Chapter 20
Jonny
JUST ONE MORE DAY WITH HER
Somehow I blinked, and it’s Christmas Eve.
Shira’s been running herself ragged these past few days, so I’ve been at the bookshop as much as possible, trying to make sure she’s not working herself into the ground.
She keeps thanking me, but my motivations are selfish.
I get to spend more time with her, and she has more energy left for things I want to do with her after hours, in and out of the bedroom.
We’ve crammed as much as possible into these last few days—shopping for my nieces and nephews, driving to nearby towns to check out new restaurants, catching a screening of It’s a Wonderful Life at the tiny old Azalea theater.
Everywhere we go, I hold her hand, try to memorize her laugh, the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking, the pink in her cheeks when she notices me staring.
All the details I’ll need later, when she’s gone.
Yet no matter how much I’ve tried to slow down time, here we are. The holiday market closes at noon today. And tomorrow, Shira will be gone.
I keep reminding myself to be grateful for what we’ve had. She’s clearly excited to get home, buzzing about seeing her friends, all the places she wants to eat in Chicago, and getting back to her job. And I’m genuinely happy for her. I am.
Even if it feels like someone’s slowly carving a hole in my chest with a rusty knife.
When I walk into the market at a quarter past noon, half the shops are already stripped bare, crates stacked behind tables, twinkle lights unplugged and sagging.
Vendors in Santa hats and flannel are wrapping breakables in tissue paper, counting cash boxes, and hollering “Merry Christmas!” Everyone looks tired, but they’ve got that satisfied glow you get after a hard push that paid off.
Over and over, I get stopped, folks thanking me for keeping the market going while Dad’s recovering, for making it feel bigger and brighter this year.
Mrs. Kendrick presses a jar of pecan pralines into my hands and tells me not to forget where I came from.
Mr. Walters shakes my hand so hard it rattles my teeth.
I haven’t told anyone yet that I’m under contract to purchase the building. My idea’s still more dream than plan, and for now it feels good to keep it tucked close, a secret seed I can plant later when I figure out what it’s supposed to grow into.
When I approach the bookshop and spot her, I’m hit with the wordless sensation of “Oh, there you are” that’s started happening the past few days. Like familiarity and relief wrapped up in yearning. But right on its heels comes the gut-punch. Tomorrow she’s leaving.
Shaking that off, I walk into the shop to where Shira’s talking with four teenage boys wearing work boots and hoodies.
She glances up at me. “Jonny, they’re telling me you asked them to meet you here?”
“That’s right,” I say, smiling at the boys. “Shira, these are a few of my cousins: Davey, Mason, Ben, and Cade. Boys, this is Miss Shira Schwartz.”
Each of them politely says “nice to meet you, ma’am” while shaking her hand in turn. Grandma McKay would be proud.
“They’re here to take down the shop,” I explain to Shira.
“Jonny’s paying us two hundred bucks each,” Davey adds, grinning.
Shira whirls toward me, eyes wide. “Wait—what? I was planning on taking it all down this afternoon.”
“Nope, not happening. Can’t have my girl wasting our last day together doing manual labor.”
Oops. Didn’t mean to slip my girl in there.
Hoping she didn’t notice, I press on. “Just tell the boys how you want everything packed, and they’ll get it done perfectly. And if they don’t…” I eye my cousins, eyebrows raised, “…then they won’t get paid a penny.”
The boys all straighten up, practically saluting me.
Meanwhile, Shira’s eyes have gone all shiny. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Pretty sure there’s nothing in this world I like more than making things easier for her.
After giving detailed instructions to the boys, Shira gathers up a few things to take back to her place—her purse, a tote bag of books she’s bringing home to Chicago, and a little roller bag filled with odds and ends.
I swoop in and take them from her, one by one. She puts a hand on her hip, looking up at me. “I need to carry something!”
I shift the tote to my other shoulder, then hold out my empty hand. “Here. You can carry that.”
She laces her fingers through mine, shaking her head, even though there’s a pleased flush creeping over her cheeks. “I can’t open doors for myself, I can’t pack up my own shop, I can’t carry my own stuff—”
“Why should you?” I wink. “You’ve got me.”
At least, for the next approximately eighteen hours.
Before we leave, Shira turns back, her eyes sweeping over the space one last time.
The boys are already hustling—stacking unsold books, taking down shelves, racing through it all for their two hundred bucks.
In a few hours, this space, which meant so much to so many people, will be empty, stripped down to its bare bones.
“Goodbye, little bookshop,” Shira whispers, more to herself than to me. “Thanks for everything.”
As we head out to the truck, the sun is shining, and the air is crisp and cool. Shira slides under my arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Mine. The word hums under my skin, taunting me.
“I have to admit,” she says, “when you introduced me to your cousins, my first thought was, ‘Oh dear, there are more of you?’”
A laugh bursts out. “You’ve barely scratched the surface on all the McKays in this town. We descend on each other for a huge extended-family dinner on Christmas night—you definitely dodged a bullet, leaving before that.”
There’s a pause. “Yeah. Guess so.”
We reach the truck, and I open her door for her, offering her my arm to help her climb in. When I come around to my side and get in, she’s already sitting in the middle, right where I like her.
“What’s the plan for this afternoon?” she asks, looking excited.
“Whatever you want. I thought we’d drive into Dallas, grab a late lunch, maybe catch a movie—”
“What? Why?” Her brow furrows.
“Because you deserve a break from Christmas,” I tell her.
“And then tonight, there’s a Matzo Ball hosted by the JCC in Dallas.
Apparently, it’s a huge event. I mean, I know you won’t know anyone there, but I thought it sounded fun?
If you’re not into that, I’m sure we could find a bar open somewhere, get you more of those ranch waters you love. ”
“Oh.” The sound is a soft puff of air. “Okay. Cool.”
She’s quiet as I start up the truck and head out of the parking lot and onto the main road. It’s not until we stop at a red light a few blocks away that she speaks again.
“If I weren’t here, what would you be doing this afternoon?”
The honest answer—nursing a beer and missing you—flashes through me. That’s not what she means.
“Usually, I get into town on Christmas Eve,” I say. “So I mostly spend the day helping Mom and Dad with the last of the prep, making food for tonight and tomorrow, wrapping gifts, that kind of thing. After that, it’d be the stuff I told you about the other day—tamales, tractor parade—”
“Let’s do that,” she blurts.
I glance over. “Don’t worry about me missing my family traditions. I’ve spent more time with them this month than the entire past decade. And I’ll spend all day with them tomorrow. Today, I want to be with you. Doing what you want.”
She gazes up at me, her eyes big and brown and serious. “I want to experience your holiday with you, Jonny. As much as I’m here for.”
My heart basically turns to liquid. “Okay. I’d love that.”
When we walk into the kitchen at my parents’ house, it looks like the refrigerator exploded.
Mom and Bianca are elbow-deep in food prep, with Maggie standing on a chair “helping.” Shira steps in without hesitation, putting on one of Mom’s old floral aprons and rolling up her sleeves.
She measures flour into Mom’s ancient Bosch mixer for the cinnamon roll dough, while I dice onions and peppers for the quiche.
Then, we both help distract the twins when they start fighting over whose turn it is to stir.
Shira’s asking my mom about recipes, laughing at Bianca’s jokes, “accidentally” dropping bits of cheese for the dogs.
And every time I glance at her, it feels like my heart’s being kneaded along with the dough.
When that’s done, I take Shira home so she can clean up (joining her in the shower for a little quickie, naturally).
Then we return to my parents’ house for dinner.
Isaac and Annabel picked up several dozen tamales from Rosa and Miguel’s earlier today, and now the dining table is piled high with tamales, refried beans, rice, guacamole, and more.
Shira slides into the chair next to mine as if it’s always been her spot, unwrapping a tamale and joining the conversation without missing a beat.
I try to eat, but I don’t seem to have much of an appetite.
Mostly, I’m just trying not to think about how next year she won’t be here.
“Who’s ready for the tractor parade?” Isaac says when we’ve all cleaned up dinner.
The little kids all cheer, “Meeeeee!”
“Let’s get a move on then,” Isaac says, turning to me and Shira. “Y’all want to join?”
I look at her, my eyebrows raised. “Up to you.”
“Let’s go,” Shira says, smiling. “When am I going to get another chance to be in a tractor parade?”
Never. And shit, there’s a lump in my throat.
“Great,” I say, forcing a smile.