Chapter 1
Chapter One
ALASKA
Present Day
Happiness was a moving target. It didn’t matter how much I tried; it always seemed to slip through my fingers like dry sand, impossible to hold in my palms for more than a few seconds.
Everyone else seemed to be doing just fine, socializing, partying, moving into big cities with jobs I couldn’t even understand.
Blockchain this, data science that, meanwhile, I had chosen to stay in my little hometown surrounded by pine trees, occasional tourists, and lakes.
I didn’t mind the space, though. It kept people at a distance, physically, which was the important part.
I was fine, as long as they kept their hands to themselves.
So, well, not the setting you’d think a twenty-two-year-old would choose after a few years of literature study from an online course at the closest University, but moving was out of the question.
So I stayed and accepted the offer to become the owner of the local bookshop after the lady who had owned it passed away.
She said I had spent so much time in it, it kind of belonged to me anyway.
I knew I could have gone anywhere other than Lakeside, with its handful of locals, one school, and a single main street.
Most people here were probably thinking the same thing: She’s wasting her potential.
Even my parents thought it, though they were too kind to ever say it out loud.
Why would I leave after what happened? I didn’t deserve a good life.
Happiness belonged to people who deserved it, who were good enough.
Nobody seemed to understand that. They all knew what had happened and still…
their understanding couldn't even brush the surface of my torments. What had happened would have to stay locked up inside me. In the cracks of my identity, shaping me into this person I didn’t recognize anymore.
I used to smile, hug people, laugh with them, and touch them.
I wasn’t always like this.
But how could I live a normal life after what I’d done?
How could I ever touch someone else, knowing these hands had touched death and still hadn’t fought hard enough to stop it?
I’ve built my life around distance, from people and from hands that reached without thinking.
The only comfort I have is my books. So I read, every day, until I can’t remember the taste of my reality.
Instead, I’m flying above a wizard castle, falling in love in a cheesy rom-com, fighting wars with wings on my back.
I hum a song to myself as I tidy the shop before opening.
Outside the window, the morning is calm, as it always is on Fridays.
A woman passes by, pushing a stroller, a quiet contentment in her expression.
My heart tightens with longing. She’s so lucky.
What a blessing it must be to hold a small piece of happiness in your arms every day.
If only I could experience this one day.
Peeking at the beige clock above the register, I take a moment to appreciate the calm and the energy of my favorite place on earth.
The outside looks like the front of an English pastry shop, with a large wooden bay window and feminine, hand-painted letters reading "Hidden Treasures," the new name I found when I got the keys two years ago. The inside of the shop is small but cosy and inviting. I haven't made any big changes to the place since I got it, just painted the walls light pink and replaced the silver lamps with delicate golden fixtures. The light-wood bookshelves make it even softer, and I often change the flowers from the large vase on the table near the window where I display the last books I received. There’s a small sitting area in the back with two comfy chairs. I also added plants everywhere, pastel cushions, and vintage postcards by the register, just because I find them pretty. Reality can be a dark place, but here, it’s a refuge from it.
As I arrange the romance shelf, my heart aches.
No happily ever after for me. Even though I dreamed about it ever since I was old enough to read a romance novel.
I would imagine a tall, muscular man taking me away from my small town and loving me unconditionally.
A man who would be so perfect that he would love every single inch of my personality and never run away.
A man so handsome and kind, we would travel the world, make babies, and live the perfect and most beautiful life.
If only.
I may be a dreamer, but I’m a realist too, and this kind of man doesn’t exist. And even if he did exist, I wouldn’t want to put anyone through the sorrow of being with me.
Nobody deserves to share the burden I’ve been carrying for six years now, especially not a kind man who could do nothing to ease my pain, supposing he wouldn’t run away after knowing the truth.
That’s why I can’t be with anyone. Who in their right mind would want a girl who pulls away every time she’s touched?
I’d hurt them, and hurt myself even more.
You can glue a broken mirror back together, but the cracks always show.
No matter how badly I want to be loved like that, it’s not in the cards for me.
Most guys leave town for big cities and never look back.
The ones who stayed already took their shot with me.
A few were cute, sure, but they were too innocent, too clueless to carry the weight I come with.
With one last book put away, I make sure they’re all arranged in alphabetical order before turning to the back of the store, where there’s a small backroom with a bathroom and a tiny office.
That’s where I keep most of the cleaning supplies, stock, and a kettle when I want to make myself a cup of tea.
It’s almost ten. I’ll be opening soon. I hum the song I listened to this morning in the car, the melody still stuck in my head as I check my outfit one last time.
High-rise jeans and a snug, deep green sweater.
My long, wavy brown hair falls softly over my shoulders, bouncing as I move.
A hint of cherry lip balm stains my lips, my skin’s drying out now that autumn’s in full swing.
I look at my reflection like I’m assessing someone I barely know.
My features are soft, and for a moment, I wince at the irony of the darkness tucked behind my juvenile oval face.
My cheekbones are flushed from the cold, and my blue eyes are wide and exposed, giving away things I’d rather keep contained.
My lips are full, though I rarely smile anymore, so whatever effect they might have is mostly wasted.
Stepping back into the shop, I grab my keys and open the door, letting the autumn air in, its icy bite brushing against my face.
The bakery in front is already open. Sherry, the owner, waves at me from behind the window.
I wave back, enjoying the comfort of a town where I know every single person since I grew up there.
That’s a perk and a burden; once you meet everyone, there’s no one left to know.
It’s the same routine, over and over, and even if there’s always a pang in my heart knowing that this is all I will ever know, I still enjoy the familiarity of it.
My only rule is to stay within the ramparts of small talk.
Anything more would mean connecting with people on a deeper level, and I can’t allow that.
Maybe some people can move on from what they’ve been through.
I can’t. So I stay where I am, sealed inside myself, waiting for the day I no longer belong to this earth.
That’s the price to pay for what I’ve done.
I may not be a good person, but I will try my hardest to repay my debt by living the loneliest, saddest life possible.
Pouring myself a cup of Earl Grey, I sit behind the register, opening a new book that looks like a romance between a pirate and a siren.
Fully focused and nose deep into the pages, I don’t notice the silhouette that appeared at the doorframe.
My muscles tense as I lift my head, and jolt on my stool like I’ve seen a ghost.
There’s a man, a really tall, broad-shouldered, short ashy blond hair with an ice-cutting-jaw, standing in my shop.
And for some strange reason, my pulse trips over itself.
I don’t know if it’s his police uniform, the light stubble, his height, or the way his hazelnut gaze is staring at me, but I stand up and awkwardly put my book down on the counter.
“S-sorry to b-bother you, miss. We got a call from one of the Main Street shops, but the lady didn’t say which one.
” He clears his throat. “Sounded like…Callahan something.” His voice is smooth, almost velvety, with an undertone of gravel that lingers beneath it.
I catch a faint stutter, though it’s quickly eclipsed by the sound of his rich, warm, and unmistakably masculine tone.
I blink, my brain trying to process his words while my cheek insists on blushing like a teenage girl.
He frowns slightly, like he’s not sure I heard him right.
I brace for him to repeat the question, but he doesn’t.
He just waits, arms crossed over his chest, remaining silent.
Looking down at my hands, I say quietly, “That must be, um, Callahan and Hartwood Furnishings.” My voice falls two levels lower and I mutter with a movement of my chin, “It’s at the end of Main Street, next to the florist.” He nods, his gaze never wavering, quietly assessing me.
"Th-thanks,” he states bluntly, his huge hands landing on his belt. “I’m Officer Parkson. We haven’t met. I, uh, I was transferred this week…to the station.” My gaze drifts to the name tag stitched on his navy long-sleeve uniform.
Officer Parkson.
Seven letters unknown to me until now.
Like I said, I know every single person in this town.
Or, I think I did.
Jack
Please don’t make fun of me.