretend to take off anymore. “I would never miss the opportunity to watch you become fascinated by dead things. After all…” His thumb traces my lip.

“It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

30

“Let it never be said that Eleanor Collins doesn’t appreciate the finer things in life.”

The mocking voice makes me grin, and I glance up into a face as clear and familiar as my own. Maybe because on many levels, it is mine.

Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if that’s why I can always see Elaina so clearly. And if it’s why she’s always aged with me, instead of staying the same age like all of my other ghosts. Maybe my brain realizes that I know exactly how she would’ve aged, and works that into the hallucination instead of making me see her dying, twelve-year-old self whenever she appears.

Though she doesn’t appear often.

I smile up at her from the charcoal-colored couch, stretched out along it with Umbra using my legs as her personal bed. Not that I mind. And nor will I move, unless Umbra does first. It’s illegal, inhumane, and just plain wrong.

“Haven’t seen you in a while. At least, not in a way that wasn’t traumatizing,” I tell her, rubbing behind the black dog’s ears. “Did you come to check out his place too?”

“Obviously. Can’t let you be the only one experiencing city life again.” There’s no malice in her voice. No hatred or blame. Only my sister, with the sparkle in her light grey eyes that was always a bit more mischievous than mine. “I miss you.”

“You don’t,” I sigh. “We both know that’s just what I want to hear right now. But it’s okay. I’m willing to believe it.”

“Because you’re happy.”

I don’t argue with her. I look up at the television, falling into a happy silence filled by the laugh track of the Golden Girls and the dogs’ low snorting.

“I am happy,” I admit at last. “I know it’s probably weird. And wrong. You know he’s a murderer. Literally a murderer. I feel like it’s part of my job as a mortician to, like, be upset about that.”

“Or to consider him an asset to your career. He ensures your employment, after all. If you stop to consider supply and demand.” When I turn to look at her, she gives me an impish grin once more.

“That’s dark.”

“But you were thinking it.”

We go silent again, though from the corner of my eye, I can see her settle into the recliner, her attention turned to the large TV mounted on the wall as well. “His bedroom is nice,” she remarks suddenly. “Very masculine. Big, too. I think it might be the size of your entire apartment.”