Chapter 20 #2
“By writing me letters about how to have courage while you weren’t being brave yourself?”
“The irony wasn’t lost on me.” I meet her eyes. “I’m sorry. For all the deception, even if I told myself it was for good reasons. You deserved the truth from the beginning.”
“You’re right. I did.” She’s quiet for a moment. “But I also understand why you hid. I’ve been hiding too, in my own way. Building walls and telling myself they were protection when really they were just prisons.”
“We’re quite the pair.”
“Two people who are excellent at hiding and terrible at actually connecting with other humans.”
“We should start a support group.”
She’s smiling now, really smiling, and I feel like I’ve won something important even though she hasn’t actually answered my declaration yet.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to say it back,” she says quietly. “What you said. I want to be honest about that.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“I know. That’s part of why I’m sitting here.
” She looks down at her coffee, then back up at me.
“David told me he loved me too. For ten years, he said it while making me smaller. I didn’t even realize it was happening until he left and I had to figure out who I was without him constantly telling me who I should be. ”
“I’m not David.”
“I know that.” She says it firmly, like she’s arguing with herself as much as with me. “I know you’re not. But the fear doesn’t care about logic. The fear says everyone leaves, everyone disappoints, everyone has conditions attached to their love even when they promise they don’t.”
“So what do we do?”
“I don’t know.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand. Her fingers are cold from the coffee cup, but the touch sends warmth spreading through my chest. “But I want to find out. I want to try. I’m terrified, but I want to try.”
I turn my hand over, lacing my fingers through hers. “That’s enough. That’s more than enough.”
“I might be difficult.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“I might panic and push you away.”
“I’ll push back. Gently. With excellent boundaries and a lot of patience.”
“I might need time.”
“Jessica.” I squeeze her hand. “I’ve been waiting for you since before I knew I was waiting. I can wait a little longer.”
She blinks, and her eyes are bright. Not crying, but close. “That’s a very V. Langley thing to say.”
“I’ve been told I have a way with words.”
“Your early work was better.”
I laugh, surprised and genuine. “There she is. The woman who keeps me humble.”
“Someone has to.” But she’s smiling, and she hasn’t let go of my hand.
We stay in the booth for two hours.
The morning rush comes and goes around us. Michelle refills our drinks without comment, though the third time she gives me a thumbs-up that Jessica definitely sees.
“Your friends are not subtle,” I observe.
“Our friends,” she corrects, and the word settles into my chest like it belongs there.
We talk about the reveal event—five days away now.
She’s nervous about it, about standing in front of the whole town while I announce that their beloved reclusive author has been hiding in plain sight.
I tell her she doesn’t have to be there if it’s too much, and she gives me a look that suggests I’ve said something particularly stupid.
“I’m not missing it. I want to see their faces when they realize the grumpy landlord writes love stories.”
“Allegedly grumpy.”
“You raised my rent by forty percent.”
“I was trying to get your attention.”
“By threatening my livelihood?”
“I never claimed to be smart about this.”
She laughs again, and I want to bottle the sound, save it for the moments when the old voices in my head tell me I’m not enough.
We talk about what comes next—carefully, without pressure. I don’t ask her to define what we are. She doesn’t offer. But there’s an understanding forming between us, unspoken but solid. We’re figuring this out together. That’s enough for now.
“I should get to the shop,” she finally says, glancing at the time. “Caroline’s been handling the morning rush alone, and peak season waits for no emotional breakthrough.”
“Can I walk you?”
“It’s less than a block away.”
“Nearly one block of your company sounds significantly better than zero blocks.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling as she slides out of the booth. I leave money on the table—enough to cover both drinks and a generous tip for Michelle’s emotional support services—and follow her out into the August heat.
The boardwalk is already crowded with tourists, the salt air mixing with sunscreen and fried dough from the stand near the pier. Jessica navigates through them with the ease of a woman who’s done this her whole life, and I follow in her wake, content to watch her move through the world she loves.
When we reach The Fiction Nook, she pauses at the door.
“Thank you,” she says. “For being honest. For waiting. For all of it.”
“Thank you for showing up.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“I know. I’m glad you did.”
She reaches up and straightens my collar—a small, intimate gesture that makes my heart stutter. “We’re doing this, then. Whatever this is.”
“Whatever this is,” I agree.
“Okay.” She takes a breath. “I’ll see you later?”
“I’ll be at Hensley House this afternoon. Event prep. Mrs. Sanders has opinions about the lighting.”
“Mrs. Sanders has opinions about everything.”
“I’ve noticed.”
She smiles, and for a moment, I think she might kiss me. The possibility shimmers with potential. But instead, she squeezes my hand once, quickly, and pushes open the door to her shop.
“Later,” she says.
“Later.”
I stand on the boardwalk as she disappears into the cool shadows of the bookstore, red hair catching the light before she’s gone.
I’m in love with her. I told her, and she didn’t run.
It’s not a happily ever after, not yet, but it’s a beginning.
And for someone who writes love stories for a living, I know exactly how important beginnings are.
I spend the rest of the morning floating approximately three feet above the ground.
This is not an exaggeration. I’m fairly certain my feet aren’t touching the sidewalk as I walk back to my condo, check emails without absorbing a single word, and stare out the window at the harbor like a character in one of my own novels.
She’s scared but she wants to try.
I replay every moment of our conversation, cataloging her expressions, her words, the way her hand felt in mine. I think about the letters she reread, the realization she came to on her own. She figured out I was jealous of myself. She understood what that meant.
She sees me. Not just the masks, but the person underneath them.
Around noon, I force myself to eat something. Then I shower, change, and head to Hensley House for the event prep.
Hazel is already there when I arrive, tablet in hand, looking only slightly less exhausted than she did yesterday.
She studies me for a moment. “Coffee meeting went well?”
“Is there anything that happens in this town that everyone doesn’t immediately know about?”
“No. Also, Michelle texted Amber who texted me, so I have a pretty detailed report.” She grins. “I’m happy for you. Both of you.”
“Nothing’s official. We’re just...figuring things out.”
“That’s how all the best relationships start.” She checks something off on her tablet. “Mrs. Sanders wants to discuss the chair arrangement. She has concerns about sightlines.”
“Of course she does.”
I spend the afternoon moving chairs under Mrs. Sanders’s supervision, adjusting flower arrangements, and debating the optimal angle for the podium. It should be tedious, but I’m too buoyant to care. Every task feels like forward motion. Every decision brings us closer to the reveal.
Five days until I stand in front of this town and tell them the truth.
Five days until V. Langley stops being a secret.
And somewhere in all of it, is Jessica trying with me.
I’m not naive enough to think this will be easy. She has fears I can’t fix by loving her harder. She has wounds that won’t heal just because I want them to. We’re going to stumble. We’re going to have hard conversations. She might panic and push me away, exactly like she warned.
But she’s worth it. Whatever comes next, she’s worth it.
My phone buzzes.
Jessica: Caroline says you looked “dopey” walking away from the shop. Her word, not mine.
I grin at the screen.
Me: I prefer “romantically contemplative.”
Jessica: She prefers “dopey.” She’s very firm about this.
Me: Tell her I said her opinions are noted and disregarded.
Jessica: She says that’s fair.
A pause, then another text.
Jessica: Thank you for this morning. I mean it.
My chest tightens with something warm and fierce.
Me: Anytime. I meant everything I said.
Jessica: I know. That’s the part I’m still getting used to.
I stare at the message, at everything it contains and everything it promises.
I’m getting used to being loved, to someone meaning what they say.
I can work with that. I can be patient while she learns to trust it. I’ve been hiding behind walls my whole life too. I understand how long it takes to believe someone when they see the real you and don’t run.
Me: Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.
Her response is a single emoji—a small red heart.
It’s not an “I love you.” It’s not even close.
But it’s something. A crack in her armor. A sign that she’s letting me in, one careful step at a time.
I think about Vera, about what she’d say if she could see me now. Probably something about how it took me long enough. Probably something about how she knew all along that the right woman would see past my walls to the man underneath.
I hope she’s watching and knows I finally found someone worth being brave for.
Mrs. Sanders calls for me across the room—something about the podium angle being “three degrees off optimal”—and I pocket my phone with one last glance at that small red heart.
Five days until the reveal, until everything changes.
I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know if Jessica will be ready to say the words back by then, or next month, or ever. Love doesn’t work on a timeline, and neither does healing.
But she showed up this morning. She held my hand across a coffee shop table. She told me she wants to try.
For now, that’s more than enough.
That’s everything.