Chapter 11
Eleven
After staring at the street where Nolan had disappeared, lost, for the first time, in my hometown, I headed back into the bar to say goodbye to Mazzie. I figured one disappearing act this week was enough.
Not surprisingly, after forcing my legs to move, I found myself back at the shop.
Staring into the evidence of my resilience—my dream of owning a bookshop in a town that had seen them come and go—I marveled at how quickly things had unravelled.
After nearly thirty years of lessons, successes and failures, I’d built myself into a woman who thought she knew herself.
One her mother could be proud of. Who had achieved things I once never thought possible.
How could one stupid book have unravelled me so thoroughly?
I would destroy it.
Toss the thing that pushed Nolan away into the river, never to be seen again. Not tomorrow, but immediately. Leaving my storefront behind, I began to walk. When I reached the riverbank, the only sound was the low rush of the water and the distant groan of a passing train.
Staring into the water, I remembered the time in this very spot when Nolan counted the mosquito bites on my leg when I insisted there were at least fifty (there weren’t).
I hugged the book to my chest. A beautiful one I purchased with my own hard-earned cash. One that represented the beginning of a journey that led me to today.
Don’t close the book. Turn the page.
My fingers tightened around the spine. I’d been telling myself the kind of love in my stories wasn’t real … every romance reader knew that. So instead, I lived inside a story.
Closing my eyes, I continued to think. To remember. To weigh my options and dig deep into the recesses of my memory for all the hard-fought lessons—good and bad—that made me … me.
And then I ran.
Up the river bank. Down a mostly empty street, and then another, and another.
I’d always hated running, and tonight was no exception.
Cursing myself for having taken off like a sprinter, I admitted temporary defeat.
Slowing to a jog, and eventually, a brisk walk, I promised myself to get back to the gym.
Or at least squeeze in a few more steps every day.
Finally, blessedly, a modest-sized pale blue house with a still-lit front porch came into view.
Two Adirondack chairs that had overheard hours and hours of conversation stood sentinel as I approached.
Modest, but meticulously kept and quaint in one of Kitchi Falls most desired neighborhoods courtesy of its oak-lined street and proximity to Main Street, though far enough away not to attract many tourists.
I climbed the stairs, once anxious enough to be here that I’d nearly passed out running, but couldn’t bring myself to knock on the door.
Not that I had to. But tonight, it seemed appropriate. As if the gulf between us I created was too big for a casual walk-in. While still deciding what to do, the choice was taken from me as the door whipped open.
“Nolan. I have to tell you something.”