Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cooper hung back and watched Poppy as she signed books for the line of fans waiting patiently after the event.
He hadn’t seen her for days, and watching her like this, in her element, her smile hit him all over again.
Even though there were two dozen or more readers waiting, she didn’t rush anyone: taking a moment to chat and exchange a few words as she wrote her name with a flourish.
Her face lit up with every new encounter, and he could see how much it meant to her to greet them all in turn, posing for photographs and accepting gifts and praise.
Her words mattered to them. Those stories he’d dismissed were a part of their lives, and that was something pretty amazing.
Like their author.
A new fan rushed forward to talk to Poppy, her arms filled with a stack of books.
Poppy welcomed her like an old friend, holding up the covers to show the people with her, and hugging the reader.
“I can’t believe you have all the old covers!
” Cooper heard her exclaim, and the woman almost cried, tripping over her words to explain how much those books had meant to her.
He felt a stab of pride. This was Poppy’s gift. She connected with them, through her books, through those words she typed on every page. She put her heart out there for everyone to see, and they loved her for it.
Like he did.
The knowledge dropped through him like a stone.
But of course it was true, that was the damn shame of it.
He loved her. This beautiful, talented, infuriating woman was offering up her heart to him, but as much as he wanted to grab her tight and never let go, the past still had its hold on him, shackles slowing every footstep until it seemed like he’d never be free.
He wasn’t made for love. That’s what he’d been telling himself these past three years, and as much as he wanted to believe something different, those words seemed carved too deep to erase.
How could it be any different this time?
“Cooper!” Poppy saw him, and waved him over. She bounced out of her seat to kiss him in greeting. “You made it! This is my agent Quinn, meet Cooper.”
A woman in tight black denim and a crisp blazer arched an eyebrow. “Are you the one to thank for breaking her writer’s block?” Quinn gave him a red, glossy smile. “I can see why. Hello.”
“Quinn,” Poppy giggled and elbowed her. “Sorry.” She beamed, turning back to Cooper. “Ignore her. I’m glad you’re here. Did you catch the panel? I won’t be long signing, you can wait here, or in the green room . . .”
She was babbling, and Cooper detected a nervous flicker in her expression. He could guess why. He’d been distancing himself all week, telling himself a little space was all he needed. She’d let him be, but it was clear she knew something wasn’t right.
“I don’t want to interrupt. I can walk around,” he said, feeling eyes on him from everyone waiting in line.
“Nonsense,” Quinn interrupted. “You can keep me company, I need to find a decent cup of coffee.”
Cooper smiled. “Now I know why you two get along.”
Poppy flashed him a smile, and the next person edged forward. “Is this your boyfriend?” the older woman asked, beaming. “Look at you, you make such a cute couple! It’s no wonder you write such romantic stories.”
Cooper cleared his throat. He could feel the eyes on him—not just this reader, but the rest of the waiting line, too. “You know what, I’ll go get you both that coffee,” he said, already backing away. “I’ll, um, see you in a bit.”
He quickly turned and headed through the crowd, and it wasn’t until he was half a block away that he let himself slow.
Look at him, bolting all over again.
Dammit. This wasn’t Poppy’s fault, none of it was. But just like last time around, he was screwing things up without even trying.
The coffee shop was just ahead, but instead of joining the extra-long line, Cooper cut around back, down to the beach. The Provincetown bay curved gently, flat golden sand leading out to the calm waters bobbing with sailboats, and the distant honk of the ferry.
He found an empty stretch of sand, and looked out across the ocean.
The Cape had always felt like home to him, but now as he gazed at the horizon, those familiar shores felt like a cage, holding him back.
Living surrounded by ghosts of his past and the constant reminders of all the ways he’d failed as a man.
If he’d met Poppy in another city, another time .
. . could he have found a way to believe in starting over?
A blank slate. A fresh start. Or would he fall short all over again, and wind up hurting the woman he loved?
A couple of kids, maybe seven or eight years old, came running past, chasing down the Labrador that charged into the waves. “Sorry!” their father called, jogging behind.
Cooper watched them play and felt a deep ache, that grief that lived behind his ribcage, a quiet constant.
His father would know what to do. He always had a way of fixing things: leaking roofs, broken bicycles.
“It’s simple when you know how,” he would say, and show Cooper where the screw needed to be replaced, or the tile replaced, but Cooper didn’t know how to go about fixing himself, and his father had been gone before Cooper even knew he was broken inside.
How was he supposed to mend this mess, when all he could see was the wreckage that still lay ahead?
Poppy had been searching all her life for something real, a partnership, a family.
Cooper could fool himself into thinking he was the man to give it to her, but what happened when all his good intentions faded and Poppy realized he wasn’t enough?
Seeing the disappointment in Laura’s eyes at the end had just about broken him, but Cooper knew, it would be a hundred times worse this time around.
Poppy deserved more than this. More than him.
So what was he waiting for?
Poppy remembered her first big public author event, for all the wrong reasons.
She’d had dinner with friends beforehand at a hole-in-the-wall diner, which clearly didn’t deserve the health rating posted on the wall, because by the time she’d arrived at the bookstore for her signing, her stomach was churning with an ominous shiver.
All night, she had to act like nothing was wrong, when secretly she was breaking out in a cold sweat, counting the minutes until the inevitable race to the bathroom.
She knew disaster was looming, she just had to breathe and smile and keep it together long enough to do her job.
And tonight was no different.
The literary festival had taken over one of the nicest restaurants in town for a big celebration dinner for the authors and publishers.
Poppy was seated at a table with Cooper, Eliza, Quinn, and a few other authors; the champagne was flowing, the food was delicious—and all Poppy could feel was a terrible tangle of dread in the pit of her stomach.
Cooper was acting like nothing was wrong, but she knew him enough now to know it was just that: an act.
“I didn’t realize you were local!” Eliza was exclaiming from across the table. “Maybe we could set up an interview, I write for some of the Boston newspapers, too.”
“Absolutely!” Quinn answered for her. “That sounds great.”
“How long are you staying?” Eliza asked, pulling out her phone to check her schedule. “It’s so much better to chat in person. You know, ‘Author Poppy Somerville breezes into the room and orders a slice of pie that belies her slim figure,’ ” she quipped, and Poppy managed a faint smile.
“I . . . don’t know yet. I was thinking about renting a place through the summer.” Cooper snapped his head around. “You didn’t say.”
“It was just an idea.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “What do you think?”
The question trembled in the air between them, but she couldn’t keep on hoping this was just a temporary stumble, not when her heart ached like this.
She wanted to be holding hands with him under the table, leaning in to exchange private whispers, laughing through the night the way she had just a week ago, both of them giddy and excited and breathless for more.
Instead, Cooper’s face was impassive. He reached for his drink and took a swallow. “I guess it’s up to you,” he said flatly. “I figured you would be getting back to New York after the book was done.”
Poppy froze.
Was that all she was to him: a temporary distraction, already overstaying her welcome?
She took a shallow breath and turned back to the table. “We’ll see,” she said to Eliza. “How about we set something up in the next week or two?”
“Perfect.” Eliza smiled. “And maybe if I’m extra nice, you’ll slip me an advance copy of the next book.”
They all laughed. “Get in line,” Quinn said. “She’s got it under lock and key. No spoilers allowed.”
Fiona, her publicist, nodded vigorously. “Last year someone leaked an advance copy of the Julia Chambers book. People posted the ending all over social media. It was a disaster!”
“You mean people found out they all lived happily ever after? Gee, what a surprise.”
They all turned at the sound of Cooper’s scathing comment.
Poppy tensed. “He’s more of a non-fiction guy,” she said quickly, trying to smile it away, but Cooper shook his head.
“I don’t have any problem with fiction, but it should be based in reality, right?” He looked around the table. “People just don’t act that way. The books should carry a warning: ‘Will give you delusions of romance.’ It’s setting you up for disappointment.”
“You mean I am,” Poppy said clearly.
There was an awkward pause, and then Cooper looked away. “You said it.” He drained his beer and got to his feet. “Bar’s in the back, right?” he asked, then walked away before she could answer.
Humiliation flushed hot on her cheeks. Poppy wished the floor would open and swallow her up.