Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
ALASKA
This week couldn’t come any faster.
I’ve been waiting for him to show up at the store for two days, and he finally came today, surprising me as I was sorting new books in the back of the store.
I had many customers today, but the sound of his footsteps was different, unique, and recognizable.
Bella had tried to make me spill the beans about whether I liked him or not on our movie night, and because it’s Lakeside, where words run faster than the wind, she was already aware of our little encounter.
It didn’t matter, though, I couldn’t explain to her the real reason why talking to Jack or even watching him was difficult for me.
For six years, I had been pushing men away, even the kind ones.
It didn’t matter that they were nice or handsome.
All they wanted was to date Alaska.
Not me, the one that I was before the incident.
The one who died.
They wanted the version of me that hadn’t been altered by the sharpness of the ice, the brutality of the horror, and the unforgiving fact that I had been there, that I had seen it all.
What was the point of having a surface-level relationship with someone who could never understand me?
Someone who couldn’t even touch me? Yet somehow Jack awoke something in me, something so strong and vulnerable at the same time, I can’t pull away.
Each turn I’m making ends with him, and I have the feeling I need to see beyond my fears, just for once.
“Nice,” he declares, his voice low and heavy while I’m still head in my shelves on top of my wood ladder. I turn quickly and bite my lips, trying to ignore the churning of butterflies in my belly. Did he mean the shop or…me?
“Jack,” I say, trying to seem composed and unbothered. “I didn’t know you’d come today.” I blush, keeping my chin up even if my fingers shake a little.
“I wasn’t sure what d-day, uh, you wanted me to come,” zeroing on me, his navy uniform and the stumble on his jaw attracting my gaze like a moth to a flame.
He’s…He looks so….
“Did you f-find what you were looking for?” he asks and I jerk out of my thoughts. God, was I staring?
“I…-”
“The t-t-trail, I mean.” He chuckles lightly, aware of what I was doing.
“Oh, the trail, right, right.” Descending the ladder step by step to not fall, he comes closer, looking like a giant in my tiny pink shop and offers me his hand.
Can I do this? Can I…touch him again without flinching?
Whereas in the forest it wasn’t obvious, but now, in bright daylight, he will see my scars. Why didn’t I think about it sooner? His palm is marked with dry patches, like the one of a carpenter. Wide and strong like the hands of someone who could kill but also protect. I take a deep breath.
You know this is all in your head, right?
This isn’t real.
And people don’t ask each other about scars.
I slip my small hand in his and the touch warms my body like fire.
I stop for a second, expecting tears to fall down my face, but it doesn’t happen.
I’m touching another human being on purpose, and I’m okay.
He squeezes my hand and we stare at each other a second longer.
I know this is inappropriate, and it’s not polite to do so, but…
his eyes have a particular shade of hazelnut and honey, his short hair is a bit longer in the front, but I’m guessing he’s running his fingers in it so much that it goes up a bit and makes him…
so, terribly, handsome. I bite my lips and his brown caramel gaze drops on my mouth, looking at me like something he wished he could taste.
“Here,” he grunts, helping me get down, while I manage a thank you. As if the tension was palpable for him too, he steps back and takes in the store. Studding the shelves, tilting his head on the side, and lowering down when it’s not high enough for him.
“Um, you might not like this section,” I say, coming near him as he takes in the historical romance section.
“Why?”
“Well, you don’t seem like the kind to read about love stories in eighteenth-century London, but I may be wrong.” I bite a smile and he scans me down with an uneven grin that could shatter a lake of ice.
“You’d be surprised, I’m a sucker for s-sword fights and dramatic p-p-plots.”
“Wha-” A small laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to say that. You seem more like a thriller kind of guy, but what do I know?” I shrug, biting my lower lip, a wicked grin of satisfaction on his face.
“Nah, I was m-m-messing with you,” he runs a hand on his nape, “you’re right, I actually prefer thrillers, although I don’t r-read as much as I used to.”
“Why is that?” He turns to the shelves on the opposite wall, with a thriller label on top, and goes to them.
“I kinda stopped believing in, um, happy endings after entering the f-force.”
“I see, but that’s one of the reasons why readers like fantasy and romance, it helps them escape reality.”
“That’s another way to put it, yeah. Is this why you r-read so much?”
“To escape reality?” He nods, selecting a book and looking at the cover.
“This one’s about—”
“You didn’t answer the question,” he states softly and I remember that he’s a cop and cops must be used to people evading questions.
“Isn’t it why we all read?” I elude.
His gaze let go of the book to end on me. “You’re good.”
“At what?”
“Not, not t-talking about yourself.”
“I… I’m not sure there’s much to say.” A silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable or awkward, so I just wait.
“I think there’s plenty to say. Enough to write books about,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and goosebumps ripple across my skin. “You were born here, right?”
“Uh uh.” Removing an invisible peck of dust from a book. “Born and raised,” I say. “My dad runs a plumbing company, and my mom works outside of town. She’s an office manager. What about you?”
“I g-got two s-sisters,” he says. “A bit younger than me. Annie’s twenty-five. Maya’s twenty-seven. They both still live in Minneapolis.”
“And your parents?”
“My, um… My mom’s an elementary school teacher, and my dad…” He hesitates. “He u-used to be an accountant. He d-d-died when I was six.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, wishing I could reach for his hand and carry some of the weight for him.
“He was an avid r-reader,” he continues. “Always had a b-book on him. I think he w-would’ve liked this place.” A faint half-smile touches his lips before he gently steers away. “You said you’d found a trail.”
As much as I want to ask more, I don’t. Opening up like that isn’t easy.
“I highlighted it on a map,” I say softly.
“Want to see?” He nods. I walk back to the counter and circle around it, picking up the map I found in one of the local trail brochures.
I spread it out on the table in the middle of the shop, the one I use to display my favorite recent reads, each with a handwritten note beside it.
“This one,” I say, pointing, only to freeze when I realize he’s not looking at the map anymore but at the constellation of scars sunk into my skin.
Please, don’t ask me about it.
“I’ve heard about it, Connor at the st-station said he did it last summer with his kids.”
“It’s not that high up and there’s a beautiful view at the end.
I've never tried this one, but you know…might be worth it. I think it’s doable in three hours, four tops.
” And right when I finish my sentence, I realize what I just said.
Three whole hours alone with him in the woods.
What has gone up to me? He’s nice, kind, handsome, but is it enough to trust a stranger to go on a…
Okay, let’s be honest, a date alone in the woods with?
He’s a cop and he’s Jared’s partner, so I guess he’s not a complete stranger, but…
Breathe, give it a chance.
“Hey, we don’t have to d-do that if you d-don’t want to,” he says calmly, his deep velvety voice reassuring me like a hug.
My hand shakes against the map. Great, he must think I’m getting cold feet.
At least he’s not asking me about my scars and why the skin on my fingers looks like it’s been through a shredder before being stitched back together.
“No, it’s fine…”, standing up, “I want to.” I admit with a smile. “Do you…hike often?”
“Not really, I p-prefer running,” he admits. “But I’ll manage, don’t worry bout’ it.”
“I wasn’t worried.” Why would I when he looks so athletic?
“When do you want to do this ?”
Now? Tomorrow? No, it’s too soon, I still have to mentally prepare for this.
“This weekend ?”
“I’m on shift Saturday, but… um, what about S-s-sunday morning? Around ten?” I clasp my hands, trying to keep them still. “Yes, that’d be perfect.”
“Is there an-anything you want me to bring? I could take drinks and food,” he pauses, “we c-could have lunch up there bef-fore, er, g-going down?” He winces, and I wonder if it's due to his stutter. I'm not bothered by it in the slightest, but watching him get annoyed by it breaks my heart.
“It’s… a great idea.”
So this is definitely a date.
“Perfect.”
“Anything you don’t like in p-particular?”
Yes, anything that’s too cold. Anything with ice.
“I’m fine with whatever,” I assure him. There’s no chance he’ll figure out a way to bring ice up there right? “How are you since… um, the last time I saw you at the supermarket?” An electric current went through us that day; I'm almost certain he felt it too.
“It’s all good, p-part of the job, you know.” His weight shifting from one foot to the other.
“I never thought you could get a gun pointed at your head for this sort of felony.”
“He was armed,” he states firmly and I'm slapped with the realisation of the danger he was in.
“Sorry, I don’t know why I said that.” I bite my tongue.
“It’s fine, I…I just wanted to protect people from him.”