Chapter Thirty-Nine #2
He barreled on: “It’s just—I know I messed up before, and I know I get in my head sometimes, but I want this to work. I want you here, with me. Even if it’s just, like, a test run.” He gestured at the apartment, as if to say, Look, it’s not much, but it’s yours if you want it.
I tried to picture it—me, living here, with him.
Cooking dinner, fighting over whose turn it was to buy toilet paper, sharing the crossword on a lazy Sunday.
For so long, the idea of belonging anywhere had made my skin crawl.
But now, looking at Nate’s worried, hopeful face, I felt something unclench inside me.
“I’d like that,” I said, and the truth of it startled me. “Yeah. I’d like to move in.”
He stared at me, like he hadn’t quite heard. “Really?”
“Really.”
The joy on his face was almost embarrassing.
He rushed forward, sweeping me up and spinning me around like a sitcom cliché.
I shrieked, partly in surprise and partly because he nearly knocked me into the wall, but then we both laughed, breathless, bodies pressed together in the tight, bright little entryway.
He set me down gently, but kept his arms wrapped around my waist. “You sure?” he said, so close I could feel his pulse through his shirt. “You’re not just humoring me?”
I reached up and touched his face, tracing the stubble along his jaw. “I’m sure. I want to be here. With you.”
For a second, neither of us moved. I felt the warmth of him seep into me, slow and steady, until the room faded away.
He leaned in and kissed me, a careful, reverent kiss that grew deeper and more certain with every second.
My hands found his hair, tangling, pulling him closer.
His body pressed into mine, insistent but not demanding, and I melted into it, let myself be carried.
We made it to the couch in a tangle of limbs, our laughter dying down as the urgency took over.
Nate was always careful with me, but today there was a roughness, a hunger that I matched beat for beat.
We kissed until my lips were numb, and then he pulled me onto his lap, hands roaming, finding every inch of skin under my shirt.
I wasn’t thinking about anything—not the past, not the future, not the old wounds or the fear that I’d ruin this the same way I’d ruined everything else.
I just let go, let myself feel: the slide of his fingers along my spine, the heat of his breath in my ear, the way he said my name like it was a secret only he was allowed to know.
Clothes came off in fits and starts—his shirt, my jeans, the rest of it. When he moved inside me, there was no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just us, together, all the sharp edges smoothed out by sweat and laughter and the kind of wanting that made the world disappear.
After, we lay on the couch, bodies slick and tangled, the sunlight shifting across the floor in slow, lazy patterns. My head rested on his chest, rising and falling with every breath. I could hear his heart, strong and steady, and for once I believed in its promise.
He stroked my hair, slow and absent, like he could do it forever. “You really meant it?” he whispered, half-asleep already.
I nodded, pressing my lips to his collarbone. “I meant it.”
We drifted, both of us, into a soft, untroubled sleep. I dreamed of nothing and woke to the sound of rain against the window, the gray light curling around us like a blanket.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone. I felt found.
Nate snored a little, a low rumble that vibrated through his ribs. I listened to it, let it anchor me. Then I got up, padded naked to the kitchen, and made coffee for both of us, careful to pour it just the way he liked: strong, with one sugar and a little bit of half-and-half.
I brought it back, set his mug on the end table, and watched him sleep for a minute before nudging him awake.
He blinked, saw me, and smiled—the kind of smile you can’t fake, even if you want to.
“Morning, roomie,” he said, and pulled me back onto the couch, coffee forgotten for the moment.
The rain kept falling, steady and unhurried. The day stretched out before us, wide open.
And for once, I was okay with not knowing what came next.
∞∞∞
There was a rhythm to mornings at Timeless Treasures, and it started with the jangle of the key in the old lock, always a split second before the alarm chirped its mechanical greeting.
Nate and I let ourselves in, arms laden with thermoses and, today, a paper sack of blueberry muffins from the bakery down the block.
The store was cold and shadowed, all the better to enjoy the process of flicking on the lights one row at a time, watching the shelves brighten in a slow, golden domino.
I always got first pick of the muffin bag.
Nate said it was because I was the senior employee, but really it was because he liked to watch my reaction and make snide comments about my “animalistic approach to pastry.” He made a show of dusting off the espresso machine and prepping a pair of cappuccinos, taking forever so he could steam the milk extra thick, and more than once he’d tried to draw obscene latte art just to make me laugh.
We’d been working together like this for three weeks.
It should have been awkward, living and working and sharing every minute, but it wasn’t.
Maybe because there was always something to do; maybe because the work itself was soothing.
The ritual of shelving and inventory and register tape was as close as I got to meditation.
At nine, the regulars started to filter in.
The first was Mrs. Green, who always asked for “the new Scandinavian detective series” and insisted on paying with change.
Nate handled her, rolling his eyes only after she’d shuffled off.
I set up the day’s display—“Books for Rainy Days”—and filled it with thick, sad novels.
It was an in-joke for Nate, who claimed I only read “stuff where people get quietly miserable in the Midwest.” I added a single copy of Sex After Sixty, just to see if he’d notice.
By ten, the coffee machine had already started gurgling complaints, but Nate was on his third espresso and didn’t seem to mind. He caught me eyeing the machine and grinned. “You’re just jealous I can still metabolize caffeine after noon.”
“I’m jealous you can metabolize anything after that muffin massacre,” I replied, flicking a stray crumb at his chest.
He brushed it off with faux dignity. “It’s fuel for the mind. I’ll need all my faculties for the noon rush.”
The day passed in soft fits and starts, as most days did. Between customers, Nate found me shelving the cookbooks and slid up beside me, hands behind his back.
“What,” I said, not looking up.
He waited a beat, then slid Cooking For One (And How To Enjoy It) onto the shelf beside my hip, the little cartoon chicken dancing at me. “Found your copy,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m living with you. The irony is palpable.”
He leaned in, voice low. “Just wanted to make sure you don’t forget how to fend for yourself. In case I drop dead of espresso poisoning.”
“Noted,” I said. But I smiled, and he saw it, and that was the entire point.
Around two, Mr. Porter, no Richard, came in.
He always timed it so that the store was empty or close to it, which I’d long ago realized was so he could avoid the “old man” jokes from Nate.
He wore the usual: tweed jacket, a battered bowtie, and the faintest air of exhaustion.
I noticed, not for the first time, how much older he’d started to look.
The bags under his eyes had gone from gray to a heavy, almost purplish bruise, and his hands shook a little when he poured himself a cup from the pot behind the counter.
Nate saw him too, and for a second he got quiet, a seriousness settling over his features that I only saw in rare moments. He approached his grandfather, gently, and I could see the way he hovered, wanting to help but knowing not to insult the man’s pride.
Mr. Porter cleared his throat. “Olivia, Nathaniel. When you have a moment, could you both join me in the office?”
Nate nodded. “Sure thing, Pops. Just let me ring up this last guy.” He shot me a look—equal parts worried and resigned—and I followed Mr. Porter to the little back room.
The office had always been a controlled chaos of paper and ink.
Mr. Porter liked his ledgers, liked to keep things in order even when he couldn’t.
There were more books in here than in some small-town libraries, and at least three framed photos of the original store, all of them sun-faded and slightly crooked.
He sat at his desk, hands folded, and waited until Nate and I were seated before he spoke. The silence was heavy, not tense, but not casual either.
“I suppose you’re both wondering why I called you back here,” he started, like he was leading a lecture.
“I’m not the type to be coy, so I’ll be blunt.
” He paused, sipped his coffee, then set it down with a deliberate slowness.
“I’ve been given a timeline. I have cancer.
The doctors are optimistic, of course, but you can hear it in their voices. It’s a matter of months. Maybe less.”
It was so direct I didn’t process it for a second. Nate didn’t either. He just stared, lips parted, waiting for the real point to emerge. But Mr. Porter was always a straight-shooter.
He continued: “I’ve known for a while. I’d hoped it would move more slowly.
But it seems my body’s in a hurry to catch up to my mind.
” He managed a smile, thin and sad, but he looked at us both in the eyes.
“I wanted to tell you together. Because you, Olivia, are family, whether you like it or not. And you, Nathaniel, are all the family I have left.”
Nate spoke first, voice barely above a whisper. “Pops…”
Mr. Porter waved him off, gentle but firm.
“None of that now. I don’t want this to become an after-school special.
I only brought it up because there are things to be decided about the store, and I thought you both deserved to be in the loop.
” He looked at me. “I know you’ve only worked here a short time, but this place is as much yours as it is mine.
And I want you to know that I plan to leave it in good hands. ”
My chest was tight, every breath a struggle. I wanted to say something comforting, but there was nothing to be said.
“I’m not asking you to do anything,” Mr. Porter said, as if he could sense my panic. “I just want you to keep doing what you’re doing. Run the store. Keep the coffee hot, the books alphabetized, and the weirdos entertained. That’s all I want.”
Nate was silent, jaw clenched tight. He looked at the shelves, at the desk, anywhere but at his grandfather.
“I’d like to talk about arrangements, of course, but not today.” Mr. Porter’s eyes crinkled at the corners, genuine. “Today, I want to enjoy the company of two people I love, and then go home and watch Jeopardy in peace. Is that too much to ask?”
Nate shook his head. “No, Pops. Not at all.”
I managed to find my voice. “Is there anything you need? Anything we can do?”
He smiled, softer now. “Just be yourselves. That’s more than enough.”
The rest of the afternoon passed in a daze.
Mr. Porter stayed at the front, chatting with customers, recommending books, writing notes on little slips of paper for the regulars.
He looked, for all the world, like nothing was wrong.
But every now and then I caught him at the window, staring out at the street, lost in thought.
Nate and I worked side by side, our banter softer now, each joke edged with an unspoken “what next?” I didn’t know how to comfort him, so I just made sure to be there, to make the coffee a little stronger, to stand close when he needed it.
When we closed up at six, Nate locked the door and stood with his forehead pressed to the glass for a long time. I waited, gave him space, then slipped my hand into his when he turned back to me.
“You okay?” I said, knowing it was a stupid question.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Ask me tomorrow.”
We walked home together in silence, the city humming around us, rain pooling in the gutter and cars hissing by. When we got to the apartment, he set the book bag down and just looked at me, like he wanted to memorize my face.
“Come here,” he said, pulling me in.
We didn’t talk about Richard, not that night. We just curled up together on the couch, reading our dumb romance novels and eating cereal for dinner, the TV flickering in the background. Sometimes, we sat in silence. Sometimes, we laughed, and the laughter was shaky but real.
I’d spent so long being afraid of endings that I’d forgotten how much more important it was to be present in the middle.
That night, I lay awake, listening to Nate’s steady breath beside me, and thought about the store, about Richard, about the fragile, beautiful mess of the family we’d made for ourselves.
Tomorrow would come, and it would bring whatever it brought. But tonight, the world was small and warm and full of possibility.
And I, for once, was ready for it.