Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Andrew
T he shop is quiet this morning, caught in that peaceful lull between the morning rush and lunch crowd. I've straightened the same shelf three times, repositioned the new release display twice, and checked my watch enough times that Maggie finally throws a paper clip at me.
"They'll be here," she says, rolling her eyes. "Stop hovering."
"I'm not hovering. I'm organizing."
"You've arranged those books by height, then by color, then by author, and now you're doing height again." She leans against the counter, studying me. "Have you slept at all since...?"
I push my glasses up, buying time. "Not much."
"Yeah, I figured." Her voice softens. "Finding out you have a son... that's huge, Andrew. Do you want to talk about it?"
Before I can answer, the door chimes. Charlie bursts in like a small whirlwind, his dark curls wild and his green eyes bright with excitement. He's clutching a book to his chest—the dragon one Maggie showed him before.
"Hi, Mr. Carter!" He bounces on his toes, so much energy contained in such a small frame. "Mama said we could read together today. Can we? Please?"
Emma follows more slowly, wearing a paint-splattered denim dress that brings out the gold flecks in her eyes. "Sorry we're a few minutes early. Someone couldn't wait any longer."
"That's fine." I clear my throat. "We could start with your dragon book?"
Charlie's whole face lights up—Emma's smile in miniature. "Yes! And then can we look at other books too? Mama says you know everything about books."
"Well, not everything," I say, leading him toward the reading nook we've created near the window. "But I do know where to find the good ones."
The next hour passes in a blur of stories. Charlie settles against my side like he belongs there, asking questions about every illustration, making up alternative endings, pointing out details I've never noticed despite having looked at some of these books dozens of times. His imagination works like Emma's—seeing possibilities everywhere, making connections that surprise and delight.
"Why's that dog purple?" he asks about one illustration.
"I don't think it's supposed to be a dog," I begin, but he shakes his head.
"No, look! If you turn it this way—" he tilts the book sideways "—it's definitely a dog. A magic one. That's why it's purple."
I stare at the abstract shape he's pointing to, and suddenly I can see it too. Just like I used to see castles and dragons in Emma's abstract paintings, back when she was first discovering her style.
"You're right," I say. "I never noticed that before."
He beams at me, and something in my chest shifts, makes room for this new feeling I can't quite name.
We work our way through his dragon book, three picture books about space, and are halfway through a story about a lonely lighthouse when Charlie sits up straight.
"Oh! I forgot!" He jumps up and runs to his backpack, which Emma left by the counter. After some rummaging, he pulls out something carefully wrapped in a paper towel.
"I found this for you," he says, returning to the reading nook. "Mama says they're special."
He unwraps the paper towel to reveal a slightly squashed dandelion, its white seeds somehow still mostly intact.
"When you find one, you're supposed to make a wish." He holds it out to me solemnly. "But you have to mean it, or it won't work."
I take the dandelion carefully, aware of Emma watching us from where she's been quietly browsing nearby shelves. "That's very thoughtful of you, Charlie."
"We can wish together!" He scoots closer. "You have to close your eyes and think really hard about what you want. Then blow all the seeds away at once."
I glance at Emma again. She's pretending to read a book, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands as she turns a page.
"Okay," I say. "Eyes closed?"
"Mmhmm. Now think really hard."
I close my eyes, holding the dandelion between us. Charlie's shoulder presses against my arm, warm and solid and real. My son. My son who loves books and sees purple dogs in abstract shapes and believes in the power of dandelion wishes.
"Ready?" he whispers.
Together, we blow. I open my eyes to watch the seeds scatter, catching the late morning light as they drift toward the windows.
"Now it has to come true," Charlie says with absolute certainty. "Because we wished together."
Something that feels suspiciously like tears burns behind my eyes. I'm saved from responding by Maggie calling out from the counter.
"Hey, Charlie! Want to see something cool? We got in some new bookmarks with dragons on them."
He looks at me questioningly, and I nod. "Go ahead. I'll keep our spot in the lighthouse book."
As he races over to Maggie, I stand and stretch, trying to work out the kinks from sitting on the floor. Emma drifts closer, setting her book back on the shelf.
"He's always been like that," she says softly. "So sure that wishes come true if you just believe hard enough."
"Like someone else I used to know." The words come out before I can stop them.
She meets my eyes then, and the weight of memory passes between us—shared dreams, whispered plans, promises we thought would last forever.
"Andrew, I?—"
"Mr. Carter!" Charlie's voice breaks the moment. "Can I show you the bookmark I picked? It's got a golden dragon and—" He stops, looking between us. "Was I too loud? Mama says bookstores need quiet voices."
"You're fine," I assure him quickly. "Show me this golden dragon."
As he launches into an elaborate explanation of why gold dragons are the best dragons, I catch Emma watching us, her expression soft and sad and hopeful all at once. The familiar ache in my chest wrestles with newer feelings—pride in Charlie's enthusiasm, joy in his easy acceptance of me, anger at the years we lost.
"It's almost lunchtime, sweetheart," Emma says after a while. "We should let Mr. Carter get back to work."
Charlie's face falls. "But we didn't finish the lighthouse story."
"Well," I hear myself saying, "you could come back tomorrow. If that's okay?" I look at Emma.
"Can we, Mama? Please?"
Emma's eyes meet mine over Charlie's hopeful face. "If Mr. Carter isn't too busy..."
"Same time?" I push up my glasses. "We can finish the lighthouse story and maybe find some new ones."
Charlie throws his arms around my waist, startling a laugh out of me. "Thank you thank you thank you!"
As they head for the door, Charlie clutching his new bookmark and chattering about what books we'll read tomorrow, Emma pauses.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For giving him a chance. For giving us—" She stops, shakes her head. "Just... thank you."
I watch them walk down the sidewalk, Charlie skipping ahead, Emma keeping him close with gentle reminders. Just before they turn the corner, Charlie spots another dandelion growing through a crack in the concrete. Emma stops, waiting patiently as he makes another wish.
I wonder if he's wishing for the same thing I did.
Maggie appears at my elbow. "So. A nephew, huh?"
"Yeah." I clear my throat. "A nephew."
She bumps my shoulder gently. "He's got your terrible taste in books."
"Hey! Dragons are classics."
"Uh-huh." She studies my face. "You okay?"
I look down at the lighthouse book, still open to the page where we stopped. "I don't know," I admit. "But I think I want to be."
The setting sun paints Juniper Falls in shades of amber and gold, long shadows stretching across familiar streets as we walk. Charlie is between us, one hand in Emma's, the other clutching the latest dragon book we found hidden in the back of Novel Sips' children's section.
"And then—" Charlie yawns hugely "—the green dragon made friends with the purple one, right?"
"That's right," I confirm, watching as he blinks heavily. Three stories and an impromptu art session with Emma's travel watercolors have finally worn him out.
"Someone's ready for bed," Emma says softly, squeezing his hand.
"'I’m not tired." But his steps are slowing, dragging slightly.
Emma scoops him up with practiced ease, and he nestles against her shoulder, book still clutched tight. "Sure you're not, sweetheart."
"The book..." he mumbles.
"Don't worry." I reach over to steady the book before it can slip from his grasp. "We'll keep it safe."
Emma's eyes meet mine over Charlie's dark curls, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Just like you keep everything safe at Novel Sips? I noticed your labeling system."
"There's nothing wrong with being organized."
"Mm-hmm. Do you still arrange your coffee mugs by color?"
"I never—" I stop at her knowing look. "That was one time. And it made perfect sense."
Her laugh is quiet but genuine. "Whatever you say. Though I notice you didn't deny color-coding your bookmarks."
"Says the woman whose art studio looked like a tornado hit it."
"That was organized chaos." She shifts Charlie's weight slightly. "I knew where everything was."
"Really? Is that why you spent three hours looking for your favorite brush that time, only to find it in the refrigerator?"
"I was experimenting with texture!" But she's fighting a smile. "Besides, some of my best work came from happy accidents."
The familiar rhythm of our banter feels dangerous, like stepping onto thin ice. Yet I can't help noticing how the sunset gilds her hair, turning it to burnished copper, or how her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles—just like Charlie's do.
We turn onto Maple Street, where her rental house sits back from the road, its small front yard dotted with early spring wildflowers. Charlie stirs slightly as we approach the porch.
"Story?" he mumbles against Emma's neck.
"Tomorrow, buddy." I touch his back gently. "We'll finish it tomorrow."
He makes a small sound of agreement before drifting off again. Emma fumbles one-handed with her keys, and I step forward to steady her elbow as she navigates the porch steps.
"Thanks," she says softly. "For everything. These afternoons... they mean a lot to him." She hesitates, then adds, "To both of us."
The porch light flicks on automatically, casting warm light across her face. There's paint on her cheek, probably from when Charlie got enthusiastic with the watercolors, and her hair is escaping its loose braid. She looks beautiful and real and achingly familiar.
"I've enjoyed them too," I admit, my voice rougher than intended.
Something flickers in her eyes. Hope? Or the same dangerous warmth I feel building in my chest? She shifts, and I catch the faint scent of her perfume—still that same blend of flowers and creativity that used to linger on my clothes after we spent time together.
"Goodnight, Andrew," she says, her voice carrying all the weight of things we haven't said.
I should step back. Should maintain the careful distance I've built over years of trying to forget her. Instead, I find myself reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Goodnight, Emma."
The moment stretches between us, fragile as spun glass. Then Charlie sighs in his sleep, and the spell breaks. Emma gives me a final smile before slipping inside, the door closing softly behind her.
I stand there longer than I should, watching the warm light in their windows, listening to the quiet sounds of them settling in for the night. My chest feels too tight, too full of possibilities I'd convinced myself were long buried.