Chapter 4 #2
“She’s observant. It’s why she’s good at her job.
” Jessica tilts her head, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve.
“Michelle says you’re Grayson’s best friend.
And he’s not the kind of man who keeps friends without souls.
So which is it, Scott? Are you the calculating businessman who measures human value in profit margins? Or are you something else?”
“I—” Words fail me. This is what I do. I write words for a living. I’ve published thirteen novels full of words. And right now, standing in front of the woman I love, I have exactly none.
“It’s complicated,” I manage finally.
“Everything with you is .” She moves toward the display she was working on when I arrived, putting distance between us. “You know what’s not complicated? Honesty. Saying what you mean. Being who you actually are instead of performing some version you think the world expects.”
She’s talking to me, but I hear Between the Lines’s words underneath. Walls built so high you forget what you’re protecting. Performing different roles for different audiences. Being most yourself when you’re most afraid.
“You’re right,” I say quietly.
Jessica freezes, book in hand. Turns slowly. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You’re right. I’m not honest. I say what I think people need to hear instead of what’s actually true. And I perform a version of myself that’s easier than being seen.”
She stares at me. “Are you feeling okay? Did you hit your head on the way in? Get bitten by a radioactive truth-teller?”
Despite everything, I almost laugh. “I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I might be more comfortable with drunk. This vulnerability is deeply unsettling. I don’t know what to do with my face.
” She gestures at her own expression, which has shifted from angry to confused to something I can’t quite read.
“Should I be supportive? Suspicious? Both feels like a lot before eight AM.”
“Both is probably appropriate.”
“Great. I’ll be suspiciously supportive. Or supportively suspicious.” She sets down the book she’s holding. “Why are you really here, Scott?”
The question is softer now. Almost gentle. Like maybe she actually wants to know. Like maybe she’s not just asking about the paperwork.
I could tell her. Could admit that I drove past her shop too many times yesterday because I can’t seem to stay away.
That I read poetry at the library every Tuesday trying to find words beautiful enough to match how she makes me feel.
I argued the board down from an even higher increase because the thought of pricing her out made me physically ill.
That I’m in love with her.
Instead, I say: “I need your signature on the lease renewal.”
Something shutters in her expression. The moment—whatever it was—passes.
“Right. Business.” She moves toward the counter, reaching for a pen. “Where do I sign?”
Before I can answer, the door crashes open.
Grandma Hensley sweeps in, takes one look at Jessica and me standing too close with paperwork between us, and stops dead. Her expression shifts from surprise to interest to something that looks disturbingly like she’s filing information for later blackmail purposes.
“Oh!” She presses a hand to her chest with theatrical surprise. “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t realize you had company. At seven-twenty in the morning. Before business hours. Alone.”
She says “alone” like it’s a word with seventeen syllables and several implications.
“It’s not—” I start.
“Mr. Avery was just leaving,” Jessica interrupts smoothly. “He had very boring paperwork. Nothing interesting happening here whatsoever.”
“Of course not.” Grandma Hensley’s smile suggests she believes absolutely none of this. “I’ll just browse until you’re finished with your...paperwork.”
She moves toward the stacks with the casual air of a woman who’s absolutely going to eavesdrop on everything.
I should leave. Should take the hint and go.
But Grandma Hensley is already settling into a chair with a clear sightline to the counter, and Jessica is signing the documents with aggressive penmanship, and somehow I find myself drifting toward the shelves instead of the door.
“I need a book for my great-grandaughter’s sixteenth birthday,” Grandma Hensley announces, abandoning all pretense of not being involved in our conversation.
“Kira?” Jessica asks, referring to Hazel’s daughter.
“No, it’s Kira’s cousin. She’s going through a rough time. Parents divorcing. Feels like her world’s ending. Needs something that reminds her love is real, you know?”
Jessica’s entire demeanor softens. The tension in her shoulders releases. This is her element—matching books to hearts.
“I have exactly the right one.”
She moves through her shop with the confidence of someone who knows every spine by memory. Runs her fingers along a shelf in the Young Adult section, pulls out a book with a cover that’s been obviously well-loved.
“This one,” she says, bringing it back to the counter. “It’s about a girl rebuilding her life after her parents’ divorce. Finds herself through art and friendship and eventually love, but the love story is secondary to her learning that she’s complete on her own.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“It is.” Jessica’s smile is genuine, warm—the smile she reserves for readers, not landlords. “I’ve recommended it to three other teenagers this year going through similar situations. All three came back to thank me.”
She doesn’t mention that she probably hand-sold those books at a loss. Doesn’t talk about how she remembers every customer’s story and matches books to hearts like she’s some kind of literary therapist.
She just does it because it matters.
I watch from the stacks, pretending to examine a display of beach reads, and my chest warms. This is who she is. Not the struggling business owner or the tenant I’m threatening to evict. Just Jessica, using stories to make people feel less alone.
Making the world smaller and kinder, one reader at a time.
“Now,” Grandma Hensley says as Jessica rings up the purchase, “what about you, dear? How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine, Grandma Hensley.”
“Are you? Because I heard about that rent situation.” She shoots me a look that could peel paint off walls. “And I want you to know—”
“It’s handled. Everything’s fine.”
“If you say so.” Grandma Hensley’s gaze slides to me, still lurking in the stacks like a creep. “Though if you need someone to talk sense into certain people, you just say the word. I know where he lives. I know where he parks. I know his schedule.”
That’s...actually concerning.
“I’ve also been meaning to talk to the Ladies’ Auxiliary about supporting local businesses,” she continues, still staring at me. “Did you know we have a very active letter-writing campaign? We once got a chain restaurant shut down. Took us six weeks.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I say, emerging from the stacks with my hands raised in surrender.
“Won’t it?” Grandma Hensley smiles sweetly. It’s terrifying. “We’ll see.”
She takes her book and leaves, pausing at the door to give me one final look that clearly communicates: I’m watching you, and I have a very organized group of elderly women who can make your life extremely difficult.
The silence after she’s gone is deafening.
“That was...” I clear my throat.
“Grandma Hensley preparing to wage war on your behalf?” Jessica’s smile is small but real. “Yeah. She’s protective. Also, she wasn’t kidding about the chain restaurant. The letter-writing campaign made national news. There was a hashtag.”
“I’m suddenly very concerned about my business reputation.”
“You should be. The Ladies’ Auxiliary has a lot of free time and strong opinions about community values.
” Jessica pulls out the lease documents again, scanning for the signature line.
“I’m lucky to have people who care about this shop.
Who care about what it means to the community.
They know some things matter more than quarterly returns. ”
She’s not looking at me when she says it, but the words land anyway.
“I know that,” I say quietly.
“Do you?”
“Jessica—”
“The V. Langley section,” she interrupts, pointing toward the display I couldn’t stop staring at yesterday. “You noticed it.”
My heart rate spikes. “Yes.”
“You noticed I only carry his early work.”
“I noticed.”
“Do you want to know why?”
No. Yes. No.
“Because those books had heart.” She finally looks at me, and there’s something vulnerable in her expression that makes my throat tight.
“They made me believe love was real and worth fighting for. That even the most damaged people deserve their happy endings. They made me feel less alone during my divorce when everything else felt like it was falling apart.”
Every word is a knife.
“And then something changed,” she continues. “Suddenly they felt hollow. Like the author was going through the motions and writing what he thought readers wanted instead of what he actually believed. Like he’d stopped trusting his own heart.”
“Maybe he just lost his way,” I manage.
“Maybe. Or maybe he got scared.” She sets down her pen without signing anything. “You know what’s interesting about walls, Scott? You build them to keep people out. But eventually, they just trap you inside.”
We’re standing on opposite sides of the counter, close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something floral and clean that makes me want to lean closer. Far enough that the space between us feels insurmountable.
“You’re talking about Langley,” I say, my voice rough. “But it sounds like you’re talking about me.”
“Am I?” She tilts her head, studying me. “Maybe I’m talking about both of you. Or maybe I’m talking about anyone who’s ever been so afraid of being seen that they forget how to be real.”
“And what if being real means losing everything?”
“What if not being real means you never had anything worth keeping?”
The question is weighted with everything we’re not saying.