Chapter 9 #2
“Honey,” Grandma Hensley says kindly, “you’re covered in his coffee, and you both looked at each other like you were the last two people on earth.”
“There were seagulls. It was an accident.”
“What’s with the bird?” Jo asks.
“That’s Sigmund. He’s my therapist.”
“Of course he is,” Michelle says. “Because you’re having a mental health crisis about your feelings for Scott Avery.”
“I don’t have feelings for him!”
All seven women just look at me.
Even Sigmund looks skeptical.
“Fine,” I admit. “Maybe I have some...complicated emotions. But that doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means you’re in the sweet torture phase of an enemies-to-lovers arc,” Hazel says knowledgeably. “Classic romcom progression. You’re right on schedule.”
“My life is not a romantic comedy.”
“Sweetie,” Mrs. Sanders says gently, “you just spent twenty minutes on a beach with a man who owns your building, covered in coffee, surrounded by seagulls, defending your complete lack of feelings to a group chat you’ve been avoiding. If that’s not a romcom, I don’t know what is.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it.
Because she might have a point.
“I need more coffee,” I announce. “The kind that doesn’t end up on my clothing.”
“Twin Waves Brewing Co. opens soon,” Michelle says. “I’ll make you something with extra shots. You look like you need it.”
We start walking back toward the boardwalk as a group, and I try very hard not to notice Scott’s figure in the distance, still walking, hands in his pockets, looking as confused as I feel.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in Twin Waves Brewing Co. with a quad-shot latte and six women who are taking turns psychoanalyzing my love life.
“I don’t run away from happiness.”
They all give me identical looks.
“Okay, maybe I run a little. But with good reason! Happiness is terrifying!”
“So is living above your bookstore alone with a judgmental cat forever,” Michelle points out.
“Austen is not judgmental. He’s discerning.”
“He screamed at me for twenty minutes yesterday because I moved his food bowl two inches.”
“He has standards.”
My phone buzzes.
Caroline: Someone left a letter in the shop mailbox. Want me to bring it to you or wait until you open?
My heart stops.
“What is it?” Michelle asks.
“A letter from Coastal Quill.”
The entire table goes silent.
Me: Bring it to the coffee shop. I’m here with the book club.
Caroline: Oh boy. Good luck.
She arrives five minutes later, looking far too gleeful for someone who’s about to watch me have an emotional breakdown.
“One letter,” she announces, handing me the now-familiar cream envelope. “From your mystery man.”
I open the letter with shaking hands, aware that my friends are all leaning in to read over my shoulder.
Dear Between the Lines,
I almost told her everything. Almost confessed. Almost risked it all.
But I’m still a coward.
You asked if readers would forgive an author who lost his way. If they’d give him another chance if he tried to write honestly again.
I’m that author. I’ve been hiding. Performing what I thought people wanted instead of showing them the truth. And it’s killing me.
I want to be brave and show her who I really am—all the messy, complicated, scared parts I’ve been protecting.
But what if I’m not enough and the truth is worse than the performance?
How do you decide when the risk of honesty is worth the certainty of losing everything?
Tell me there’s hope, that brave is better than safe, even when it means walking into fire.
Yours in cowardice and longing,
Coastal Quill
“Well,” Hazel says. “That’s a man in love and terrified.”
“He’s not—”
“Honey, that letter is screaming ‘I love you but I’m too scared to say it.’ It’s basically a billboard.”
“But he’s talking about some other woman—”
“Or,” Michelle says carefully, “he’s talking about you, and you just don’t know it yet.”
The thought makes my chest tight.
What if she’s right?
What if Coastal Quill is talking about me?
No. That’s impossible.
Isn’t it?
I pull out my phone and do what any rational person would do: I start typing a response to Coastal Quill right there at the coffee shop table with six women and Caroline watching.
Dear Coastal Quill,
You’re not a coward. You’re just afraid. There’s a difference.
Cowards run away. You’re running toward honesty, vulnerability, and the person you want to be. That’s the opposite of cowardice.
As for whether brave is better than safe? Yes. Not because brave is easy, but because safe is slowly suffocating.
I spent eight years choosing safe. And you know what I got? A life that looked fine from the outside but felt empty on the inside.
So tell her. Be brave.
And if she’s she’s worthy of the truth you’re offering, she’ll see you. And she’ll love you more for it, not less.
The risk is worth it, and so are you.
Trust me on this. Or trust yourself. Either way—jump.
Yours in solidarity and hope,
Between the Lines
I look up to find seven pairs of eyes staring at me with varying expressions of approval and terror.
“What?” I ask defensively.
“That was beautiful,” Jo says.
“That was you jumping too,” Amber adds.
“That was you basically confessing your feelings without realizing it,” Michelle finishes.
I stare at me phone in my hands.
Oh my, she’s right.
I just told Coastal Quill to be brave while being brave myself.
I just encouraged him to risk everything while risking my own heart in the process.
“I need to go,” I announce, standing abruptly.
“Where?” Caroline asks.
“To write this down and mail this. Before I lose my nerve.”
I leave the coffee shop, Sigmund squawking his approval from the boardwalk railing.
Time to be brave.
Even if brave means walking into fire.
Especially then.