Chapter Thirty Three
“I need your help,” Emery said. She felt a bit shaky, despite the fact that everyone in this room was her friend. “All of you.”
She looked around Abe's grand living room, taking in the faces of the people who had somehow become her support system.
Zara was perched on the edge of an antique chair, vibrating with curiosity.
Jax lounged beside her, tattooed arms crossed over her chest, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.
Maya sat on the velvet sofa, looking both amused and concerned, while Domi paced near the fireplace, scrolling through something on her phone.
Ollie hovered awkwardly by the door as if unsure he belonged in this gathering, and Abe, the host himself, watched from his wingback chair with twinkling eyes.
“Um, you don’t all know each other,” Emery said. “But you all know me, and for the time being, that’s just going to have to be enough.”
“I don’t know,” said Jax, eyeing Ollie by the door. “There should probably be some introductions.”
Ollie grinned at her, and Emery cleared her throat. “There’ll be time for that later.”
“Promises, promises,” said Jax.
Emery looked down at her hands. “Here’s the thing.
I've made a horrible mess of things,” she said, “and words alone can't fix it.
I need a grand gesture. Something spectacular.
Something so ridiculously romantic that even Eveline, with all her skepticism about romance novels, can't possibly misinterpret it.”
“Finally!” Jax exclaimed, slapping her thigh. “We've been telling you this for weeks!”
“I know, I know,” Emery said, ducking her head. “I was… wallowing.”
“Spectacularly,” Domi added without looking up from her phone. “It was getting tedious.”
Maya shot Domi a disapproving look before turning to Emery with a gentle smile. “What kind of grand gesture did you have in mind, dear?”
Emery took a deep breath. “That's just it.
I don't want just one gesture. I want all the grand gestures, all building up to something… magnificent. Something worthy of the ending of a romance novel.” She ran a hand through her curls, which were less wild than usual thanks to Jax's insistence on an emergency haircut that morning.
“But I can't do it alone. I need each of you to help.”
“I'm in,” Zara said immediately, raising her hand as if in class. “Whatever you need. The socials are dying without your love story to document.”
Emery winced. “Let's not put that part online, maybe?”
“I can bake!” Maya chimed in. “Something thematic. Something that tells your story through pastry.” She was already scribbling notes in a small floral notebook. “Rose for romance, cinnamon for spice, a touch of salt for the tears…”
“I've got contacts,” Domi said, finally looking up with a predatory smile. “I can pull some strings, call in favors.”
“And I've got the legal side covered,” Jax added. “Just in case we need to, I don't know, close streets or get permits for fireworks.”
“Fireworks?” Emery squeaked.
“Too much?” Jax asked, then shrugged. “Fine. We'll scale back on the pyrotechnics.”
“I, uh,” Ollie began, raising his hand hesitantly. “I have the van? For deliveries and stuff?” He looked so earnest that Emery couldn't help smiling.
“That's perfect, Ollie,” she said. “We'll definitely need transportation.” She turned to Abe, who had remained quiet throughout the exchange. “And you, Abe, don't need to do anything except give me advice and maybe lend me one of your poetry books.”
Abe's eyes crinkled at the corners. “I'll do no such thing,” he said, his voice firm despite his frailty. “I’m not dead yet. I intend to participate fully in this romantic conspiracy.” He tapped his cane against the hardwood floor for emphasis.
“Though I think I'll keep my contribution a secret from you as well. Every good story needs an element of surprise, after all.”
Emery felt a lump form in her throat. “I don't deserve any of you.”
“Probably not,” agreed Domi.
“Nonsense,” Zara said. “You two are basically a walking rom-com. Who wouldn't want to help with the third act grand gesture?”
“Alright then,” Emery said, squaring her shoulders. “If you’re all truly in, then here's the plan…”
For the next hour, they plotted and schemed, each person taking notes and suggesting refinements. By the time they finished, Emery felt a flutter of something she hadn't experienced in weeks: hope. This could work. It had to work.
Because a life without Eveline wasn't a life she wanted to contemplate anymore.
???
Eveline crumpled another piece of paper and tossed it toward the already overflowing wastebasket beside her desk. It missed, joining a dozen other rejected attempts on her office floor.
Writing, as it turned out, was significantly more difficult than she had imagined.
Particularly when what you were trying to write was a letter asking for a second chance from someone whose career was literally built on writing beautifully about love and longing.
Who’d have thought that writing all those ridiculous romance novels would actually be difficult?
“Putain,” she muttered to herself, reaching for a fresh sheet of paper.
She'd read Emery's letter, finally, just that morning, pulling it from the drawer where she'd hidden it away.
The honesty in those pages had sliced through the last of her defenses.
Emery had explained everything: her initial panic at meeting a bookshop owner who hated romance, her growing feelings that made the truth harder and harder to confess, her genuine remorse at the deception.
She'd written about falling in love with Eveline, with the shop, with the sense of belonging she'd found there.
Reading it had been like having her heart cracked open and then tenderly pieced back together.
Not that Emery had justified her lying. But she had explained. And it helped. Not only did it help, it just cemented in Eveline the idea that Emery had to belong here, had to be a part of what she’d so painstakingly built. That Emery had a place in her world, in her life, in her heart.
And now, Eveline wanted, needed, to respond. But the right words eluded her.
She stared at the blank page, pen hovering uselessly above it.
Dear Emery, she wrote, then immediately crossed it out.
Too formal.
Emery, she tried again.
Better, but what came next? I've been thinking about what you wrote? Too understated. I miss you desperately and have been a stubborn fool? Too dramatic. Though also true.
“How do those romance novelists do this?” she groaned, dropping her head into her hands.
Then again, if writing about love was easy, perhaps it wouldn't be worth doing.
Perhaps this struggle was part of the process, forcing her to really examine what she wanted to say, what she truly felt.
And maybe this was punishment for years of dismissing romance novelists. Perhaps she deserved this.
She picked up her pen once more.
Emery,
I read your letter. Finally. I should have read it weeks ago, but I was afraid. Afraid that your words would convince me, afraid that they might not. Afraid of what it would mean to forgive, to trust, to love again.
But I am more afraid of a life without you in it.
Eveline paused, rereading what she'd written. It wasn't terrible. It was honest, at least. But it still didn't capture everything she wanted to say. It was also, she couldn’t help but think, slightly saccharine. Just a tad nauseating. She sighed but went on, she had to get something on paper.
She continued writing, crossing out lines, starting over, finding her rhythm only to lose it again. Hours passed. The afternoon faded into evening, and still she wrote, searching for the perfect words to bridge the gap between them.
By the time darkness fell completely, her desk was littered with the ghosts of false starts and abandoned sentences. Her hand cramped from gripping the pen too tightly, and her eyes stung from concentration.
And yet, the perfect letter remained elusive.
With a sigh of frustration, Eveline stood and stretched, her gaze drifting to the bookshelves that lined her office walls.
Row upon row of carefully arranged volumes, stories of every kind filled those shelves.
But her eyes fell specifically on the romance section that she'd gradually been rebuilding.
She'd moved it back to the center of the shop, an acknowledgment of her own growth, her own changing heart.
Emery's books stood among them now, no longer hidden away in shame or anger. Eveline walked over and ran her fingers along their spines, feeling the embossed letters of Emery's pen name beneath her touch.
It was natural to think that the answer to a letter had to be a letter. It was the only way Eveline could think of contacting Emery that didn’t involve her doing something drastic.
Traditionally, she knew that she was supposed to chase Emery down at an airport or something. But as far as she knew, Emery wasn’t planning on going anywhere. And with security these days, the old-fashioned airport chase was probably a thing of the past.
She sighed.
She needed to do better.
She needed to put the walls aside, to open up, to actually be honest with herself and with Emery.
That was the only way that this was going to work.
So why couldn’t she do it? Why did the words look stupid on paper?
Why couldn’t she, a well-educated and well-read woman, possibly explain just how she was feeling?
She looked around the shop and then closed her eyes and laughed. It was all so simple. She took a deep breath, went back to her desk, got a fresh sheet of paper, and began to write.
Chère Emery, les mots me manquent pour te dire combien je t'aime…