Chapter 11
Shira
It’s Wednesday, and I haven’t seen Jonny since he dropped by the store on Saturday to bring me a donut and let me know his sister was okay.
I’d been so relieved that all seemed to be forgiven with the whole name thing—but now I’m worried that I screwed things up even more by bailing on Sunday dinner with his family.
When I texted on Saturday afternoon to tell him I wasn’t feeling well, it wasn’t an outright lie. The guilt of being “Sarah” the last two weeks finally caught up to me, and the thought of skipping the first night of Hanukkah made me feel like I was abandoning an important part of myself.
And I figured it would be better for Jonny and me to see each other again when it could be just the two of us, so that we could talk, and I could tell him everything I didn’t get to before we got interrupted.
But I haven’t seen him since, and it’s making me worried. I could be reading too much into it; he did text me on Monday morning to see how I was feeling and let me know that he would be busy for the next few days, working on an important project with his dad.
He’s been true to his word, and other than the occasional text, Jonny’s been radio silent.
I keep reminding myself that his dad is the reason he’s down here in the first place, the reason that I’m even here.
But I miss him, which I haven’t admitted to the girls, since that’s clearly not fling behavior.
Every time I catch someone out of the corner of my eye wearing a tan Carhartt jacket—which happens at least ten times a day around here—my pulse spikes, hoping it’ll be Jonny sauntering in with a smile or a treat.
Of course, it hasn’t been him. Not once.
Which is why, when the bell on the front door rings and I look over to see a tall, sturdy man with dark blond hair and a killer smile, wearing a Carhartt jacket, it takes me a second to realize it's actually Jonny.
“Hi!” I say, rushing toward him. I pause, not sure if I should hug him, kiss him, or shake his hand.
Luckily, he decides for me, leaning in to give me a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You’re looking really good,” he says, his eyes slipping down my body in a way that makes me flush.
“This is what I always wear to work,” I say, glancing down at my outfit—jeans, a sweater, and the branded apron, which has pretty much been my uniform down here.
“Like I said, looking really good.” He grins. “You feeling better?”
“Much better.” I cough, a phantom remnant of whatever illness I supposedly came down with.
“In that case, do you have any plans after work tonight?” Jonny asks.
I shake my head; he really is the only person I hang out with in this town, although a few of the older ladies have invited me to play dominoes with them.
“Good, then I’ll pick you up here at six-fifteen.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to play it cool, and not like I’m bursting with excitement and relief. “Where are we going?” It’s still Hanukkah, but I can always light the candles when I get home, before I go to bed.
“If I tell you, it’ll ruin the surprise.”
“A surprise?”
Jonny nods, rocking back on his heels, his mouth curved in a suspicious grin.
“Can I get a hint?”
“Nope,” he says, a smug look on his face. “Just be here and ready at six-fifteen.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving me with six and a half hours to try and pass without driving myself crazy with curiosity.
Which is a hell of a lot better than driving myself crazy with regret like I have been.
I already feel lighter, knowing Jonny doesn’t hate me.
Which is good, because I’m really starting to like him. A lot.
The rest of the afternoon crawls by like I knew it would, and during the long stretches without customers, I consider all the different surprises Jonny might have in store.
I could see him planning something extravagant, like a helicopter ride around Azalea and neighboring towns to look at all the Christmas lights—he is a gazillionaire—or something small and low-key, like watching a drive-in movie.
Honestly, I’ll be thrilled with whatever he’s planned. It really is the thought that counts—just the fact that he planned something, that he missed me, too, means the world.
Around five o’clock, I’m about to crawl out of my skin when the bell on the front door announces another customer.
I look up to see an older Latino man with dark brown hair and tan skin, weathered by years of working in the sun. He looks like he’s lived a lot of stories.
“Hi, there,” I say. “How can I help you? Looking for yourself or for a gift?”
The man shuffles awkwardly on his feet, looking overwhelmed, like he’s not quite sure where to start.
“Do you have books for ninos…children?” he asks in a thick accent. “With English and Spanish?”
“I do,” I say, leading him back to the children’s section.
Once I realized how many bilingual families lived in this town, I placed a new order for Spanish-language books and several children’s books that feature both languages.
“Right here,” I say, pointing him toward the right spot on the shelf.
He’s the only customer here, and I could use the distraction, so I stick around to help him pick out a few books.
He tells me his name is Miguel and that he was born in Mexico, but he and his wife have lived in Azaela for more than forty years.
Like so many of the people I’ve met over the last few weeks, he’s grateful that the town finally has a bookstore, which makes me proud of this job in a way I’ve never felt before.
“You’re going to be a very popular grandpa,” I tell him, as I wrap the books he purchased.
He smiles like I’m the one who gave him a gift as he hands over the cash. The whole exchange leaves me feeling light, happy, and ready for whatever Jonny has up his sleeve.
As promised, Jonny is waiting for me outside the market at six-fifteen on the dot in the big, blue truck—his dad’s, I now know. As soon as he sees me, he gets out and opens my door, offering his hand to help me climb in.
Definitely not something the guys I usually date ever do, but I could get used to it.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask once he’s settled in the driver’s seat.
Jonny laughs and shakes his head. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that patience is a virtue?”
I shrug. “I must have missed that day at school.”
“Well, it’s never too late to learn,” he says, pulling out of the parking lot.
“You are torturing me, Jonny McKay.”
He flashes me a smile and reaches his hand over, giving my thigh a little squeeze. His touch sends a shiver through me. All this flirting and build-up with no release is starting to get to me.
“So how was your day?” he asks. “Change anyone’s life with a book?”
“I sold some children’s books to a very cute grandpa,” I say, thinking of Miguel. “And you know how Susan Landry’s always coming in to chat about what she’s reading? She was back again today. I can barely keep up with her.”
“Did you get some good talking points from Goodreads about the book she read?” he teases.
“Believe it or not, I actually read this one!” I don’t add that I read it in an attempt to keep my mind off him, and if he’d ever talk to me again.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, The Correspondent. It’s told in letters written to and from the main character—such a cool structure.”
“Did Mrs. Landry like it, too?”
“She loved it,” I tell him. “But it’s funny, we didn’t really talk much about the actual book. She told me about her husband, how he used to leave her little love notes to find all around the house.”
“That’s sweet. I never knew Coach Landry was a softie,” Jonny says, smiling.
“Coach Landry? You were on the football team?”
“I got kicked off the football team.” He smirks.
“That tracks,” I say, laughing. “But it sounds like they had a really special love story. And I don’t know, our conversation got me thinking about how powerful books are.
Like, it’s not just about the words on the page, but how they make you feel and how they connect to your life.
Twenty people could read the same book, and each take away something different. ”
“So true,” he says, nodding. “That’s why I was set on having a bookshop as part of the market this year.”
He goes on, telling me how he didn’t grow up reading much, but that changed when he went to UT Austin and accidentally stumbled into an indie bookstore near campus.
“The store was called Book People, and it was pretty much love at first sight,” he says as he makes a left turn. “Two whole floors of books, shelf after shelf. More books than I’d ever seen in my life, each one full of new ideas, new worlds.”
“Wait, you went to Texas? That’s not easy to get into—I thought you were a punk in high school.”
“Turns out punks can still get an almost-perfect score on the ACT.” He winks.
“And what do former punks turned multi-millionaires like to read?” I ask. “Wait—don’t tell me: books about optimizing workflow, crushing goals, or harnessing your inner CEO?”
That’s the kind of book Conor and his bros listen to on their commutes and discuss at work over their green smoothies.
He chuckles. “I mean, sometimes. Nothing wrong with a good self-help book. But I had a professor in college who used to say novels are just self-help books in disguise. Whether it’s literary fiction about the AIDS epidemic, a fantasy about a chosen one deciding to be brave, or a mystery where the detective’s really solving his own mess—it’s all about learning how to be human. ”
Be still my reader-girl heart. He says it so casually, like he doesn’t realize he just spoke directly to my soul.
“Yes! Exactly!” I say, realizing I’m talking with my hands, too excited to keep them in my lap. “It’s like you get to live someone else’s life for a while, and somehow it makes you understand your own better. It’s really beautiful.”
“You’re really beautiful.”
He murmurs the words under his breath, like they slipped out by accident.
We’re at a red light, and the way he’s looking at me, eyes smoldering, makes my stomach flip.
And I realize, I don’t need a surprise. I don’t need anything except for time alone with this man.
I still want to sleep with him, but I also want to talk with him.
Tell him all my stories and hear his. I want to know him, and I want him to know me. I’m tired of hiding.
“Jonny,” I say. “There’s something else I want to tell you.”
“Hold that thought. We’re here. Just hang on one second.”
He pulls into the parking lot of a gas station and hops out while I wait, wondering what on earth he has planned. He opens my door and helps me out of the truck so I don’t have to jump.
“Is there a hidden speakeasy or something around back?” I ask. There’s a place in Chicago where you go through what looks like a closet door in a barber shop to get to a secret bar.
“This is just where we’re parking,” he says, taking my hand in his. “This way.”
We’re walking toward the town square, and as we get closer, I hear people singing. Are we going Christmas caroling?
My stomach sinks, remembering how it felt at the Christmas tree lighting when I didn’t know the words. At least then, there’d been a distraction with his family—now, it will be obvious that I’m an outsider.
“Listen, Jonny…I don’t think this is a good idea.”
He turns to face me, taking both of my hands in his. “I really don’t want to ruin this surprise,” he says, glancing in the direction the voices are coming from. “Will you trust me? If we get there and you don’t want to stay, I promise, we’ll go. Please?”
I take a deep breath and nod.
Jonny looks anxious, which makes me even more nervous. But I can tell this means a lot to him, so I let him lead the way toward the town square and the collective voices singing.
The melody is familiar—"We Wish You a Merry Christmas”—but there’s something different about it. The cadence is off. Straining my ears, I hear what they’re singing: “We wish you a happy Hanukkah, and a happy New Year.”
We turn the corner, and I see what looks like more than a hundred people standing in front of a ten-foot-tall menorah. A menorah? In Azalea, Texas?
My jaw drops, and for one confusing, wonderful moment, it’s like time stands still.
I glance back at Jonny, who’s watching me. He smiles, a little apprehensive, as he says, “Happy Hannukkah, Shira.”
Hearing my name on his lips like it’s familiar, like it’s beautiful, like it’s me, makes my eyes well with tears. “What is—? How did—?”
Stunned, I turn back to look at the menorah. The base appears to be made of wood, and the “candles” look like plastic pipes. At the top of each one sits a glass lantern like the kind you’d see on city streetlights. It’s incredible—a rustic, handmade work of art.
“Sorry it’s a few days late,” Jonny says.
“Sorry?” I say, shaking my head. “You did this? For me?”
“It wasn’t just me,” he says, and I realize there are more familiar faces in the crowd than strangers.
Jonny’s family is there, along with customers I recognize from the bookstore: Mr. Jenkins and Mrs. Frandsen, the girls who are buddy reading The Fourth Wing series—even mean old Mrs. Barnes.
And the picnic tables around them are covered with an array of Jewish foods: latkes, challah, and gefilte fish.
They got some of the holidays wrong, but the sentiment couldn’t be more right.
I can barely speak, my eyes so full of tears I’m afraid to blink. “I don’t…I can’t…”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Jonny says. “Except maybe the prayer? I know everyone would love to know more about the holiday. About you.”
That does it. Tears spill down my cheeks, and I launch myself into Jonny’s arms. This man, this town, has taken in a stranger and made her feel like she belongs. And if that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is.