Chapter 10 Tabitha
Chapter ten
Tabitha
We head upstairs to the second floor, where the attic access is tucked in the hallway ceiling. I reach for the cord, but Rory’s already there, his height giving him the advantage. He pulls, and the ladder unfolds with a groan of old hinges.
He stares at it as if it’s alien technology. “Is that…safe?”
“It’s a pull-down attic ladder. You’ve never seen one?”
“I live in a three-story apartment building without an attic in sight.” He prods one rung experimentally. “This seems like a death trap.”
“It’s been here since the fifties. It’s fine.” I climb, very aware of him watching from below. “Just don’t put your full weight on the third rung. It’s a little loose.”
“The third—Tabitha!”
“Don’t be dramatic.” But I’m smiling as I pull myself up into the attic, the familiar scent of dust and old cardboard washing over me. A single bulb casts a weak light over the cramped space, barely enough to see by.
Rory’s head appears through the opening, and I offer him a hand up. He takes it, his palm still cold from shoveling, and hauls himself through with an athletic grace that makes my stomach flutter.
Then he straightens—or tries to. The ceiling’s too low, forcing him to duck. “Jesus. Is this up to code?”
“I don’t think codes were really a thing back then.” I weave through the maze of boxes and old furniture, the space so narrow we have to move single file. “The Christmas boxes are back here.”
He follows, his presence a solid warmth at my back. Every time I stop to check a label, he nearly runs into me. The third time it happens, his hands come to my waist to steady us both, and neither of us moves for a beat too long.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t sound sorry. His thumbs press against my hipbones through my sweater.
“It’s fine.” My voice comes out breathier than intended. “Just…cramped up here.”
“I noticed.” But he steps back, giving me space I don’t want.
I force myself to focus on the boxes. Most are labeled in Aunt Mae’s neat handwriting: Summer Clothes, Photos 1960-1970, Quilting Fabric. A lifetime in this house, packed carefully away.
“She’s lived her whole life here?” Rory asks as if he’s reading my thoughts.
“Born in the front bedroom. Never left.” I run my fingers over a trunk marked Wedding Dress—1965. “This house, this town. It’s enough for her.”
“And you?” His tone is carefully casual. “Ever think about living anywhere else?”
I turn to look at him, which is a mistake because the space forces us too close. His hair’s still damp from the snow, falling across his forehead, and his dark eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
“No,” I say honestly. “This is home. The bookstore, the community, Aunt Mae. It’s enough. I’m satisfied.”
“Satisfied.” He says the word as if he’s testing it.
“What’s wrong with satisfied?”
“Nothing. If it’s true.” He shifts, and his shoulder brushes mine.
“What do you mean?”
“Hays mentioned you haven’t dated since the wedding.”
Of course, he did. “And?”
“And satisfied people usually don’t avoid dating for months.”
Heat floods my face. “I haven’t been avoiding it. There just haven’t been any good options.”
“No?” He’s close enough now I can smell the cold air still clinging to him, mixed with something warm and male. “Not a single person in this whole town?”
I think of Dave from the post office with his friendly smile and predictable conversation about stamp collecting. Dave, who’s perfectly pleasant and utterly, completely boring. Dave, who’s never once made my pulse race or my thoughts scatter.
“There’s someone,” I admit. “Dave. Works at the post office. He’s asked me out twice.”
“And?”
“And he’s nice. I’ve known him since elementary school. He’s…reliable, steady.” I’m listing his qualities as if I’m trying to convince myself. “He’s just…not exciting.”
Rory’s eyes darken. “Not exciting how?”
“He doesn’t make me—” I cut myself off, but it’s too late.
“Doesn’t make you what, Tabitha?” Rory’s voice drops lower, rougher. His hand comes up to brace against a box beside my head, caging me in without touching me. “Doesn’t make your heart race? Doesn’t make you think about him when he’s not around?”
Yes. Exactly that. But I can’t say it because we’re supposed to be keeping this simple. Round two and done. No complications.
“The box,” I manage, pointing past his shoulder with a shaking hand. “I think that’s it. The one marked Christmas - Fragile.”
For a second, I think he might push it. Might make me answer. But then, he pulls back, his cocky half-smile sliding into place like armor.
“Right. The box.” He turns and pulls it down carefully, testing its weight. “It’s heavy.”
“Aunt Mae does nothing halfway.” I’m grateful for something to focus on besides the way my body’s still attuned to his proximity. “There’s tissue paper, bubble wrap, individual boxes for each piece…”
“Like someone who puts down roots.” He’s looking at the box, but I get the feeling he’s talking about something else entirely. “Someone who builds a life instead of just passing through.”
The observation lands heavier than it should. “Is that what you think you do? Just pass through?”
“Isn’t that exactly what I do?” He shifts the box to one hip. “Fifteen years of hotels and airports and cities that blur together. Sophie’s the only person besides Hays who even notices when I’m gone.”
There’s something raw in his voice that makes my chest ache.
“I noticed.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and his eyes snap to mine.
“What?”
“When you left after the wedding.” I should shut up. Should let it go. But his honesty pulls out mine. “I noticed you were gone.”
He stares at me as if I’m speaking a foreign language. As if he’s trying to translate my words into something that makes sense in his carefully ordered world.
“And I heard you haven’t slept with anyone since then.”
His jaw clenches, and his expression shifts into something I can’t read. “We should get this downstairs. Before Aunt Mae worries.”
I nod, grateful and disappointed in equal measure, and start back toward the ladder. But as we navigate the cramped space, me leading and him following with the box, I catch him watching me in the weak light.
And I realize with sudden, uncomfortable clarity we’re both lying when we say we’re satisfied with how things are.
We just haven’t figured out what to do about it yet.