Chapter 47
September 15
Grace
I have something for you. Any chance you can come by the store when you get off?
It’s Friday, and Jonah is closing, which means I actually get to leave the bar with enough energy to enjoy a hot bubble bath and a glass of wine when I get home. But I can swing by Grace’s bookstore first to see what she’s got for me.
It’s probably another romance novel. She’s been trying to get me into them ever since I told her all about what happened with Owen. I assume she thinks reading about love will heal my broken heart, but mostly it just makes me angry. Things always work out at the ends of those books, but that has not been my experience.
I pull up to the old camera store where Dog-Eared Books is housed. It’s after nine, and the shop has been closed since seven, but it’s lit up and warm on this oddly crisp late summer evening. I park my truck and knock on the door of the shop. Grace pops up from behind the counter, a manic-looking grin on her face. She hustles over and unlocks the door.
“I’m glad you’re here. I want to run down to Pete’s and grab a milkshake. Would you mind holding down the fort for me? Thank you so much!” Grace practically yanks me into the store. “Lock it behind me, okay?” she says, then runs out and pulls the door shut.
“Can’t you just—” I start, wondering why she can’t lock up the shop herself and go get a freaking milkshake. The store is closed for the night. There’s no need to bring me into this.
But she’s already trotting down the street toward the diner.
I sigh, flipping the lock, then trudge into the store. I smell like beer and French fries, and I really want that bath. Why couldn’t she just give me whatever book she’s trying to get me to read and let me leave?
I’m making my way toward the overstuffed chairs when my toe connects with a cardboard box. As I walk around it, I glance down and see the words scrawled in messy Sharpie:
open me, wyatt hart
My heart leaps into my throat, because I recognize that messy scrawl.
I haven’t heard from Owen since that text the morning after I ran out of his house, that sad, weak apology. I’ve managed to avoid him completely, and in a small town like Cardinal Springs, that has practically been a second full-time job. I am tired .
And now here he is—or his handwriting, anyway.
I consider walking out, but my feet are rooted to the floor, my curiosity getting the best of me. I lower myself down to my knees.
I open the box and find…
Tapes.
Piles of tapes.
Each one is numbered and has songs listed on the small lined cover in the same messy scrawl.
I pick up tape number one and read the track list, only to burst out laughing when I realize it’s “Hurts So Good” by John Mellencamp ten times. The same song over and over, just like that first night at Sorry Charlie’s.
I reach for tape number two. This one is a more straightforward mixtape with lots of different songs, but the references become clear pretty quickly. “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” and “My Funny Valentine” and “Let The Circle Be Unbroken.” Each one is a little wink to a moment I shared with Owen. I laugh when I see The Pina Colada Song on the next tape. There’s a whole tape full of eighties hits that played at the dance marathon. There’s one called “Bro Country Sucks” that’s just the greatest outlaw country of all time interspersed with Romy’s songs. There’s an entire tape full of songs about pickup trucks.
My breath catches when I get to tape number fifteen: a copy of Debbie’s breakup tape. I laugh only to realize that I’m crying.
And then I reach for tape sixteen, the only one left in the box.
“Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word” by Elton John
“If I Could Turn Back Time” by Cher
“Emily I’m Sorry” by boygenius
“Apologize” by Timbaland (feat. One Republic)
“Let Her Go” by Passenger
“Somebody That I Used to Know” by Gotye (feat. Kimbra)
“Back to December” by Taylor Swift
“making the bed” by Olivia Rodrigo
“Say Something” by A Great Big World and Christina Aguilera
“Jealous Guy” by John Lennon
And at the bottom of the box is a note.
To be continued…
I gasp, then look up to see Owen standing in the warm light of the bookstore. He’s smiling, but the deep line between his eyebrows betrays his nerves. His dark, thick hair is pushed back, and his sharp jawline is covered by a shadow several hours past five o’clock.
“Sorry for all the subterfuge,” he says with a shrug, another box in his hand.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, my voice watery. After so many weeks of avoiding him, I feel his presence in every part of my body. My hips ache for the feel of his large hands. My neck longs for his lips. I feel a phantom tug at the curls at the nape of my neck, an echo of meetings past. All this time Owen’s been haunting me, no more than now, when he’s standing right in front of me.
I can’t move.
“I spent weeks trying to figure out how to show you how much I love you,” he says, and my chest swells sharply. “And how sorry I am for wrecking everything.”
“Yeah,” is all I can say.
“I’m working on getting all the words right,” he says. “In therapy.”
My eyebrows rise. “Therapy?” It’s one of the sweeter things he could say to me.
“Yeah. Turns out I have an anxiety disorder.” He half laughs and gives a lazy shrug, but then he presses his lips together, his eyes worried. “That’s not the reason why I hope you’ll forgive me, but I figured I should let you know that I’m trying to get better. For you, but also for me. Maybe that helps to hear.”
I look down at the sixteen tapes laid out on the floor around me.
“To be continued?” I ask, my eyes dropping to the box in his hand.
“Oh, right!” He sort of jumps, like he’d forgotten this next part, and I laugh. Fuck, he’s so cute. He crosses the floor and hands me the box he’s holding. I pull the lid open to find more tapes.
Dozens and dozens of tapes.
All of them blank.
“We were in the process of recording this building love story, Wyatt,” Owen says. “We made all these memories in just a few months. And then I fucked it all up. I hurt you because I thought pulling away now would protect you from getting hurt even more later. And I’m working on that shit in therapy, but just know that I realize how messed up it was. I see that now.”
He pauses, sucking in a long breath, steeling himself. “If you want tape sixteen to be the end, I completely understand. I don’t deserve forgiveness for breaking your heart.”
He reaches down and grasps my elbows, tugging me off the floor.
“But I’d like to earn it, Wyatt. If you’ll let me, I’ll spend every day trying to earn your forgiveness. I want to spend the rest of my life filling these tapes with memories we make together. And when we run out, I’ll buy more. When I’m old and gray, I want to stare at a shelf filled with tapes, my messy handwriting and your brash script on the liner notes, each one a diary of our adventures together. Each one a chronicle of how much I fucking love you.
“Please make mixtapes with me, Wyatt.”
There’s so much to say. So much to talk about. So much hurt to mend, both mine and his.
But I desperately want to press play.
I suck in a breath, then reach up, threading my fingers into the hair at his nape.
“I fucking love you too,” I tell him, then rise up on my toes and kiss him. “I will absolutely make mixtapes with you.”