Chapter 9
DELILAH
Elliot’s Books & Oddities has been in Mountain Springs for decades, wedged between a high-end ski rental shop and a café that charges eight dollars for oat milk lattes.
It smells like dust and vanilla candles. The whole place is cluttered with overstuffed bookshelves, mismatched chairs, and a register so old I have to smack the side of it to get the drawer open.
It’s not exactly thriving, but I love it.
The tourists who roll through town prefer e-books and trendy boutiques, and half the college kids don’t read anything that isn’t on a syllabus.
But I still show up three times a week, stacking bestsellers that not many people buy and helping Mr. Abernathy keep his wife’s dream alive.
“Morning, Delilah!”
Mr. Abernathy shuffles in from the back, wearing his usual cardigan-and-slippers combo, a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a hardcover of Moby-Dick in the other.
“Morning,” I say, already reaching for the stack of books he’s about to drop.
“Ah, you’re too quick for me.” He chuckles.
It’s automatic, the way I steady the books, the way I make sure nothing gets misplaced. Because this store matters to him. More than anything else, mainly because it matters to his wife.
Mrs. Abernathy used to run this place herself before the dementia set in.
Now, she only comes in on good days, sitting behind the counter and rearranging the same three books over and over. And on bad days, she thinks I’m someone else.
“Did you water the plants, darling?”
I guess today is a bad day.
I freeze mid-shelf, fingers brushing the spine of a new romance novel.
Mrs. Abernathy stands in the doorway to the back office, her soft gray sweater hanging loose on her frame, her hands folded neatly like she’s waiting for an answer.
She thinks I’m her daughter.
Mr. Abernathy sets his tea down without hesitation, moving toward her with practiced ease.
“Joan, sweetheart, why don’t you come sit down? I’ll make you some tea.”
But she doesn’t look at him. She’s still watching me, waiting for an answer.
I swallow hard, then nod. “Yeah, I watered them this morning.”
She smiles, relieved. “Good. You always forget, you know. But it’s important. The ivy by the window is looking better already.”
There’s no ivy by the window.
“It is,” I agree softly.
Mr. Abernathy gently takes her elbow and guides her toward the little seating area near the register.
“Why don’t you tell me about the plants, Joan?” he says, voice full of the kind of love that hurts to witness.
She goes easily, still murmuring about sunlight and roots, her fingers brushing along the spines of books like they’re old friends.
I stay frozen by the shelf, one hand resting on a glossy romance cover I’m not reading.
Mrs. Abernathy will probably forget I was ever here by lunch.
But sometimes, on the better mornings, she talks to me for ages. About books, about the weather, about people I’ve never met. She smiles like she knows me. Like I make her day easier just by standing there.
She never asks for anything. Doesn’t expect explanations or apologies or answers I haven’t figured out yet.
She just looks at me like I’m enough.
It’s not what I grew up with.
But it’s nice. In a way I try not to think too hard about.
I’m trying. Really.
I am trying to be cheery, but my brain is still stuck on Mrs. Abernathy’s confusion, the way she looked right at me and saw someone else.
And now, standing behind the register at Elliot’s Books & Oddities, I am painfully aware of how empty the store is. I wonder how much longer Mr. Abernathy can keep it going?
Tourist season is tapering off. The regulars browse quietly, lost in their own worlds. Customers don’t come in for conversation. They come in, buy their book, and leave.
Which is fine by me, it means that I don’t need to be friendly.
“Hi!”
I jump back a little. The girl at the counter is smiling at me like we’re best friends.
She’s bright. That’s the first thing I notice. White jeans, a bubblegum-pink sweatshirt, glossy nails painted different colors. Blonde hair tied up in a high ponytail, bouncing slightly when she moves.
“Sorry, I think I wandered around for like, thirty minutes, but I found it!” she says, placing a brand-new romance novel onto the counter. The cover is hot pink with a little illustrated couple kissing under an umbrella.
I glance at it, then at her. This makes sense.
“Good choice,” I say, scanning the barcode.
“Right? I’ve been dying for this one. Fake dating, rivals-to-lovers, a reality TV baking show? It’s like they wrote it just for me.”
Her enthusiasm is weirdly contagious, and I find myself nodding.
“Student ID?” I ask, gesturing to the sign taped next to the register. “Ten percent off with proof of suffering.”
“Oh, yeah!” She pulls her wallet from her purse and hands over her card.
I glance down at the name printed across the front and freeze.
Tara Hawkins.
I snap my eyes back up to her.
Same icy-blue eyes. Same ridiculous golden-blond hair.
“Wait.” My voice comes out flat, slightly horrified. “Do you know Troy Hawkins?”
She laughs immediately, head thrown back like I just said the funniest thing in the world.
“Know him? Oh, honey. I’ve known him my whole life.”
Jesus Christ.
I stare at her, gripping the counter like I need physical support.
Troy. Of-fucking-course, my new partner has a sunshine-coded little sister roaming around Mountain Springs.
Tara leans in slightly, eyes sparkling. “Why? Are you a friend of his? Oh god, did he hurt you? I’m so sorry he sometimes isn’t the best with women, you know. I think it all stems down to—”
I cut her off, stopping her from further discussion of Troy’s psychophysical history with women.
“No. Absolutely not. I am not…god no,”
She raises a brow, clearly amused. “Okaaay… Then how do you know my brother?”
“I’m his partner for the Future Innovators competition. We sort of had no other choice,”
Tara gawks. Like full-on, mouth slightly open, what-the-fuck gawk.
“You? And Troy? Working together?”
“Unfortunately.”
She grins. “Oh, my God. This is amazing.”
“It is objectively not.”
“No, no, you don’t understand,” she says, practically bouncing on her heels. “My brother is so good at everything, but he’s never had to work with someone who actually challenges him. He’s gonna hate it, and I love that for you.”
“You’re… surprisingly supportive of your brother’s suffering.”
“Obviously,” Tara says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Siblings exist to humble each other.”
Okay. I might actually like her. I scan her book, apply the discount, and hand her the receipt.
“Well, good luck with him,” she chirps, tucking her book into her bag. “I mean that sincerely. But also, please document everything. And if he starts being a dick, you can message me. Type in your insta.”
She hands me her phone with the app open, I search for myself and press follow. She grins again.
“Dm me if you need help with him,”
I snort, despite myself.
“Noted.”
As she heads for the door, she spins back around, walking backward as she calls out—
“And if he’s being annoying, just tell him to go and work out! Works 90% of the time!”