Chapter 20 #2
I look up. Lucas stands in the doorway, framed by warm lamplight. His expression softens when he sees me, a surprised smile tugging at his mouth. ‘Hey,’ he steps out onto the path. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
The cat headbutts my knee in agreement. I straighten, brushing fur from my fingers. ‘I, um… didn’t realise you had a cat.’
‘I don’t.’ Lucas smiles, glancing down at her with a resigned fondness. ‘She just showed up one day and decided the shop was hers. I’m pretty sure she’s unionised now.’
I laugh, warm and unexpected. The sound seems to catch him off guard, in a good way. ‘What’s her name?’
‘She doesn’t have one yet.’
I cautiously bend to pick her up, she curls into me right away. ‘Such a sweet girl.’ I scratch her ear as she purrs.
‘She likes you.’
‘Do you blame her?’ I giggle. ‘You should call her Monty.’
She meows, as if in agreement.
‘Yeah, I think you're right.’ Lucas nods towards the open door. ‘You coming in?’
I step past him, Monty trotting back to her bench like she’s personally escorted me in.
Chairs are scattered between the shelves, low lamplight glows along the poetry section, a soft counterpoint to the crisp August night. Jasper stands near the front, notebook in hand, grinning as someone reads a dramatic sonnet about heartbreak and houseplants.
Lucas falls into step beside me. His smile quieter now, but no less warm. ‘Glad you’re here,’ he tells me.
And for reasons I don’t have the courage to name yet, I am too.
I sit down, knowing my journal is in my bag. Am I ready to share?
A few regulars read. The owner of Sweet Fern Pantry, a retiree with an affinity for war poems, and a high school student who read a beautiful piece about body image. I listen carefully and almost reach for my journal. I can feel Lucas watching me, unsure what I was about to do.
Then a woman in her forties steps up with a battered paperback I know too well in her hand. No notebook.
‘This isn’t mine,’ she says, steady but soft.
‘I lost my partner last winter, his name is... was Sam,’ she takes a small breath, ‘we had in-home care, so after he passed, I wasn't used to the quiet or being alone with my thoughts. Being alone in general. I wasn’t sleeping. This book… it sat on my nightstand for weeks before I could open it.’
She looks down at the cover, thumb smoothing a crease.
‘I thought it was about leaving and it is. But it’s also about staying with yourself.
There’s a chapter about making one cup of coffee on purpose, like it’s enough.
’ Her mouth lifts. ‘I started there. One cup. One walk. One shelf cleared. Your pages didn’t tell me to “move on.” They let me move with it.
’ She taps the book, voice catching, ‘Lola, whoever you are, wherever you are. Thank you for giving me a way to keep loving someone who isn’t here. ’
The applause is soft and reverent.
Lucas exhales beside me. ‘That,’ he murmurs, almost to himself, ‘is what books are supposed to do.’ I glance at him, but his eyes stay on the reader. ‘Make people feel less alone,’ he adds quietly. ‘Doesn’t even matter who wrote it. You can feel it when it comes from somewhere real.’
His words find the hollow spot in my chest and settle there. I swallow hard, nodding, afraid my voice would give too much away.
I slip away under the cover of applause, mumbling something about grabbing more napkins. The back hallway smells like books, as it always has. A sliver of light spills through the half open office door, and I pause at what I see.
Jasper's voice is still echoing from the front room. I shouldn’t look but curiosity, or maybe fear, pulls me closer.
On the small corkboard above the desk, a hand-scrawled sign reads: The Lola Reid Investigation – by Jasper.
Photos and notes are pinned in tidy rows, connected by bright strands of string. At the centre sits a paused still from one of Marley’s videos—my TikTok. The cropped frame, red lipstick, oversized glasses. Beneath it, a caption:
‘@lolareidauthor – voice pattern similar?’
Arrows and scribbles radiate out from the image:
Brew a chair scraping, someone laughing by the door, but it all blurs at the edges. His knee grazes mine again. I don’t move.
His gaze flicks to my mouth and back. I tip closer, heartbeat loud in my throat.
‘Lucas,’ I say, quietly. ‘Kiss me?’
He closes the last inch, slowly. When his mouth meets mine, the air ignites.
Fireworks, threaded with a strange familiarity, like I’ve been waiting for this spark all along.
Heat sparks under my skin and my fingers hook in his sleeve.
A thought I can’t explain lands heavy and sure.
It was him all along. The reason I chose this place.
The quiet pull I couldn’t name until now.
He leans back just enough for our foreheads to rest together. His eyes mirror the same realisation, the same startled “yes” that’s taking root in me. A slow smile breaks, unsure but real, like he’s found the word he’s been reaching for.
His breath warms my lips. ‘Lilah,’ he whispers, voice low, ‘coffee here tomorrow?’
‘Text me a time.’
‘Eight?’
‘Eight,’ I echo, and it comes out with a smile.
We stay close a breath longer than necessary, then I stand, knees a little unreliable, and smooth my coat. He watches me like he’s memorising, not in a way that traps me, in a way that steadies me.
‘Get home safe.’
‘I will.’
As I make my way towards the door, the woman from earlier catches my sleeve lightly. Her eyes are still glassy; the book clutched to her chest.
‘What you said up there,’ she whispers, ‘it was beautiful.’
I smile, soft and nervous. ‘Thank you.’
She hesitates, like there’s more sitting behind her tongue. Then, almost conspiratorially, ‘If I ever met Lola, I’d tell her to keep writing.’
My breath catches, but I keep my smile steady. ‘Yeah,’ I say quietly. ‘Me too.’
She nods, understanding more than I’d like her to, and squeezes my hand before stepping away.
Behind me, I hear Lucas shift, just a scrape of his boot on the floor. But I don’t look back.
Journal Entry - Monday, 25th of August
Tonight, I read words I used to keep only in my journal. Not as Lola, but as me.
A woman read a passage from my book and looked up. Recognition, flickered between us like a small light. We didn’t say a thing; it felt like our secret.
After, he kissed me. It was steady and tender. It was perfect.
I’m starting to learn that the hardest part of writing a happy ending, is believing it could be mine.
xx