Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Nysa
My grandmother starts working at eight-thirty. I decide to join her because honestly staying at home seems . . . boring. The bell above the door jingles softly as I walk into Cozy Corner Books. The familiar scent of old paper and fresh coffee wraps around me like a hug.
The bookstore is exactly how I remember it. The warm wooden floors creak slightly under my boots as I make my way inside, the light filtering through the tall windows catching the spines of books stacked neatly on shelves that seem to stretch forever. It’s always been a magical place.
Even when I was little, back before I understood what magic really was, I felt it here. Mom and Dad would always bring us to choose one book. We always ended up buying three each. Dad was more afraid of Mom going to a bookstore than the mall. He knew she’d spend a lot of money there because she loved books.
She inherited that love from Grandma, of course.
Books have always been part of my family’s life, a devotion passed down through generations. Grandma was the high school librarian long before I ever roamed those halls, back when Mom started first grade, and she worked there until my grandfather passed. Retirement didn’t pull her away from what she loved. If anything, it gave her the chance to claim it fully. So when she told me she was buying this place, I wasn’t surprised. A bookshop filled with the scent of paper and ink. A place where there were worlds she could explore and she could recommend to the people who dropped by . . . that’s exactly where a woman like her should spend her days.
“You haven’t changed much,” I say, my gaze settling on the chessboard in the reading nook by the window. The pieces are mid-battle, locked in silent strategy, waiting for the next move. The chairs around it are plush, their fabric worn from years of people sinking into them, drawn into stories they weren’t ready to leave behind.
Grandma hums as she moves behind the counter, already flipping through a stack of books and turning on the register. “Why change perfection?” she muses, her voice warm with certainty.
Her silver hair is twisted up into a loose bun, strands escaping around the edges. Her reading glasses perch at the tip of her nose as she glances over the titles, sorting them with a precision that only comes from years of knowing exactly where each one belongs.
I move toward the children’s section before she can ask, already knowing she’ll need the help. The shelves here are lower, small enough for little hands to reach, lined with colorful spines and bright covers. A rocking chair sits near the back, draped with a soft throw, a basket of stuffed animals tucked beside it. Grandma hands me a few books without asking, and I take them, placing them where they belong as she lingers over a few, flipping through their pages, as if remembering why she chose them in the first place.
As I look at a book called Haley Horse , I think about Maddie. She would love this book and I know for a fact that she doesn’t have it. Maybe I should buy it for her. I can just imagine her tucked in bed looking through the colorful pages while holding Lala.
“She’s adorable,” I say, breaking the quiet as I set a hardcover into its place.
“Who?” Grandma asks.
“Maddie,” I reply, looking at the next book and wondering if I should just buy the hole stack. “Hopper’s daughter.”
Her expression softens instantly. “Ah, yes. She is the sweetest thing.” She pauses, her gaze flicking toward me, something unreadable shifting behind it. Then, with the kind of knowing only grandmothers seem to possess, she tilts her head slightly. “And what about her father?”
“What about him?” I ask before she can lay the trap I see forming in her eyes.
She’s always encouraged women to build their own lives, but that’s never stopped her from slipping in the occasional nudge toward something more. Marriage. Happiness. A future that includes vows, a picket fence, and great-grandchildren. A life that feels worlds away from anything I’ve pictured for myself—now or maybe ever.
I roll my eyes, already bracing for what’s coming. “Don’t start.”
Eloise Harper gives me a knowing look but doesn’t push. Instead, she nods toward a small stack of books beside me. “There’s one in the non-fiction section about toddlers. If you’re interested.”
“Why would I be?” I ask, heading toward the non-fiction section because maybe I would like to know some about the behavior of toddlers. Once I’m there, I reach for the top book, flipping it open. It’s filled with tips on understanding their behavior, managing tantrums, and fostering independence.
“She’s at such a fun age,” I say, more to myself than to my grandmother. “Curious about everything. Always asking questions.”
“And you enjoy being around her,” Eloise observes, her tone light but pointed.
I glance at her, a little defensive. “She’s a good kid.”
“She is,” my grandmother agrees. Then, after a moment, she adds, “And her father? He’s good too?”
I set the book down, giving her a look. “You’re relentless, you know that?”
“It’s a grandmother’s job,” she says with a shrug. “He’s always been good. All of them. Smart too, even with all the trouble in their lives. They were always good.”
“What I don’t understand is why no one ever did something about their father,” I state.
She sighs. “I tried, several times. Their mother . . . she didn’t want to create more trouble than her husband had already caused. She didn’t want to lose her business. Men were already upset at her for owning Old Birchwood Timber. Why can a woman do a man’s job? Having a husband kept her from losing her legacy—and a roof over her children’s heads. I didn’t approve of her logic, but sometimes there’s nothing you can do but just be there for them.”
I scoff. “How could you be there for them?”
“Giving them a good book so they could at least forget how bad they had it at home,” she explains. “Other times, put ice on those bruises. I did what I could, even when their father did the impossible to break them.”
My heart always hurt for Atlas—he was my best friend back then. Now, it hurts for all of them. Sure, they were cruel to Atlas, but they had their own problems. I should text him, though. See how he’s doing. We don’t talk often but we check on each other once in awhile. Mostly because we’re all we have.
As the morning drifts on, I find myself lost in the familiar rhythm of the shop—restocking shelves, chatting with customers, flipping through the toddler book during the quiet moments.
But my thoughts keep circling back.
To Maddie.
To Hopper.
To the way they’ve let me into their world, even though I don’t know if I deserve to be there.
Maddie’s little laugh, her wide-eyed wonder at the simplest things—it’s like she’s a tiny beacon of light in a world that’s felt too dark for too long. And Hopper . . .
“Lost in thought?” my grandmother asks, pulling me from my head.
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at the same page of the toddler book for the past five minutes. “Just thinking.”
She hums, not pressing further, and I’m grateful for it.
Instead, I turn the conversation to something safer. “Do you ever regret leaving the high school?”
Eloise smiles, glancing around the shop. “Not for a second. This place has been my dream for as long as I can remember.”
“Grandpa would’ve loved it.”
Her smile falters slightly, but she nods. “Yes. He would’ve.”
Later, as I’m reorganizing a display table near the front of the shop with a variety of new releases and books from last century, my grandmother joins me, wiping her hands on a cloth.
“You’ve done a lot of things,” she says, her tone casual.
I glance at her, confused. “What do you mean?”
“After you left,” she says softly. “You’ve worked on farms, at vineyards . . . you’ve seen more of the world than most people ever will.”
I swallow hard, setting down the book I was holding. “I wasn’t trying to see the world. I was trying to get away from it.”
Grandma studies me for a long moment before reaching out to squeeze my hand. “And yet, here you are. Back where you belong.”
I nod, though I’m not sure if she’s right.
“Maybe this time you don’t let anyone run you out of town,” she states. “Maybe you let yourself believe that you can have it all. Your mom and dad would want that for you. Most of all, you need to stop running and have a family.”
“I have you,” I state, but that doesn’t feel right anymore because I do want more. I want what I had a couple of days ago.
Hopper’s house, Maddie running around giggling. Yet, I still feel like I’m running. Maybe I should stop, at least for a little while.