A Christmas Wish For Us

Chapter 8: The Ghostwriter

The notebook was cheap—a spiral-bound thing with a cardboard cover that Liam had found in Ben’s junk drawer—but the contents were costing him everything.

Liam sat at the small laminate kitchen table in Ben’s house. It was 3:00 AM. The rest of the neighborhood was asleep, buried under a fresh layer of Chicago snow, but Liam’s tumor didn't believe in sleep anymore. It only believed in the Hum—the constant, low-voltage electric buzz that vibrated at the base of his skull, a reminder that the eviction notice on his life had already been served.

The only light came from the dim overhead bulb, casting long, shivering shadows against the peeling yellow wallpaper. Liam gripped a black ballpoint pen. His hand—the right one, the "good" one—was cramping.

He looked at the page. The handwriting was jagged, spikes of ink shooting off the letters where a tremor had caught him. It looked like the writing of an old man, or a frightened child.

Page 4: Food Preferences.

– She hates cilantro. She says it tastes like soap. – If a waiter brings a dish with cilantro, send it back immediately. If you don't, she’ll try to be polite and eat it, and then she’ll feel sick for hours. Be the bad guy so she doesn't have to be. – When she’s sad: Macaroni and cheese. Not the fancy kind with breadcrumbs. The blue box kind with the powder. Extra butter. Stir it until it makes that squelching sound.

Liam paused. A drop of sweat rolled down his temple, landing on the paper near the word butter.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He could see her sitting on the counter in their old kitchen, swinging her legs, waiting for him to finish stirring the mac and cheese. He could hear her laugh.

Focus, he commanded himself. You don't have time to mourn. You have to transfer the data.

He turned the page.

Page 5: The Nightmares.

– She gets them around 2 AM when it rains. It’s about the car crash she was in when she was twelve. – She won’t wake you up. She’ll just lie there and shake. – You have to wake up. You have to hold her from behind—tight, like a shell. Tell her she’s safe. Do not ask her about the dream. – Just talk about something boring. Baseball stats. The weather. How to fix a carburetor. Bore her back to sleep.

Liam wrote faster, the pen digging into the paper. The urgency was a physical weight in his chest. He was archiving her. He was taking the seven years of intimacy they had built—the secret language, the inside jokes, the silent understandings—and flattening them into bullet points for an understudy.

"Liam?"

The voice startled him. Liam jerked, his pen skidding across the page, slashing a dark line through carburetor.

Ben was standing in the doorway. He was wearing plaid pajama pants and a wrinkled t-shirt, his hair sticking up in tufts. He looked exhausted. He looked like a man who hadn't slept through the night since the accident.

"It's three in the morning, man," Ben said, his voice rough with sleep. He squinted at the bright kitchen light. "Go to bed."

"I can't," Liam muttered, not looking up. He tried to steady his hand to fix the crossed-out word. "I'm not done. I forgot to write down the thing about her allergies. She’s allergic to down feathers. You have to make sure the pillows are synthetic. If she wakes up with puffy eyes, she won't go to work."

Ben walked into the kitchen. He didn't look at the coffee pot. He looked at Liam. Then, he looked at the notebook.

He reached out and placed his hand over the open page, stopping the pen.

"Stop," Ben said quietly.

"I need to finish this section," Liam argued, trying to pull the notebook free. "There's a lot. The movies she hates. The way she likes her tea. The..."

"Liam, stop!" Ben’s voice rose, sharp and cracking. He snatched the notebook off the table and slammed it shut. "This is morbid. It's... it's twisted."

"It's a survival guide," Liam snapped, standing up. His chair scraped violently against the linoleum. "You need it."

"I don't want it," Ben threw the notebook back onto the table. It slid across the surface and hit the fruit bowl. "I'm not doing this anymore, Liam. I let you stay here. I let you lie to her about being a 'neighbor.' But I am not studying a script to become her husband."

"You have to," Liam said. He leaned his weight on the table because his left leg was trembling. "You're her best friend. You're the only one left."

"I'm her friend, exactly!" Ben shouted. "I'm Ben! I'm the guy who helps her move furniture and listens to her complain about work. I am not you. I can't be you."

Ben paced away, running his hands through his hair. He turned back, his eyes wet.

"Do you know how messed up this is? You're asking me to trick her. You're asking me to use your memories, your secrets, to... to seduce her. It's gaslighting, Liam. It's cruel."

"It's kindness!" Liam yelled back.

The shout drained him. He swayed, grabbing the edge of the table to keep from falling. The room tilted—a symptom of the tumor pressing on his temporal lobe.

He lowered his voice, forcing the words out through the pain.

"You don't know her, Ben. Not really. You know the Sarah who presents herself to the world. You don't know the fiancée. You don't know that she needs her feet covered even in summer or she can't sleep. You don't know that she cries during dog food commercials but never at funerals."

Liam picked up the notebook. He held it out like a weapon.

"If you go in there blind, you'll mess up. You'll buy her lilies—which she hates—instead of peonies. You'll try to fix her problems when she just wants you to listen. And she’ll feel it. She’ll feel the gap where I used to be."

He took a step toward Ben, looking him dead in the eye.

"The goal isn't to trick her. The goal is to fill the hole so she doesn't fall in. If you are perfect... if you don't make mistakes... she won't ever have to look back. She’ll think, 'Wow, Ben gets me.' And she’ll never know she lost anything."

Ben stared at him. The silence in the kitchen was heavy, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and Liam’s ragged breathing.

"You're a bastard," Ben whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You're the most selfish, selfless bastard I've ever met."

"I know," Liam said. He tossed the notebook onto Ben’s chest. Ben caught it reflexively.

"I have three months, Ben. Maybe two," Liam said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Once the seizures get bad, I won't be able to talk. I won't be able to tell you this stuff. I need to download it now. I need you to be ready."

Ben looked down at the cardboard cover. He traced the spiral binding with his thumb. He looked like he was holding a grenade.

"I can't be you," Ben said softly. "I'll never be you."

"You don't have to be me," Liam said. "You just have to be the man who stays. That's the one thing I can't do."

Ben closed his eyes. He let out a long, shuddering breath. Then, he opened them. The resistance was gone, replaced by a terrified resignation.

"What's the first rule?" Ben asked.

Liam let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for days. He pulled out the chair and sat back down, picking up his pen.

"Sit down," Liam said. "Tell me you own a navy blue tie. We have a date to plan."

---

The "date" was a tactical operation.

Liam spent the next twelve hours coaching Ben. It wasn't just about the manual; it was about the performance.

He stood in the hallway of Ben’s house as Ben put on his shoes, critiquing him like a drill sergeant.

"Shoulders back," Liam instructed, leaning on his cane. "Don't slouch. Sarah hates slouching. It makes you look unconfident."

"I am unconfident," Ben grumbled, checking his reflection in the hall mirror. "I feel like an imposter. I'm wearing a sweater you picked out. I'm using your cologne. I'm taking your girl to your favorite restaurant."

"It's an Italian place," Liam corrected, adjusting Ben’s collar with trembling hands. "Everyone likes Italian. And you're not taking my girl. You're taking your friend who needs cheering up. You're just... better at it than usual."

"This feels wrong," Ben said, tugging at the sleeves of the dark gray sweater—a style Liam wore constantly, but one Ben usually avoided in favor of hoodies.

"It feels necessary," Liam said. "Remember the list. No cilantro. Ask her about her design project, but don't offer solutions, just listen. And for God's sake, don't mention the accident unless she brings it up."

"Got it, Coach," Ben said sarcastically, though his hands were shaking almost as much as Liam’s.

A knock on the door interrupted them.

Liam froze. He checked his watch. "She's early. Okay. Go. I'll be in the kitchen."

"You're not staying?" Ben asked, panic flashing in his eyes.

"I can't be seen," Liam said. "If she sees me, she'll remember the hospital. She'll remember the 'neighbor' who abandoned her. You have to be the only thing in her line of sight."

Liam retreated to the kitchen, pressing his back against the wall where he could see the hallway through the c***k in the doorframe, but remain hidden in the shadows.

Ben opened the front door.

Sarah was standing there.

For a moment, Liam forgot how to breathe.

She was wearing an emerald green dress—the one he had bought her for Christmas two years ago. It hugged her frame perfectly, the velvet catching the porch light. She had curled her hair, letting it cascade over one shoulder. She looked breathtaking.

She looked like a woman going on a date with her husband.

"Hi, Ben," Sarah said, smiling. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold.

"Wow," Ben said, and for the first time that night, Liam knew he wasn't acting. "You look... incredible, Sarah."

"Thanks," she said, smoothing the fabric of the dress. "I felt like dressing up. Being in sweatpants for two weeks was starting to affect my soul."

She peered into the house behind Ben.

"Is Liam here?" she asked.

In the kitchen, Liam pressed his hand over his mouth to stifle the sound of his own heart.

"Uh, yeah, he's around," Ben said quickly, stepping to the side to block her view, just as they had practiced. "But he's... busy. Video games. You know how he is."

"Oh," Sarah said. She didn't look disappointed. She just nodded cheerfully. "Well, tell him I said hi. I hope he wins... whatever level he's on."

"I will," Ben said. "Ready to go?"

"Ready," she said, looping her arm through Ben’s.

"Let's get some pasta," Ben said, leading her to the car.

Liam listened to the door close. He listened to the car engine start. He listened to the tires crunching on the snow as they drove away, taking his life with them.

He slid down the kitchen wall until he hit the floor. He picked up the cheap spiral-bound notebook from the table.

He turned to page six.

The Kiss.

He stared at the blank lines. He couldn't write it yet. He wasn't strong enough.

But he knew, with a sick, heavy certainty, that he would have to write it soon.