Chapter 8 #2
Around the two-hour mark, Grayson reaches for his lemonade, misjudges the distance, and knocks the entire cup directly onto his laptop keyboard.
“No, no, no, no—”
He grabs the laptop, tilts it sideways, and lemonade waterfalls onto the floor. The screen flickers ominously.
“This is the library’s fault,” he announces, dabbing at the keyboard with napkins. “The tables are too small. The cups are too full. The heat is messing with my head.”
Near the end, we circle back to logistics, and I mention—casually, professionally—that we should have attendees sign liability waivers.
“In case of what?” Jessica asks. “Literary emergencies?”
“In case of anything. Slip and falls. Allergic reactions. Someone getting too emotionally invested in an author reveal and requiring medical attention.”
“Has that ever happened?”
“It could. That’s why we have waivers.”
“So your concern is that someone might feel their feelings too hard and sue the library?”
“My concern is keeping us out of trouble.”
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said at a literary event planning meeting.”
“I’m not trying to be romantic. I’m trying to prevent a lawsuit.”
“And yet.” She grins. “Preventing legal issues. Be still my heart.”
I say something about indemnification clauses—I don’t even remember what, something dry and probably boring—and Jessica laughs.
Not a polite laugh. A real one, surprised out of her, bright and warm in the stuffy room.
I want to say funnier things. I want to make her laugh like that forever. I want to spend the rest of my life figuring out exactly which combination of words will make her eyes crinkle at the corners and her whole face light up.
I am in so much trouble.
By five o’clock, we’re all wilted and slightly delirious. The sun has shifted, casting long shadows through the windows, and the heat has mellowed into something almost bearable.
“Same time next week?” Michelle asks, gathering her things.
“Wednesday might be better,” Jessica says.
“Wednesday works. My place? I have functioning air conditioning like a civilized human being.”
“Sold,” everyone says in unison.
We file out of the library, past Mrs. Ziegler who’s now reading her murder mystery with the dedication of woman who’s given up on everything else. The evening air hits us like a blessing—still warm, but moving, carrying the salt smell of the ocean and the distant sound of waves.
Jessica’s walking ahead of me, her sundress swaying with each step, that yellow so bright against the fading light.
“Jessica,” I call.
She turns.
And trips over the library’s front step.
I catch her.
It’s instinct—my hands on her arms, steadying her before she can faceplant into the sidewalk. She stumbles into me, her palms flat against my chest, her face inches from mine.
We freeze.
“You okay?” My voice comes out strange. Hoarse.
“Fine.” Her voice is breathless. “That step is—”
“A recurring hazard?”
“I was going to say ‘trying to kill me,’ but sure.”
She’s still pressed against me. I’m still holding her arms. Neither of us is moving. The sunset paints everything gold and pink, and somewhere down the street, someone is grilling burgers and the smell of charcoal drifts toward us on the breeze.
“You should be more careful,” I say.
“I’m very careful.”
“You’ve tripped three times today.”
Her voice is softer now, and she hasn’t stepped back. “Maybe tripping builds character.”
“Your logic is deeply flawed.”
“Your face is deeply flawed.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does too. You’re just too busy being smug about your non-tripping to appreciate my wit.”
I have this stupid grin that won’t go away. Jessica is pressed against me, insulting my face, and I’m smiling like an idiot.
“I should let you go,” I say.
“Probably.”
“You’re stable now.”
“A pillar of balance.”
Neither of us moves.
“Scott,” she says.
“Yeah?”
“You’re still holding my arms.”
“I know.”
“Is there a reason for that?”
Yes. Because you feel like something I didn’t know I was missing. Because your letters make me want to be braver. Because you’re writing about me to me and you called me a strange kindness and I want to tell you everything but I’m terrified of what happens when I do.
“Just making sure you’re stable,” I say.
“I’m stable.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ve been walking my entire life. I know how to stand. Today was just...off.”
I finally let go of her arms.
She steps back, smoothing her dress, not quite meeting my eyes. “See you Wednesday, Scott.”
She turns and walks away, and this time, she doesn’t trip. Her sandals slap against the sidewalk in a rhythm that sounds almost like a song. The sunset turns her yellow dress to gold.
I watch her until she rounds the corner.
“You’re so doomed,” Grayson says, appearing beside me.
“I know.”
“You were staring at her like she invented the concept of beauty.”
“I was not.”
“You were. I have witnesses. Michelle took a photo.”
“You’re lying.”
“She did. She’s sending it to Amber as we speak. There’s going to be a group chat.”
I groan.
“Look,” Grayson says, almost gentle. “Whatever you’re hiding, whatever’s making this complicated—just tell her. Before you combust.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is. But you know what’s worse than complicated? Waiting so long that complicated becomes impossible.”
He claps me on the shoulder and heads for his car, leaving me standing on the library steps with the sunset and the salt air and the ghost of Jessica’s palms still warm against my chest.
I go home and write her a letter.
Not as Scott. As Coastal Quill. Because that’s still the only version of me brave enough to say what I’m actually feeling.
Dear Between the Lines,
You mentioned someone who made you a wild card column. Someone infuriating and unexpected. Someone who showed you a strange kindness.
I have a confession: I’m jealous of him.
Not because he knows you and I don’t. I do know you, through these letters, in ways that feel more real than most of my face-to-face relationships.
I’m jealous because he gets to see your face when you laugh. He gets to watch you argue about things you care about. He gets to exist in the same room as you, breathing the same air, probably disagreeing about something small and unimportant while the actual important thing goes unsaid.
I only get your words on paper. Which are beautiful—don’t misunderstand me—but lately I find myself wanting more.
Is that greedy? To have this correspondence that means so much to me, and still want to know what your voice sounds like when you’re excited? What happens to your face when you’re trying not to smile?
I suspect you try not to smile a lot. You seem like someone who fights your own joy, like you’re not sure you’re allowed to have it.
You’re allowed. For the record. You’re allowed to have every good thing.
I’m counting down the weeks like something important is waiting at the end.
Yours in anticipation and mild jealousy,
Coastal Quill
I seal the letter and set it aside for tomorrow’s mail.
Wednesday, I’ll see her at Michelle’s.
And somewhere between now and the reveal, I’ll figure out how to tell her that the infuriating man and the letter writer and the author she’s been critiquing are all the same person.
A person who’s falling for her.
One honest word at a time.