Chapter 11 Salem #2
Tripp points at me like he caught it. “There it is. That laugh. Keep that.”
The words hit me unexpectedly. Keep that. Like it’s something worth protecting. I swallow and nod, not trusting my voice.
We leave the bookstore with the little bag swinging at my side, my heart oddly full. Outside, Ozzy looks down at me. “Atta Boy?”
I grin. “Atta Boy.”
We walk a few blocks down main street until we see it—brick building, big windows, a sign with bold letters.
ATTA BOY brEWERY
Inside it’s warm and lively, the smell of beer and fried food wrapping around me like an invitation. People laugh at tables. A couple plays darts near the back. Music hums low enough to talk over. It’s all so normal.
We sit at the bar. The bartender is busy, but a man behind the bar is checking the taps—dark hair, broad shoulders, easy confidence. He looks up as we settle in.
“Hey,” he says. “What can I get you?”
Ozzy gestures lightly. “Tripp Atwood sent us.”
The man’s brows lift. “Tripp?”
I nod. “At Book, Spine, and Sinker. He said we should come here.”
The man groans like his soul just left his body. “Yeah?”
Ozzy’s mouth curves. “He’s charming.”
“That’s what makes him dangerous,” the man says, then wipes his hands on a towel and offers one. “Paxton.”
“Salem,” I say.
“Ozzy,” Ozzy adds.
Paxton nods, eyes flicking between us with friendly curiosity. “You visiting?”
“Something like that,” Ozzy says smoothly, which is not an answer but also not a lie.
Paxton doesn’t push. Just nods like he gets it. “So,” he says, leaning an elbow on the bar, “What can I get you?”
Ozzy orders first. “Kunt Kicker IPA.”
I choke a little.
Paxton laughs. “Good choice.”
I look at the menu, overwhelmed by options. “Um… what’s a cider like?”
Paxton points. “Try that one. Sweet but not too sweet.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll do a cider.”
Paxton nods and sets to work, chatting as he pours. “So Tripp was signing books?” he asks.
I smile. “Yeah. He was fun.”
Paxton sighs dramatically. “He is fun. He’s also insufferable.”
Ozzy smirks. “Sounds like family.”
Paxton gives him a look. “You have no idea.” He slides our drinks over.
Ozzy takes a sip of his IPA and lets out a satisfied sound. “Okay. This is good.”
I take a sip of mine. It’s crisp, sweet, and bright. My eyes widen. “Oh. That’s… really good.”
Paxton grins. “Told you.”
I glance around the brewery again, taking it all in. The bar. The people. The normal laughter. I feel… light. Like I’m wearing a version of myself that isn’t constantly bracing for impact.
Ozzy leans in slightly. “You having fun?”
I nod, smiling before I can stop it. “Yeah.”
My voice sounds almost surprised.
Ozzy watches me for a beat, then his mouth softens into something warmer than a smirk. “I like seeing you like this,” he says quietly.
My chest tightens. I look down at my drink because if I meet his eyes too long, I might do something reckless—like believe I deserve a life where I sit in breweries and buy romance novels and laugh with a man who looks at me like I’m his favorite thing.
We order food—pretzels and a burger we split because it’s huge—and Paxton tells us which sauces are best, complaining about Tripp the entire time with obvious affection.
I laugh more than I have in months. And for a little while, it’s perfect. Until the thought comes. Soft at first. A shadow at the edge of the light.
What happens next?
Once I’m deemed safe. Once Dean says the threat is gone. Once Ozzy goes back to his team and his missions and his life. Where do I go? Back to my mother? Back to the apartment that never felt like home? Back to Carl’s eyes lingering too long?
Back to a world where I’m forgettable again?
The warmth inside me dims. Ozzy notices instantly—because of course he does. His hand shifts closer on the bar, not touching, but there.
“What?” he asks quietly.
I swallow. “Nothing.”
He doesn’t buy it. “Salem,” he murmurs.
I stare at my cider, watching bubbles rise. “I was just thinking about… after.”
Ozzy’s jaw tightens. “After what?”
“After I’m safe,” I whisper. “After this is over.”
His gaze sharpens. “You’re safe now.”
I shake my head. “You know what I mean.”
Silence stretches between us, the brewery noise suddenly too loud, too normal, too distant.
I force the words out. “Do I go back to my mom?” The question tastes like old pain.
Ozzy doesn’t answer right away. He looks at me like he’s choosing his words carefully. Then he says, low, “We’ll find out what’s going on with her. We’ll get answers.”
My throat tightens. “And if she didn’t even report me missing?”
Ozzy’s eyes darken. “Then we deal with that.”
I swallow hard. “And if she did?” I ask, softer. “What if she… cares?”
Ozzy’s expression softens. “Then we deal with that too.”
I let out a shaky breath, nodding slowly. Because I don’t know what I want the answer to be. If she didn’t care, it confirms everything I’ve feared my whole life. If she did care… then why wasn’t she better? Why didn’t she choose me?
I take a sip of cider, trying to wash the ache away.
Ozzy watches me, then leans closer, voice quiet enough that no one else can hear. “You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want to,” he says.
My heart stutters, and I glance at him. “What?”
Ozzy’s gaze locks on mine, steady and unwavering. “When this is over, you get to choose. Not your mom. Not Carl. Not anyone who ever treated you like you were optional.”
My breath catches.
Ozzy’s voice drops even lower. “You.”
I stare at him, stunned. The brewery lights flicker softly over his face. His mohawk sharp. His eyes steady. He looks like a man who has already decided something. And the realization is both comforting and terrifying.
Because if Ozzy is offering me a choice… it means he’s imagining a future where I’m still in it.
I blink hard, trying not to fall apart in front of Paxton Atwood and his aggressively good pretzels. I clear my throat, forcing a smile. “Okay.”
Ozzy’s mouth softens again. Then he nudges my cider gently with his glass. “To today.”
I clink my drink against his. “To today,” I echo.
And for now, I let myself have it. The normalcy of it all. The feeling of being a person in a town that doesn’t know my history. Because tomorrow can be heavy.
Tomorrow can bring answers I’m not ready for.
But today?
Today I’m sitting at a bar with Ozzy Oliver, and my chest feels full for reasons that have nothing to do with food.
And even if I’m scared of what happens next— I’m more afraid of going back to a life where I never got to feel this at all.