Chapter 11 #2
“You scare me,” he repeats. “Because if you really saw me—all of me, all the messy, complicated, scared parts—you’d—”
“I’d what?”
“You’d hate me.”
“I don’t.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not—I’m not who you think I am.”
“Then who are you?”
He looks at me for a long moment, his brow furrowed like he’s fighting with himself about whether to tell me or protect me or run away.
“I’m someone who’s trying very hard to be brave enough to tell you the truth,” he finally says. “But I keep failing.”
“Then stop trying to be brave,” I tell him. “Just be honest.”
“What if the truth ruins everything?”
“What if it doesn’t?”
He’s close enough that his breath fans my face. If one of us moved just an inch…
His phone rings.
We both jump back like teenagers caught by parents.
Scott pulls out his phone, looks at the screen, and something crosses his face. Panic. Frustration. Resignation.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s Grayson. It’s—there’s an emergency at one of our sites. I have to—”
“Go. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” He’s backing toward the door. “I’m always leaving you.”
“Scott. It’s okay. Go handle your emergency.”
“Can we—can we talk later? Really talk? I need to tell you—there are things I need to say—”
“Yes. Later. Go.”
He hesitates at the door, looking like he wants to say something else. Then he leaves, and I’m standing alone in my office with Austen and a racing heart and absolutely no idea what just happened.
Caroline appears approximately three seconds later.
“What was that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You almost kissed!”
“We didn’t.”
“You were about to! I was watching through the crack in the door!”
“You’re fired.”
“Nice try.” She leaves me standing there with my racing thoughts and the ghost of Scott’s almost-kiss still hanging in the air.
I pull out paper and start writing.
I seal the letter and add it to the outgoing mail.
Then my phone buzzes.
Scott: Can we talk tomorrow?
Me: Yes. Please.
Scott: The beach. 6 am. Our spot.
Me: I’ll be there.
I set my phone down and look at Austen, who’s watching me with his knowing cat eyes.
My hands are shaking. I squeeze them tight to stop it.
I just have to be brave enough to wait for the morning.
Amber’s house sits three blocks from the beach, a cozy cottage that her grandmother Pearl left her.
It used to be all creaky floors and drafty windows, but since Brett moved in after their wedding, the place has transformed.
New windows. Refinished hardwood. A wraparound porch with railings that don’t wobble when you lean on them.
“Sorry about the mess,” Amber says, kicking a pair of Brett’s work boots under the entryway bench as we file in. “I’ve been pulling double shifts at the restaurant, and Brett’s been finishing up a bathroom remodel, and somehow laundry just multiplied.”
The living room is comfortable chaos. A basket of unfolded towels sits on the couch. Someone’s homework is spread across the coffee table. A plate with toast crusts has been abandoned on the windowsill, and there’s a suspicious sticky spot on the floor.
“You should see my place,” Hazel says, stepping over a Lego that’s lying in wait like a tiny plastic landmine. “Jack rearranged the pantry last week and now I can’t find the flour. It’s been four days. I’ve just been buying new flour.”
“At least your husband attempts organization,” Michelle says. “Grayson’s idea of cleaning is moving piles from one surface to another and calling it ‘consolidation.’”
“Brett does that too!” Amber laughs, leading us toward the kitchen. “He built me a beautiful new master suite with a walk-in closet, and somehow it’s already full of his flannel shirts. The man owns seventeen flannel shirts. I counted.”
The kitchen is the heart of the renovation—granite countertops, a farmhouse sink, and an island big enough to seat all of us.
Brett clearly designed it with Amber’s restaurant background in mind.
Professional-grade appliances. Plenty of prep space.
A wine fridge that Jo immediately gravitates toward.
“This is the good stuff,” Jo announces, pulling out a bottle. “Someone’s been hiding the fancy wine.”
“Brett’s brother sent that for our anniversary. But sure, let’s open it for book club. He’ll never know.”
“Where is Brett tonight?” Michelle asks.
“Night fishing with Jack. Apparently there’s some kind of...I don’t know, man bonding happening? They took a cooler of beer and promised to bring back flounder.” Amber shrugs. “I told him if he comes home smelling like fish guts, he’s sleeping on the porch.”
“Where are the boys?” I ask.
“Hazel’s place. Kira’s watching them.” Amber pulls out cheese and crackers, arranging them on a board. “Mason was very upset about missing book club. He’s decided he wants to join.”
“He’s seven,” Jo points out.
“I told him that. He said, and I quote, ‘I can have opinions about books. I have lots of opinions.’ Which is unfortunately true.”
Grandma Hensley settles into a kitchen chair, pulling out her well-worn copy of this month’s selection. She joined book club two months ago after declaring that “eavesdropping on your meetings at the coffee shop isn’t as satisfying as participating.”
“Speaking of opinions, I have several about this book,” she announces. “Starting with the fact that the hero took two hundred pages to confess his feelings when a sensible person would have done it by chapter three.”
Mads arrives last, slightly breathless. “Sorry—Asher was asking about centerpiece heights and I got trapped in a forty-minute conversation about hydrangeas.”
“How’s wedding planning?” Hazel asks.
“It’s going to kill me. Did you know there are thirty different shades of white? And apparently ‘just pick one, they all look the same’ is not acceptable.”
“The Hensley House is going to be beautiful,” Hazel assures her. “I promise. Every wedding there is magical.”
“It’s turning into a Bookaholics Anonymous tradition to get married there,” Amber says. “I love it that you’re following that trend.”
“We all built so many memories there over the years,” Grandma Hensley says, referring to the house she passed down to Hazel that’s been in the family for generations. “The ocean views make it a romantic wedding venue.”
We settle around the island with wine and cheese and our copies of Letters from a Stranger, this month’s pick. It’s a pen pal romance—two people who fall in love through anonymous correspondence before discovering they already know each other in real life.
I suggested it three months ago.
“Okay,” Michelle says, opening her copy. “Who wants to start?”
“I will,” Grandma Hensley announces. “I thought it was delightful. The letters were so romantic. All that yearning and vulnerability without knowing who you’re talking to? Very swoony.”
“I liked how she figured out it was him,” Hazel adds. “The little clues that added up. The way he described the sunset the same way he’d described it to her in person.”
“That part was well done,” Jo agrees. “Though I kept wanting to shake her and say ‘just ask him!’ The dramatic irony was almost painful.”
“Speaking of dramatic irony,” Grandma Hensley says, turning to me with a gleam in her eye, “how are the planning meetings going for your little author reveal event? Any more progress with that handsome landlord of yours?”
“He’s not my—” I start, but Michelle cuts me off.
“She means Scott. Have you two managed to get through a meeting without arguing?”
“We don’t argue. We have...spirited discussions about event logistics.”
“Same thing,” Amber says. “And?”
“And what?”
“And is there any update? Any lingering glances? Any almost-moments in the poetry section?”
“We’ve been completely professional.”
“That’s not what Caroline told me,” Jo says. “She said you two almost cracked skulls reaching for the same phone and then held hands for way too long.”
“Our fingers brushed. That’s not holding hands.”
“It’s hand-adjacent,” Grandma Hensley declares. “Which is practically engaged in slow-burn romance terms.”
I take a large sip of wine. “Can we get back to the book?”
“Fine, fine.” Michelle waves her hand. “But one more question—do you think Coastal Quill is actually going to show up? At the reveal?”
The question catches me off guard. “He said he would. In his letters.”
“But do you believe him?” Hazel asks. “He’s been anonymous for six months. That’s a long time to hide. What if he gets cold feet?”
“He won’t,” I say, with more confidence than I feel. “He’s been building up to this. His last few letters have been about wanting to be brave enough to show someone the truth. About being tired of hiding.”
“Sounds like someone else we know,” Grandma Hensley murmurs, not quite under her breath.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, dear. Just an observation.” She flips a page in her book with exaggerated innocence. “Now, where were we? The hero’s communication issues?”
“That’s the point though, isn’t it?” Amber says, smoothly picking up the thread. “She’s scared. If she asks and she’s wrong, she looks crazy. If she asks and she’s right, then she has to deal with the fact that he’s been lying to her.”
“Was he lying though?” Michelle asks. “Or was he just...being honest in a different format?”
“He knew who she was the whole time,” Jo argues. “He was writing to her, knowing it was her, while pretending to be a stranger. That’s deceptive.”
“But the letters were real,” Mads counters. “He wasn’t performing in the letters. He was showing her his actual self. The person she knew in real life was the performance.”
The conversation continues, and I’m nodding along, making appropriate comments, but my mind keeps drifting to my own situation. To Scott’s almost-confession in my office. To Coastal Quill’s letters sitting in my desk drawer at home.
To the increasingly impossible coincidence of two men saying the exact same things about vulnerability and armor and being terrified to show someone the truth.
“Jessica?”
I blink. Everyone’s looking at me.
“Sorry, what?”