Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
The bell over the door, gives its usual stubborn jingle as I step inside the store. The smell of paper and old books still hits me in the chest. It should feel ordinary by now, but it doesn’t. I cross the floor, passing the staff picks display, which I have been “updating tomorrow” for a week now.
My mind is still caught on Lilah and her cinnamon-sweet smile, the way it felt when our hands brushed to exchange phone numbers, and the hint of jealousy I could feel when that girl came up to me.
Behind the counter, Jasper perches on a stool, doom-scrolling. 'You’ve got that glazed over “I met a pretty girl and she’s living rent-free in my mind” look,’ he says.
‘I do not.’
‘You do. It’s giving book boyfriend.’
I give him a look. ‘Never say that again.’
He squints. ‘Also, you’re humming “Enchanted.”’
I pause. ‘…That’s the radio.’
He points at the silent speaker. ‘Is it?’
I scrub a hand down my face. ‘Kill me.’
‘Nope. Text her.’
‘Yeah, I will later.’
I could wait. Sensible would be waiting.
I duck behind the counter with my phone, like a teenager hiding contraband, and pretend I’m checking stock emails.
My thumbs hover, pausing before I type.
LUCAS: Hey, it was good seeing you last night.
Nah, too eager. Delete
LUCAS: Do you like fairs? Not, like, ferris wheel fairs. Book ones obviously.
What am I doing? Delete.
Lucas: Coffee sometime?
Feels like a promise I’m not ready to make. I’m not even sure I’m staying. Temporary was supposed to be a plan, not a personality.
I tell myself to put the phone down, but I don’t. I think about the way she said, “starting over,” like it might work this time. My chest had loosened for the first time in months when she laughed.
LUCAS: Hey, there’s a book fair on Saturday. Rare stuff, second hand trades, probably a candle stall. Thought it might be your thing. Not a date, just books and churros.
I read it twice. It’s safe without being cowardly. There is room to back out if I come to my senses, and room to lean in if I don’t.
I add my name, then delete it. She knows who it’s from.
My thumb hovers over send. This is dumb, I tell myself. You’re a layover, not a destination. Don’t start something you might have to pack up.
I hit send anyway.
For a second, everything in the shop gets loud, the fridge hums, clock ticks. I slide the phone face down on the table and line up the loyalty cards like they might steady me.
Two beats later, I turn the phone over. Waiting is suddenly a sport I’m bad at.
Looking up, I see Jasper shaking his head and chuckling as he walks back to the stack of books, he is shelving.
A pram navigates to the kids' corner, someone asks for poetry, “but happy.” A tourist buys three paperbacks, claiming it’s “for the flight,” but we are about 100kms from the closest airport. Before she leaves, she admits it was just to treat herself.
I don’t check my phone. Okay, I absolutely check my phone.
No reply.
That’s fine.
We unpack a late box of cookbooks. The label gun jams and Jasper swears at it like it understands English.
Time folds. I stack, ring up, answer, nod. Autopilot is useful until it isn’t.
By four, the floor is clear and the counter’s a mess of good intentions, elastic bands; a damp cloth, and two pencils worn to nubs.
Jasper wipes a circle on the glass and watches me not looking at my phone. ‘You’ve been on autopilot all day,’ he says. ‘Something on your mind?’
‘Just thinking.’
‘Dangerous.’
‘Do you ever get tired of starting over?’
He sets the cloth down. ‘Not really. Every new start’s a chance to do it better.’
I nod. The front window carries our reflection out to the dark street.
‘When my grandfather died,’ I say, ‘my grandmother kept the house the same for months. Kettle on the same burner. His slippers under the chair. Like if nothing moved, he might walk back in.’ Jasper stays silent.
‘I thought it was denial,’ I add. ‘Now, I think it was the only way to stop the ground from shifting again. Once it starts, it doesn’t really stop. ’
He studies me. ‘And you’ve been trying to nail everything down ever since.’
‘Maybe.’ My hand slides the edge of the counter straight.
He just nods, like he gets it. The bell gives a tired jingle as he grabs his jacket. ‘Go slow, Romeo,’ he chirps at the door. ‘See you tomorrow.’ He stops to pat Monty before he leaves.
‘See ya.’”
When it’s just me, I let the silence settle around the room. Just the hum of the ceiling fan and the old wood settling in the floorboards.
A moment later, the bell chimes again, and Tess walks in; wide-leg pants, oversized shirt, and the air of someone who’d already planned three events before breakfast.
‘Hey, Lucas.’ She beelines for the counter. ‘Got a minute?’
‘Of course. What’s up?’
She pulls a flyer from her tote and slides it towards me.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask, have you ever considered running author nights?
Readings, Q&As, that kind of thing. There’s a real appetite for it around here, and Inkwell & Ivy is basically begging to be the new cultural heartbeat of Wattlewood Ridge. ’
I blink. ‘Cultural heartbeat?’
Tess grins. ‘Don’t underestimate your fairy lights and antique armchairs. They’re doing the heavy lifting.’
I laugh. ‘Let me think about it. I love the idea just want to make sure I can do it justice.’
‘Of course.’ She's already pulling out her phone. ‘Oh actually, I have a box of books for the store, one sec.’ With a wave, she disappears out the door, thumbs flying across her screen, before I could ask what books.
‘I thought you said a box, not three,’ I say, opening the door and taking the boxes from her.
‘Yeah sorry, I didn’t realise they were all yours. I had my assistant put them in the car for me.’
‘What are they? I didn’t realise I had ordered from the press.’ I grab the box cutter from the drawer.
‘Oh, you didn’t. Carol put the order in before-’ she pauses, looking unsure what else to say.
‘Right of course, what is it?’ I ask, cutting into the box. Its that book Jasper was banging on about to Lilah. ‘The Year Before You. Wow, this is a lot of books. Why did she order this many?’
Tess begins playing with the hem of her shirt, ‘Ah… I am not sure. I guess she just liked the book.’
‘Do you think Lola Reid would be interested in an author event here? Didn’t Carol host the release party?’
‘Yes, it was here.’ She straightens her back, rolling her shoulders. ‘She doesn’t really do author events… sorry Lucas.’
Weird. Her book seems to be really successful, why wouldn’t she want to celebrate that?
‘Oh okay. You have met her, obviously, is it true she is writing under a pen name?’
She chuckles. ‘That’s a new one,’ she says as she turns to leave. ‘Bye Lucas, let me know about the events.’
Then she’s gone.
I let out a breath. ‘Well, that was weird right?’ I ask the empty room.
Grabbing out the top copy, I flip to the back where every other book would have an author photo.
Nothing.
Author nights. Cultural heartbeat. The words snag on the part of me that’s still not sure I live here. I can feel the realtor’s card in my wallet like a splinter.
When Carol had called, she'd been calm as she told me everything was sorted. Her voice had been steady in a way that I try to make mine be. “It’s time,” she’d said, and told me, “the shop was mine if I wanted it.” She hadn’t been asking for a promise.
Just leaving a door unlocked. But I’m still standing on the threshold.
I slide the book aside and pull open the drawer. Devotions is there, my grandfather’s note soft on the flyleaf. He used to say, “The world doesn’t need your perfection, Lucas. It requires your truth.”
I don’t know what my truth is yet. I just know selling would be simple. And simple isn’t the same as right.
Three boxes of The Year Before You wait like they’re daring me to start a table I might not keep. Tess’s flyer glows at the edge of the counter.
‘Heartbeat,’ I murmur.
I stack the books on the front table, neat, facing out. If Lola won’t stand at the mic, that's fine.
The bell rings as a shadow crosses the glass.
‘Be right there,’ I call, sliding the flyer under the till. I slip the realtor’s card deeper into my wallet and close it like that might muffle the choice.
LILAH: Churros and books? How could I possibly say no?
For a moment, I just stare at the screen. My chest goes tight in that unfamiliar, exhilarating way. I read it again. It’s ridiculous how two lines of text can make the air feel different.
Maybe I imagined the connection between us, the echo in how she listens, how she looks. But her “yes,” feels like turning a page and finding yourself exactly where you left off.
I grin before I can stop it. I worry slightly, that I’m reading too much into it.
Still… my thumb hovers over the screen, and the thought lands before I can block it: Maybe staying doesn’t have to mean forever. Maybe it just means showing up long enough to see what happens.
The nerves turn warm, restless. I grab my keys, flick off the lights one by one, and step into the night.
Margin note tucked into Devotions, beneath the page with the geese:
Maybe the people who shape us never really leave.
Perhaps they just hand us the pen and say, Your turn.