Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Andrew
N ovel Sips always feels different after closing. It’s quieter, more intimate, like the books are settling in to share secrets. Usually, this is my favorite time of day. But tonight, the familiar comfort of organized shelves and alphabetized tea selections can't quiet the chaos in my head.
I can still feel the warmth of Emma's lips against mine, taste the hint of sugar from her coffee. Still feel the way her hand trembled against my chest, how perfectly she fit against me, like no time had passed at all.
Charlie sprawls on his stomach in the reading nook, surrounded by the pillows we added specifically for him. The evening light streams through the windows, catching the dust motes that dance around him as he works intently on something in his sketchbook.
"Dad?" The word still catches me off guard, makes my heart stutter. "Can you read this part? I can't figure out the words."
I settle beside him, careful not to disturb his drawing materials. " The dragon's wings stretched wide as stars ," I read, " casting shadows across ? — "
"Wait!" He sits up suddenly, nearly knocking the book from my hands. "I want to show you something first. I made it today with Mama."
He flips through his sketchbook with careful determination. Emma's influence shows in how he handles the pages, treating them like precious things. Just like she used to handle her canvases.
"Here!" He presents the page with flourish, and my breath catches.
The drawing shows three figures standing in front of what I assume is Novel Sips—the building is roughly rectangular with distinctive striped awnings that Charlie's rendered in careful crayon strokes. But it's the figures that make my chest tight: a tall one with glasses and dark hair, a smaller one with auburn hair, and between them, a little boy holding both their hands.
We're all smiling in the picture. Around us, yellow and white flowers fill every empty space.
"See?" He points to each figure. "That's you, and that's Mama, and that's me. And those are wish flowers, because Mama says they're magic and help dreams come true." He looks up at me earnestly. "Do you like it?"
"I..." My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. "I love it, buddy. It's beautiful."
"Can we put it up? In the shop?" His eyes shine with hope. "Mama always puts my pictures up at home."
"Of course we can." The words come automatically, even as my heart races. "How about right here by the reading nook?"
He nods enthusiastically, then turns back to the dragon book. " The dragon's wings stretched wide as stars ," he prompts, and I force myself to focus on the story.
But my eyes keep drifting to the drawing. To that perfect little family unit, surrounded by wishes and possibilities. To the smile Charlie's drawn on my face, uninhibited in a way I haven't felt in years.
To Emma's figure, standing so close to mine our drawn hands almost touch.
Just like at the park. Just like that kiss that I can't stop thinking about, can't stop feeling ghost across my lips. That kiss that felt like coming home and stepping off a cliff all at once.
" The dragon soared higher ," I read mechanically, " until the whole world looked small below ."
"Would you be scared?" Charlie interrupts. "If you were up that high?"
The question hits closer to home than he could know. Yes, I want to say. Yes, I'm terrified. Of falling. Of flying. Of letting myself believe in this family he's drawn with such innocent hope.
"Sometimes," I say carefully, "being scared is okay. Especially when something matters a lot."
He considers this, chewing his lower lip just like Emma does. "But the dragon has wings," he says finally. "So even if it falls, it can catch itself, right?"
I stare at him, this small prophet with my hair and Emma's eyes, who sees the world with such simple wisdom. "I suppose it can."
After we finish the chapter, Charlie insists on taping his drawing to the wall himself. I help him position it just right, at perfect kid-eye-level beside the reading nook. He steps back to admire his work, nodding with satisfaction.
"Now everyone can see my family," he declares, and my heart does that familiar squeeze.
Later, after Emma's picked him up, I find myself standing in front of the drawing again.
We look happy, this crayon version of us. Unafraid. Unburdened by past mistakes and lingering hurts. The dandelions float around us like promises, like second chances.
I touch the corner of the drawing gently. Five years of carefully constructed walls, of protection against precisely this kind of hope. Five years of organizing my life into neat categories that made sense, that couldn't hurt me.
And now this. This beautiful, terrifying possibility of something real. Something messy and complicated and completely out of my control.
Something worth being scared for.
Looking at Charlie's drawing gives me an idea. Before I can overthink it, I pull out my phone.
What would you think about doing a children's art and story event at Novel Sips? After seeing how Charlie combines the two...
Her response comes quickly.
That sounds perfect! Charlie's not the only one who loves both. We could do readings and art projects?
Tomorrow morning? We can plan over coffee?
We'll be there.
I look at the drawing one more time before locking up. At my smiling face, at Emma's graceful figure, at Charlie's joy radiating from every crayon stroke.
Maybe Charlie's right. Maybe having wings isn't about never falling.
Maybe it's about trusting you'll know how to fly.
"A little to the left," I suggest, gesturing with my clipboard. "We want to make sure the kids can reach."
Emma glances up from the easel she's adjusting, auburn hair escaping from its messy bun. There's paint on her cheek—blue this time—and I fight the urge to wipe it away.
She shoots me an amused look. "Always the perfectionist. I suppose you have a precise angle calculated?"
"Actually..." I pull out a protractor from my back pocket, playing along.
Her laugh echoes through the empty shop. "You're ridiculous."
"Says the woman who spent twenty minutes arranging art supplies by color gradient."
"That's different." She steps back to survey her work. "Color harmony is crucial for inspiring creativity."
"Mmhmm." I make a show of checking my list. "And the fact that it looks like a rainbow had nothing to do with it?"
"Maybe I just like pretty things." Her eyes meet mine briefly before darting away.
I clear my throat, suddenly very interested in my clipboard. "The, uh, story circle still needs setting up."
We work in sync, arranging cushions and laying out books. Emma hums under her breath—an old habit I'd forgotten until now. Or maybe just tried to forget, along with all the other little things that made her Emma.
"Remember that time in college when you organized that midnight reading session during finals?" She smoothes a blanket.
"You mean when you fell asleep on my shoulder halfway through Pride and Prejudice ?"
"I was tired! And you have very comfortable shoulders." She flushes, her cheeks turning the faintest bit pink, when she realizes what she said.
I adjust my glasses, buying time. "You, uh, still have paint on your face."
"What? Where?" She swipes at her cheek, missing the mark entirely.
Before I can think better of it, I step closer. "Here." I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, wiping away the blue smudge. Her skin is warm under my touch, soft.
"Andrew..." Her voice is barely a whisper.
The door chimes, making us both jump. Maggie walks in, arms full of supplies. "The kids will be here in thirty minutes. You two about ready?"
The event passes in a blur of excited children, colorful art, and story magic. Emma leads them through creating illustrations for the tale I read, her natural warmth drawing out even the shyest participants. Watching her guide small hands with gentle patience, seeing her light up at each child's unique interpretation, makes my chest ache with possibilities.
Later, after the last family leaves and Maggie heads home, we survey the creative chaos left behind. Paint-splattered paper covers the tables, books lie open to favorite pages, and the setting sun turns everything golden.
"This was perfect," Emma says softly, gathering dried paintbrushes. "Did you see Charlie's face when that little girl wanted to copy his space dragon?"
"He's got your gift for encouraging others." The words come easily, honestly. "Your way of making people believe in magic."
She stills, brushes clutched to her chest. "Andrew..."
I cross to her without conscious thought, drawn by the way the light catches in her eyes, by the familiar scent of paint and possibility that always surrounded her. My hand rises to cup her cheek, and she leans into the touch.
"I can't stop thinking about you," I confess roughly. "About that kiss in the park. About all of this—you and Charlie and the life we could have had. Should have had."
Her free hand comes up to cover mine. "We could still?—"
I kiss her before she can finish, pouring years of longing and regret and want into the contact. She makes a small sound against my mouth, and the paintbrushes clatter to the floor as her arms wind around my neck. She tastes like coffee and creativity and coming home.
The thought sends panic shooting through me. I break away, breathing hard.
"I'm sorry," I manage. "I can't—this is—" I step back, creating distance. "Last time..."
"This isn't last time." She reaches for me, but I move further away. "Andrew, please. We're different people now."
"Are we?" My voice cracks. "Because this feels exactly the same. The way you make me feel, how easy it would be to fall back into us..." I run a shaking hand through my hair. "I can't do it again, Emma. I can't watch you leave again."
"I won't?—"
"You don't know that." The words taste bitter. "Neither of us knows anything for sure. Except that there's more at stake now. Charlie..."
Understanding floods her face. "You think I'd take him away from you? Now that you've found each other?"
I force myself to meet her eyes. "I think I'm terrified of how much I want this. All of it. You. Him. Us. And I don't know how to trust that want won't destroy me again."
She nods slowly, pain and understanding mingling in her expression. "Okay," she whispers. "Okay. We'll take it slow. Figure it out."
I nod stiffly, already missing her warmth. "I should finish cleaning up."
"Andrew?" She pauses at the door, silhouetted in the sunset. "For what it's worth? I'm terrified too. But maybe that's how we know it matters."