Chapter 20
EZRA
This morning, Scarlett didn’t meet me for coffee, but I know it’s because she’s still asleep. Yesterday, she worked nonstop, and I know she’s catching up on rest. It’s something I absolutely approve of.
Once the coffee is brewed, I move onto the back porch to take in the early morning. A cold front is approaching, and the temperatures are starting to drop. I enjoy the cool, brisk air against my skin as I rock on the porch swing, a warm mug cradled in my hands.
I stayed up far too late reading, compelled to finish Scarlett’s book. For hours, I tossed and turned, lying awake, thinking about what I read. The chapters were intimate, written with graphic detail. He begged to get her back and promised he’d do better when they made love.
Scarlett loved him. She wrote him in a way that was forgivable and humble, showed character flaws, but made him lovable, which I’m sure wasn’t easy.
But reading between the lines, I still fucking hate that guy.
I knew immediately when the story transitioned back to fiction, because in reality, her ex never changed. He cheated until the very end.
Personally, reading the last act was hard. It was the life Scarlett envisioned with that piece of shit. But I understand where her heart was and how sometimes we want people who aren’t good for us. I’m guilty of it, too.
“I’m so sorry he failed you,” I whisper, shaking my head and staring out at the cottage.
The warnings were fair. Not because the book didn’t have a happy ending.
It did; it was just too real, too relatable.
Knowing it was based on Scarlett’s relationship only helped the allure.
The hate her ex received was completely valid.
My life will never be the same after reading it.
I take another sip of my coffee just as a Carolina chickadee lands on the porch railing, chirping once, as if demanding my attention. It was my mother’s favorite songbird. We make eye contact for a moment before it flies and disappears into the branches.
Mom is on my mind today, and I can’t stop thinking about the boxes of hers that are tucked away in my childhood bedroom.
Things are changing, and I need to confront the parts of my past I’ve avoided for far too long. Scarlett is doing it flawlessly.
After I finish my first cup of coffee for the day, I let out an even breath and stand with purpose.
It’s time. I can commit to going through a few boxes of my mother’s things, a little here and there.
I move through the kitchen, setting my mug on the counter before climbing the stairs. Each step is steady; determination guides me forward.
If I learned anything from My Everything, it’s that hiding from things that hurt us will never allow us to heal.
When I reach the spare room door, I take a deep breath, then turn the knob.
I push open the door, and sunlight stretches through the blinds in lines across the hardwood floor.
Dust particles swirl lazily through the air, dancing in the open space as I step inside. Boxes line one wall, stacked neatly, labeled carefully in my aunt Millie’s perfect handwriting. I couldn’t pack up my mother’s belongings, it was too hard, so she volunteered.
What’s left are the things Millie thought I should keep. Everything else was donated.
An ache rises in my chest, memories from my childhood flickering like an old movie in my mind.
I kneel, reaching for the nearest box. My fingers hesitate over the worn cardboard, then I open it. It feels like a treasure chest. Inside are some of my mom’s favorite clay bowls and cups, along with sketchbooks, pencils, and charcoal carefully bundled and untouched.
I run my thumb over the textured sketchbook cover, taking comfort in this small connection to her creativity.
After setting it aside, I open another box that’s filled with books she cherished.
I pull one out and read the title first. Until You. The author’s name is written in the same font that’s on all her covers—Scarlett Collins. This feels like a sign that my mother sent my way.
“Well played,” I whisper, holding it tight, noticing how worn it is, like she reread it several times over the years.
A smile tugs at my lips, picturing my mother curled up on the couch, lost in Scarlett’s world just as I was. I flip open the cover, and my breath catches when I see Scarlett’s handwriting.
For Ellie—
Thank you for reminding me why I write. Your kindness is a breath of fresh air. And I hope your son finds someone just like me too. :) Anything is possible!
Forever,
Scarlett
I stare at the page, my heart hammering in disbelief. Scarlett met my mother long before our paths crossed. The coincidence feels too powerful, almost impossible. It’s obvious to me that Mom loved Scarlett, just by this inscription.
Maybe our meeting wasn’t by chance at all. Perhaps it was something more, something meant to be.
Fate.
“Thanks, Mom,” I whisper, knowing this was somehow her divine doing. “Funny how you and Millie are somehow still playing matchmaker. This time, I agree, though.”
I carefully place Scarlett’s book aside, heart still racing with the lingering feeling of my mother’s presence. When I glance around, the space no longer feels overwhelming. It’s inviting, and full of memories I’m finally ready to welcome back.
The next box contains photographs I haven’t seen in years. On top is a framed photo of my mother in her cottage studio, sunlight washing over her as she works at the pottery wheel. Her eyes are sparkling with passion. A wave of nostalgia washes over me. It’s bittersweet and filled with gratitude.
“Miss you,” I say, my thumb brushing over her image.
I finish sorting through the box of photographs, carefully setting aside the ones I’ll frame later. As I reach for another box, my phone vibrates.
I pull it from my pocket, lips twitching at the sight of Scarlett’s name and her sleepy-faced photo.
Scarlett
Good morning. I’m alive. Barely.
I chuckle, typing out a reply.
Ezra
Morning. Need coffee?
Her response is almost instant.
Scarlett
YES PLEASE. Extra strong!
Laughing under my breath, I slide my phone back into my pocket and glance once more around the room. I’ll tackle the rest later.
Before I leave, I grab Until You and carry it with me downstairs.
I immediately set to work making a fresh pot of coffee and starting on breakfast.
I fry bacon in my favorite cast-iron skillet.
I slide bread into the toaster. I crack fresh eggs into a bowl, whisking them with practiced ease.
Morning sunlight filters through the window, and everything feels like a dream, too soft around the edges.
As I cook, my mind drifts to the book sitting on the countertop behind me, the one Scarlett signed for my mother a decade ago.
A big smile fills my face, still awed by the strange beauty of that discovery. It’s a sign. First, the bird. Then the book.
I slice fresh tomatoes and strawberries.
After assembling the sandwich, the back door opens, and Scarlett enters. She grins wide, walking over to me. I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close, kissing her hair. “You’re cooking breakfast?”
“Yep, you’ve got a big day ahead of you,” I say. “Lots of words to write. Get some coffee.”
Scarlett opens the cabinet with the mugs and stares at them for a long time. “What’s your favorite color?”
“The exact color of your eyes,” I answer.
She tucks her lips inside her mouth, pulling down a green mug.
Scarlett pours herself a cup and leans her hip against the counter, watching me. Her dark hair is falling over her bare shoulder.
Her eyes wander across the kitchen and land on the book on the counter.
“Are you a collector now?” she asks, walking over to the book. “Or trying to flip it?”
“Is there a market for that?” I ask.
“Surprisingly, yes. The first edition of my debut book is pretty special. And if it’s signed, even rarer.
I hardly did any signings back then, and the first print run was so small.
” She chuckles, inspecting it. “Original cover. A little worn, but in good shape. It could get you seven hundred dollars. Highly collectible. Let’s see if this one has the error. If it does, over a thousand…”
I watch as her amusement shifts into confusion, then stunned disbelief.
Her eyes widen as her handwriting stares back at her.
“Whose book did you take?” she asks, glancing up at me. “Please tell me you didn’t pay a ton for this, Ezra.”
“You signed that book for my mom, Ellie,” I say, watching the mix of wonder and recognition wash over her face. “Your book must’ve made quite an impression on her. I was going through some boxes, and that was packed among her most cherished items that sat on her bedside table.”
Scarlett stares at the inscription, her fingertips tracing over her words. Her eyes widen, memory flickering to life behind her gaze. “Oh my goodness. Ellie…I remember her now. Had one of those laughs that’s contagious. Wore red lipstick. Cozy. She was incredible.”
“Yep.” My throat tightens. “Yeah. She really was.”
Scarlett looks up at me, her eyes glistening.
“Oh,” she says, then bursts into laughter.
“You know, your mom was trying to play matchmaker with us. She was relentless, but I declined the offer. I was dating someone at the time.” She narrows her eyes at me.
“But to think, I could’ve met you ten years ago. ”
“That’s a shame. I would’ve whisked you away,” I tell her.
“I don’t think I was ready for that yet.” Scarlett holds the book against her chest, then sets it down.
I remove the bacon from the pan.
“Mom used to talk about divine timing, that things happen when they’re supposed to. Maybe we both had more lessons to learn, so when we met, we’d fully appreciate the other,” I say, adding food to our plates.
“I like that thought,” she says.
Once our plates are loaded, I carry them to the table.
Scarlett grabs forks, and I rip some paper towels from the holder.
As she slides past me, our arms brush. Scarlett smiles back at me, and her gaze flickers between my eyes and my mouth, as though she’s searching for something more to say as she sits.
I join her. “So, I finished your book late last night.”
There’s pride in her eyes. “And?”
“It broke my fucking heart,” I admit, not hiding the raw truth. “But in the best possible way. I felt you in every word. Also, I’m so fucking sorry.”
She exhales, the tension leaving her shoulders. “That means a lot to me.”
“And that was your best seller?”
“To date. I think my upcoming release will be the best yet. It’s happier. No hero to forgive. Very sexy. Lots of exploration and revelations.”
I tilt my head. “Your readers are going to love it.”
“I just hope you do,” she whispers.
“I’m living it, sweetheart. I don’t need to read it to know how fucking good it is.”
Laughter falls from her when she glances at the book.
“I have pictures from that event somewhere,” Scarlett says. “Maybe one day we can go through them and see if we can find your mom. Like, Where’s Waldo style.”
“I’d like that,” I say truthfully.
Scarlett takes a bite of her breakfast sandwich. “Her book club was one of the reasons I felt so welcomed and happy here. I will always remember her enthusiasm and warmth. I will never forget her kindness.”
Hearing her speak of my mother heals a wound I’d forgotten was still open.
“It feels like she brought us together,” I say.
Scarlett holds my gaze, her eyes thoughtful. “I agree.”
A comfortable silence settles around us as we eat and exchange glances.
Scarlett has opened every closed door in my life, and I’m not afraid of what’s waiting behind them.
“What are your plans today?” I ask.
“What I do every day, write, write, write,” she tells me, groaning. “I love my job, but I’m so tired.”
I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “You’re almost done, sweetheart. And when you write The End, you’re all mine.”
Scarlett chews on her bottom lip, and it drives me insane. “I love the sound of that.”
“How much do you have left?” I ask, finishing my sandwich.
“Forty thousand. Easy peasy.” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.
I give her a lazy grin. “You’ve got this.”
Scarlett reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Yes, I do.”
“Oh, congrats on making your five thousand yesterday. Glad to know you have one O-coin to spend.”
“Yup, I’m gonna cash in three at the same time,” she says.
“Damn, girl. I can’t wait.” I lick my lips.
“What about you? What are your plans for the day?”
I grin. “Not sure yet. Might read another book by my new favorite author,” I say, glancing at Until You.
“Oh, it’s a fun one, full of self-discovery on a road trip after a breakup.”
My brow lifts. “Based on your experiences?”
She smirks. “Everything I write is. That’s the allure. Being myself is my brand; sharing myself is my essence. Everyone knows it’s a little bit of non-fiction wrapped up in a fictional bow.”
“I’m so happy you’re here,” I confess.
“Me too.”
I stand, grabbing her empty plate.
“Thank you, Ezra,” Scarlett says, moving to the coffeepot to refill her mug. She moves close to me and kisses me on the cheek. “You inspire me.”
“Coming from you, that’s the best fuckin’ compliment. I’ll see you after your four thousand words?”
“I’m going to try to write as much as I possibly can. Maybe I’ll cash in five O-coins.”
I chuckle as Scarlett moves toward the back door. I rinse our plates, washing away the lingering crumbs. My mind drifts to the look on Scarlett’s face when she saw her handwriting in my mother’s book. She was surprised but was just as touched as I was.
I smile like a fool in love, as inspiration suddenly pulses through me.
I refill my coffee cup, then I send her a quick message.
Ezra
When you finish your writing session, meet me on the third floor.
Scarlett
It might be a while.
Ezra
Totally fine. I’ll be there until dark. Cheering you on! Can’t wait to see you.
Scarlett
Mmm. Me too!
Pocketing my phone, I head toward the stairs. Each step I take is filled with anticipation.
Scarlett has shared so much of herself with me that it’s time I finally show her exactly who I am, too.