Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Maggie
T he great thing about working in a bookstore—aside from the endless supply of coffee and the fact that browsing through books is considered work—is that you can learn a lot about someone by what they read. Take Mrs. O'Connor, who alternates between cozy mysteries and books about garden design. Or Ted from the writer's group, who has strong opinions about poetry collections but secretly buys romance novels on his Kindle because he thinks we don't notice him reading them on break.
And then there's Ethan Ward, who's been staring at the same page in his notebook for twenty minutes while I pretend not to notice.
The morning rush is over, and the shop has settled into its comfortable midday lull. Andrew's at the bank, which means I can finally satisfy my curiosity without his hovering presence. I grab two muffins from the display case and make my way to Ethan's corner.
"Writer's block or temporal paradox?" I set a blueberry muffin beside his cold coffee. "You've been frowning at that page so hard I'm worried it might burst into flames."
He looks up, startled, then eyes the muffin with suspicion. "I didn't order?—"
"Consider it brain fuel. Besides, you looked like you could use a break from..." I tilt my head, trying to read his elegant fountain pen script upside down. "Is that a diagram of a wormhole?"
"It's a plot structure." The tips of his ears turn pink. "For mapping character arcs through different timelines."
"Sounds complicated." I slide into the chair across from him, taking a bite of my own muffin. When he raises an eyebrow, I shrug. "It's my break. And you look like you could use someone to bounce ideas off of."
"I usually work alone."
"How's that working out for you?" I gesture to his mostly blank page.
A reluctant smile tugs at his lips. "Point taken."
"So, tell me about your book. And please, use small words. The most complicated thing I've read lately was a romance novel where the main character had to choose between a vampire and a werewolf."
"Ah." He sets down his pen. "Not a sci-fi fan?"
"I prefer my fiction firmly grounded in reality." I pause. "You know, reality plus incredibly attractive supernatural creatures and the occasional billionaire rancher."
That gets me a real laugh, the kind that transforms his whole face. "And that's more realistic than time travel?"
"At least my billionaire cowboys follow consistent internal logic. Time travel just makes my head hurt. All those grandfather paradoxes and butterfly effects..."
"You seem to know a lot about it for someone who doesn't read sci-fi." There's a glint in his eye that wasn't there before.
"I may have done some research. Purely to understand what you're working on, of course."
"Of course." He takes a bite of muffin, considering me. "And what's your professional romance reader opinion?"
"That your time travel story probably needs a love interest." The words slip out before I can stop them.
"What makes you think it doesn't have one?"
"Does it?"
He taps his pen against the notebook. "There might be something developing between the protagonist and someone he meets in the past."
"Ooh, forbidden love across time. Very nice." I lean forward. "But let me guess—he's worried that changing anything might erase their entire relationship from existence?"
"Actually..." He flips back a few pages, and I catch glimpses of his careful handwriting. "She's in the present. He's trying to fix a mistake in the past, but every time he comes back, something about her is different. Small things at first, then bigger ones. Until he has to choose between correcting his past mistakes and preserving the present where he met her."
"Oh." Something in my chest flutters. "That's actually really romantic."
"You sound surprised."
"Well, you're usually so serious. All business journalist turned sci-fi novelist. I didn't expect..."
"Romance?"
"Heart." Our eyes meet, and suddenly the air feels different. Charged. "You've got more heart than you let on, Ethan Ward."
He looks down at his notebook, but not before I catch the flush creeping up his neck. "Maybe you've just gotten better at reading between the lines."
"It's a gift. Speaking of reading—" I stand up, struck by an idea. "Wait here."
I weave through the shelves, scanning titles until I find exactly what I'm looking for. When I return, I place two books on his table.
"What's this?"
"Research materials. This one—" I tap the first book "—is classic sci-fi romance. Time travel, love story, the whole package. And this one is my favorite romantic comedy. You know, for reference. Since you're writing a love story disguised as science fiction."
"I never said it was?—"
"Everything's a love story if you look hard enough." I gather our empty muffin wrappers. "Even stories about grumpy writers who drink too much black coffee."
His expression softens into something I can't quite read. "Is that what you think my story is about?"
I meet his gaze, letting myself linger there. "I think you're still figuring out what your story is about. But I'm looking forward to finding out."
I head back to the counter before he can respond, my heart doing a complicated little dance in my chest. When I glance back, he's opened one of the books, his lips curved in a small smile as he reads.
Andrew would say I'm playing with fire. But as I watch Ethan's careful hands turn pages, his shoulders gradually relaxing as he gets drawn into the story, I find myself thinking that some fires are worth the risk of getting burned.
Besides, what's a good romance without a little heat?
It's been three days since I gave Ethan those books, and I've noticed some changes. They are subtle, but they are there. He's started taking breaks from writing to actually read. He finishes his coffee instead of letting it go cold while he stares at his notebook. And sometimes, when he thinks I'm not looking, he smiles at whatever he's reading.
I'm restocking the mystery section when he appears between the shelves, holding a well-worn paperback.
"Your turn," he says, extending the book.
I take it, examining the cover. "The Time Traveler's Wife?" My lips twitch. "I hate to break it to you, but this isn't exactly hardcore sci-fi."
"It's a gateway book." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Besides, I finished your romantic comedy. It's only fair."
"You actually read it?" I clutch the book to my chest in mock shock. "The serious writer deigned to read about fake dating and grand gestures?"
"I did." He leans against the bookshelf, and I try not to notice how good he looks in that soft gray sweater. "And I have thoughts."
"Do tell."
"The premise is completely unrealistic?—"
"Says the man writing about time travel."
"—but," he continues, giving me a look that makes my stomach flip, "the emotional core is surprisingly complex. The way they both have to overcome their fears of vulnerability, their preconceptions about each other…" He shrugs. "It's not unlike what I'm trying to do with my novel."
"Except with more wormholes and without kissing scenes?"
"Who says there aren't kissing scenes?"
The way he says it—low and almost playful—sends heat creeping up my neck. "Now that I have to read."
"You'll have to finish this one first." He taps the cover in my hands. "It's about?—"
"Let me guess. Time travel?"
"It's about love." His voice softens. "About how time shapes us, changes us, but some connections transcend all of that. It's about finding someone who knows all your different versions and loves them all."
Oh. Oh.
I swallow hard. "That’s not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Something more technical, less..." I wave my free hand vaguely.
"Romantic?"
"Real." Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I forget we're standing in the middle of the mystery section, surrounded by fictional deaths and disappearances. "Why this book?"
He's quiet for a moment, considering. "Because it's about someone who can't stay in one place, one time, trying to build something permanent. Something real." His runs his fingers through his hair, drawing my attention to his broad shoulders, stretching the fabric of his shirt. "I thought you might understand that."
The air between us feels thick with possibility. "Because I came back home?"
"Because you're brave enough to start over. To figure out what you really want."
"I'm not brave," I protest. "I failed. The city, my plans—none of it worked out."
"You didn't fail. You changed course." His voice is gentle but certain. "There's a difference."
Something about the way he says it makes my throat tight. "Is that why you left journalism? To change course?"
"Partly." He shifts, and suddenly I realize how close we're standing. "Mostly I left because I was tired of telling other people's stories. I needed to find my own."
"And have you? Found your story?"
His gaze drops to my lips for just a moment, so briefly I might have imagined it. "I'm starting to think?—"
"Maggie!" Andrew's voice carries from the front of the store. "Customer needs help finding the new James Patterson!"
I close my eyes briefly, cursing my brother's timing. "Coming!"
When I look back at Ethan, his walls are up again, but not as high as before. "Read the book," he says softly. "Tell me what you think about love that transcends time."
"Only if you promise to tell me if your novel has a happy ending."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Still writing that part."
I clutch The Time Traveler's Wife closer, like a shield against the intensity in his eyes. "Well, as a romance expert, I feel obligated to tell you that the best endings are happy ones."
"Even if they're complicated?"
"Especially then." I back away slowly, not quite ready to break our connection. "The complicated ones are always worth the wait."
As I help Mrs. Harrison find the large print edition of her James Patterson novel, I think about different versions of ourselves. The Maggie who stayed in the city. The Ethan who kept writing other people's stories. And this version of us, here and now, trading books and possibilities between the shelves.