Chapter 18 #2
She moves around to the register, straightening things up, getting settled in for the morning. A customer walks in, and Shira greets him by name, asking if he needs help finding anything. I lean against the counter, sip my coffee, and watch her.
It’s not just that she’s good at this, though she is.
It’s that she’s brought something different to this town.
This shop has, too. New perspectives, fresh ideas, a spark that feels almost contagious.
She’s not just running a bookshop—she’s creating something vibrant, inclusive, and unique.
I think of the book she gave me a few days ago, East of Eden, and how she picked it for me.
I realize recommending a book is more than sharing a story—it’s a way of seeing someone, noticing who they are, and inviting them to explore something they might never have discovered on their own.
Turning, I scan the rest of the market, the other shops and booths tucked against the brick walls, people milling about. Next year, this won’t exist. I find myself wishing for that magic remote again, desperate to pause this scene, too. Hold onto it all a little longer.
“How’s the coffee?” Shira says, and I snap back to attention, realizing she’s done helping that customer.
“Oh. It’s great. I should run home and change. My parents are probably wondering what happened to me last night.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Are they going to be scandalized? Think I’m a terrible influence on their son?”
“Nah,” I say with a smirk, “they’re probably hoping I haven’t been a terrible influence on you.”
“Well, you have,” she says, grinning. “You’ve got me thinking about all kinds of things I shouldn’t be thinking about…”
I lean in, brushing my lips against her ear. “Then do me a favor—keep thinking them. All day long. Let ’em simmer. I’ll taste the proof tonight.”
Her eyes flare with heat. “Deal.”
I sneak another quick kiss, then hesitate, a knot forming in my stomach. “You’re still leaving the morning of the twenty-fifth?”
Her smile fades, just slightly. “Yeah. Why?”
Because it’s way too soon, and I’m freaking out.
“Just…checking. I didn’t know if your plans had changed.”
She hesitates. “Why would my plans change?”
“I don’t know. No reason.” I glance away, running a hand through my hair.
When I look back at her, her face has softened. She tilts her head, lips parting like she’s not sure how to respond. “Jonny....”
“No, I get it,” I blurt, before she has to figure out how to let me down easy. “You’ve got plans with your friends, and you’ve got that big promotion to bag, right?”
She nods slowly, eyes fixed on me. “Right.”
“Right,” I repeat, like a moron.
Last night was earth-shattering for me—I mean, I practically begged her to stay with me—but apparently it didn’t have that big of an impact on her.
Not enough to consider staying longer, anyway.
Which, yeah, good to know. I need to keep my expectations in check.
Just because I’m drowning in all these warm and gushy feelings doesn’t mean she is.
Just because my throat is tightening with the urge to blurt the words don’t go doesn’t mean she wants to hear them.
What would I even say, anyway? Stay and hang out with me longer because I might be dangerously addicted to you?
She has ambitions. Goals. That’s part of why I like her so damn much.
Even if she did postpone her return by a few days, it would only prolong the inevitable.
Eventually, she has to return to her real life.
And once my family doesn’t need me here anymore, I need to figure out my next steps.
A new image rushes into my mind: walking down the streets of Chicago with her, both of us bundled up in hats, scarves, and gloves, her arm hooked around mine.
The icy wind off the lake is whipping her hair around her, her cheeks and nose red from the cold, as I pull her toward me and kiss her forehead…
Get it together, I order myself. I must be losing my fucking mind.
Maybe it’s because I took things slow physically—it scrambled me up, and now my feelings are sprinting way ahead.
It’s been less than a month since we met.
It’s been less than a day since we slept together.
For her, this thing between us has probably just been a pleasant interlude, a way to make her time here a little more tolerable. A holiday hookup.
We’re just having fun, I remind myself. And that’s great. It is.
“Jonny?” she says, bringing me back to reality.
I clear my throat and take a step back. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”
Her eyes dim. “Sure. Yeah. See you soon.”
Once I get out to the parking lot and sink into my dad’s truck, the tightness in my chest doesn’t ease.
If anything, it gets worse, like my ribs are too small for my heart.
In a few days, all of this will be gone.
Shira. The bookshop, the holiday, this version of me that exists when I’m with her… it’ll vanish like breath in winter air.
A new thought rises—wild, stupid, completely irrational. If I can’t keep her, maybe I can keep something. A fragment of this perfectly magical holiday season that won’t disappear when she does.
Instead of turning left on Main to head toward home, I turn right. The truck rumbles down streets I’ve driven my whole life, under the old Christmas garland strung across Main Street and the tinselly decorations clinging to the lampposts. Exactly the same as when I lived here as a kid.
But then I pass the town square, where the giant Christmas tree sits opposite the towering menorah I built for her. A reminder that things can change here. Traditions can expand. New perspectives can be heard.
For so long, this place felt like gravity, like if I stayed too long, I’d be pulled under and stuck here.
But this year, staying for the whole holiday season instead of just popping in for Thanksgiving and Christmas before hurrying off, I’ve been forced to slow down.
To spend real time with my family again, feeling the chaos and the love.
Most of all, meeting Shira, getting to know her, seeing the way she moves through the world—it’s made me think differently.
Like maybe you don’t have to hide pieces of yourself to belong.
Maybe you can still be fully you and also part of something bigger. Maybe I can.
And maybe I can leave my own mark on this town. Make a positive difference for the future.
After a couple of blocks, I pull up in front of an unassuming brick building, gripping the steering wheel as I stare at the first-floor window. The words Kensington Realty are stenciled across it.
I went to school with Michael Kensington. He was everything I wasn’t: responsible, respectful, hard-working. Still is, from what my parents say.
Heart pounding, I get out of the truck and walk into the office.
A woman with short dark hair looks up from the front desk.
“Hey there,” I say, recognizing her; she was a couple of years behind me in school. “Emily Wilson, right?”
She smiles. “Emily Kensington now.”
“Oh, you and Mike are…”
“Married for three years,” she says, holding up her left hand to show the ring. “What brings you in, Jonny? Can I help you with something?”
“Uh, yeah.” I stuff my hands in my pockets and rock back on my heels. “Is Mike available? I don’t have an appointment or anything, just wanted to ask him a quick question.”
“Sure, let me grab him.”
She steps around through the door behind the desk, and soon Mike comes out—a little heavier, a lot balder, but clearly happy and successful-looking.
“Jonny McKay, good to see you,” he says, coming over and shaking my hand. “What can I do for you?”
I shift my weight, looking down at the floor for a second before glancing back up. “I was wondering if you could look into a property for me.”
He folds his arms, nodding. “Sure. What’s the property?”
“You know the old textile mill, where the holiday market’s happening this year?” I pause. “I’d like to buy it.”