Chapter 20
TWENTY
SCOTT
The boardwalk is already buzzing by nine in the morning.
Families stream past me toward the beach, loaded down with coolers and umbrellas and children who can’t seem to walk in a straight line.
A dad in a faded college t-shirt wrestles a boogie board while his wife slathers sunscreen on a squirming toddler.
Two teenage girls in bikini tops and cutoffs take selfies against the railing, the ocean sparkling behind them.
I barely notice any of it.
I’ve been awake since seven, running on four hours of sleep after staying up until nearly three replaying Jessica’s texts. I read it. And I think we should talk. Tomorrow? Twelve words that could mean anything. Hope or heartbreak, waiting at the end of this boardwalk.
Twin Waves Brewing appears ahead, and my pulse kicks up another notch.
Michelle raises an eyebrow when I walk in. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”
“Rough night?” She starts making my usual order without asking.
“Something like that.” I glance at the door, then back at her. “I’m meeting someone.”
Her eyebrow climbs higher. “Someone.”
“Jessica.”
The eyebrow reaches her hairline. “Jessica Wells? The woman you’ve been pining over for months while pretending you weren’t? That Jessica?”
“I haven’t been—” I stop. “Yes. That Jessica.”
Michelle’s face transforms into something I can only describe as gleeful concern. “What happened? Did you finally tell her how you feel? About the fact that you stare at her like she hung the moon every time she walks into a room?”
“I sent her something I wrote. Something...personal.”
She leans on the counter. “Personal how?”
“Very personal. About us.” I take a breath. “I’ve been keeping some things from her, and I finally told her the truth. All of it.”
“Scott.” Her eyes widen. “You told her you’re in love with her?”
“In approximately eighty thousand words, yes.”
“You wrote her a love letter that’s eighty thousand words long?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds insane.”
“You’re him, aren’t you?” She mouths my penname and I nod.
“I had a feeling. Grayson’s kind of dropped hints.”
I’m surprised he hasn’t told her outright, and his loyalty to my privacy is touching.
She slides my coffee across the counter. “What did she say about the book you wrote for her?”
“She said she wanted to speak with me today in person. That could mean anything.”
“It means she wants to talk. That’s good.”
“Is it? ‘Talk’ is the most terrifying word in the English language. It’s what people say before they fire you, break up with you, or explain why they can’t return your feelings.”
Michelle studies me for a moment. “For what it’s worth, I’ve known Jessica since high school. She doesn’t show up to conversations she doesn’t want to have. If she’s coming, it’s because she wants to be here.”
I want to believe that so badly I can taste it, right alongside the espresso and the panic that’s been my constant companion since I hit send on that email.
I take my coffee to the corner booth and try not to watch the door like a man awaiting a verdict.
I fail immediately.
The morning crowd flows around me—tourists ordering complicated iced drinks, a harried mom with kids demanding hot chocolate despite the heat, an elderly couple sharing a newspaper with the easy intimacy of decades together.
The door opens.
Jessica pauses in the doorway, scanning the room until she finds me. She’s wearing a green sundress that matches her eyes, her red hair pulled back in a messy twist, and she looks exactly like someone who also didn’t sleep last night but is determined to have this conversation anyway.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I raise my hand in a wave that’s probably too eager, nearly knocking over my coffee in the process. Smooth. Very smooth. This is the man who wrote her a love story—a graceless disaster who can’t even manage a simple greeting.
She walks over, and I can’t read her expression. It’s not angry. It’s not cold. But it’s not the soft openness I saw at Vera’s cottage either. It’s careful. Guarded.
Fair enough. I’ve earned her caution.
“You made it,” I say, then immediately want to take it back. Of course she made it. She said she’d be here.
We stand there for a moment, neither of us sitting, the morning light slanting through the windows and catching the copper in her hair.
“Can I get you something?” I ask. “Michelle makes this iced lavender thing you like. The one with the—”
“You know my coffee order?”
I pause. “I know a lot of things about you, Jessica. That’s sort of the problem. Or the point. I’m not sure which anymore.”
She exhales slowly, then slides into the booth across from me. I sit back down, careful not to assault any more furniture.
Michelle appears with an iced lavender latte without being asked. She sets it down in front of Jessica, gives me a meaningful look I can’t quite interpret, and disappears back behind the counter.
“She’s not subtle,” Jessica observes.
“No one in this town is subtle. I’ve accepted this about my life.”
Jessica wraps her hands around the cold cup but doesn’t drink. She’s looking at me with that expression I’ve come to recognize—the one where she’s thinking something through, deciding whether to say it out loud.
I wait. I’ve gotten good at waiting for her.
“I reread your letters last night,” she finally says.
My stomach drops. “Which ones?”
“The one where you talked about being jealous of the ‘infuriating man.’” She meets my eyes. “You were jealous of yourself.”
I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half something more painful. “Yeah. I was.”
“You wrote about wanting to be in the same room with me. Wanting to see my face when I argued about things I cared about. And the whole time, you were already there. Arguing with me about committee budgets.”
“In my defense, I was very confused about my feelings.”
She doesn’t smile. “Scott.”
“I know.” I lean forward, all the deflection draining out of me.
“I know. It’s absurd. The whole thing is.
I was falling for you twice—as the pen pal who made me feel understood for the first time in years, and as the woman who challenged every assumption I had about what mattered.
And I couldn’t tell you because telling you meant admitting that I’d been lying.
That your landlord and your pen pal and the author whose books you loved were all the same person. The same coward.”
“You’re not a coward.”
“I hid behind three different identities because I was too scared to be honest with you. That’s textbook cowardice, Jessica.”
“Or it’s someone who’s been told his whole life that who he really is isn’t good enough.” She says it quietly, without accusation. “Your father, your company, and everyone who wanted you to be something other than what you are.”
I stare at her. “You got that from the manuscript?”
“From the letters, the cottage, and the way you looked when you talked about Vera.” She pauses.
“You’ve been hiding for so long you forgot you were doing it.
And then you stopped. You showed me everything—the writing, the office, the framed review.
That’s not cowardice. That’s the bravest thing anyone’s ever done for me. ”
Hope cracks open in my chest. Or maybe it’s relief. Or the terrifying vulnerability of being seen exactly as I am and not immediately rejected.
“I need to tell you something,” I say, “and I need to say it out loud, not in a letter or a manuscript or a conversation where I’m pretending to be someone else.”
She waits.
“I’m in love with you.”
The words hang in the air between us, finally spoken, finally real.
“I’ve been in love with you for years. Since before I knew your pen name.
Since before you smiled at me in that committee meeting and I went home and wrote about it like a lovesick teenager.
I love the way you fight for your bookstore and your community and the things you believe in.
I love that you gave me a two-star review and meant every word of it.
I love that you see through pretense and you don’t accept anything less than honesty, even when honesty is terrifying. ”
I take a breath. “And I know you’re scared. I know David hurt you and you have every reason not to trust someone who kept this many secrets. But I’m done hiding. This is me—all of me—and I’m in love with you. Whatever you want to do with that information is up to you. But I needed you to hear it.”
Jessica is very still. Her hands are wrapped around her coffee cup, knuckles slightly white.
“Say something,” I manage. “Please.”
“I’m processing.”
“Take your time.” I pause. “But maybe give me a hint about which direction you’re processing in, because I’m approximately thirty seconds from a cardiac event.”
She laughs. It’s small, surprised out of her, but it breaks something loose between us. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it shifts into something more breathable.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says.
“I’ve been told.”
“You wrote me an entire novel.”
“It’s only eighty thousand words. That’s on the shorter side for romance.”
“You framed my review.”
“It was a very good review. Harsh, but fair.”
“You signed up for the Letters to Local Authors program specifically so you could write to me anonymously.”
“In fairness, I didn’t know it was you at first. The pen name threw me off.” I consider this. “For about two letters. Then I figured it out and kept writing anyway because apparently I have a masochistic streak.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me who you were?”
“At what point? When you thought I was a heartless developer trying to destroy your business? When you gave passionate speeches about authenticity while I was hiding behind three different identities?” I shake my head.
“There was never a good moment. And I was scared. I kept thinking I’d tell you eventually, when I’d earned the right. When I’d proved I was worth trusting.”