Chapter 12
"Sign here," Reyes says, tapping the line with his pen. The paper still smells like fresh toner.
"I'm not crying," I tell him as my throat tightens. I blink hard, take the pen, and steady the clipboard against my hip. My grip goes tight, then eases. I drag the tip across the line and sign.
He slides the paper back, presses his own signature down hard enough to leave an impression on the page beneath it.
"You're cleared," he says.
I take the sheet before he can decide to take it back.
The back hallway sits open behind him, bright and empty. The exit path is finally wide enough, with built-in storage along the wall for the overage that used to choke it, enough to satisfy anyone with a clipboard and a list.
I step past him, push the crash bar with my hip, watch the door swing out and back without catching. The new sprinkler heads gleam. The panel hums quietly where it should. Nothing sparks or smells wrong.
"You have no idea," I say.
He gives a short nod, already backing toward the door. "City will log it this afternoon. You're good to go."
"Drive safe," I say, because that's the normal thing to say when you don't trust your voice with anything else.
He pushes through the crash bar, the door thudding once behind him. His boots fade down the alley, then the engine turns over and pulls away. The corridor holds steady without him, quiet and open.
I text Cordelia with my thumb still smudged in dust.
Me: CLEARED.
Her reply hits before I can pocket my phone. A row of emojis floods the screen, all celebration and zero clarity, then a voice note drops in under it. I tap it open and lift the phone to my ear.
"I told you," she yells, loud enough that I pull the phone an inch away. "I told you, I told you."
"You did," I say into the empty passage, like she can hear me through the recording.
She keeps going, my name somewhere in the middle of it, her voice bouncing off whatever office she has claimed today.
I let it run, bracing my shoulder against the wall, the drywall cool through my shirt, and slide the back of my head against it until it rests there.
"We are reopening," I say quietly, testing the sentence out loud.
Cordelia whoops in my ear like I said it directly to her.
I huff a breath that almost turns into a laugh and clamp it down before it gets away from me.
"Okay," I tell her. "That's enough with you, Deely!"
I turn the phone off mid-sentence and stare at the dark screen for a second before pocketing my phone.
I carry the clearance form to the office, set it on my desk where I'll file it later, and press my palm over it once like I'm making sure it stays real before I turn and head over to the pop-up.
The chime over the pop-up door rings when I push it open.
"We are cleared!" I tell the empty store.
It sounds better said out loud.
I find a blank sheet of paper behind the counter and drag a marker across it, writing in block letters: CLOSED FOR THREE DAYS. REOPENING MONDAY AT OUR ORIGINAL LOCATION, 413 HARBOR VIEW DRIVE.
"Three days," I say. I pause with the marker in my hand, read the line back once, then go over MONDAY again, slower, pressing until the letters stand out.
I grab the tape from under the register, tear off four strips, and fix each corner to the glass. The top left lifts in the harbor breeze that sneaks under the door. I press it down again and smooth the paper flat with my palm until it holds.
"Stay," I tell it.
I reach for the door sign, set to CLOSED, and nudge it anyway, lining the edge with the frame like it matters.
My fingers stay there a second longer than they need to.
I'll soon say goodbye to the pop-up, not with regret, just with the solid feel of something I get to choose.
I let this feeling hang there like a win.
The day moves the way moving days do, which is to say it moves slower than it should and faster than it feels.
Shane arrives at 10:00 with an easy smile and immediately starts boxing hardcovers with the practiced efficiency I've come to rely on without ever deciding to trust. There's a difference, I understand now, between relying on a person and trusting them, and I've been conflating the two without examining the seam.
He's cheerful and methodical about packing. But he also makes three separate comments before noon about new security measures or building changes at the original store, framing each one as concern, each landing with slightly different phrasing, a variation of similar structural questions.
"Just want to make sure you're not carrying boxes through a tight space."
"Doesn't the egress requirement cover that corridor too?"
"Smart they certified the back route first."
I answer normally, "Yes, it's clear" and "the contractor signed off this morning," and file each one without letting anything reach my face.
By two o'clock the front shelves are half-cleared and the romance and YA sections are boxed. Shane loads a cart and wheels it toward the backroom, and I stand in the middle of the store with a roll of packing tape in my hand.
Cordelia arrives at 5:30, drops her bag on the counter as if she's clocking in for a shift and looks around the store like she's taking inventory of a situation.
"How can I help?" she asks, sipping through the straw of her water bottle.
"Convenient of you to arrive at the end of the day." I look at the half-empty shelves, the taped boxes stacked by the door, and then back at her. "You want to sweep the already swept floor or supervise me while I finish the last ten minutes of work."
"Supervise feels right," she says, completely serious, like this is a role she trained for.
I press a strip of tape down harder than I need to on the nearest box, glance at her, and let the corner of my mouth lift. "Thanks, Deely."
She takes a long sip, nods once like she approves of the progress she had nothing to do with, and then immediately reads the room with the accuracy of someone who has known me since we were nine years old.
She waits until Shane has taken a cart load to the back again before steering me into the Texts You Shouldn't Have Sent section by the elbow and saying, quietly and without preamble, "You're in love with Callum, aren't you?"
I blink at her, caught off guard enough that I actually stop moving for a second.
Between the new Stein offer, moving back into the original building, and the quiet horror of realizing Shane might be tied to the acquisitions, my brain feels like it's holding six different disasters at once, so Cordelia asking about my feelings for Callum lands so far out of left field I almost laugh.
I shift a paperback into the box harder than necessary. "Did you drive all the way over here just to drop that on me without warning?"
She lifts one shoulder. "What made you think I haven't been wondering?"
I look at her. "How long have you been wondering?"
"Since you saw him again," she says. "Which is impressive considering I've barely had time to think about my own life."
"You've been busy," I say. "New client. Hand holding. You told me."
"Yeah," she says. "I've been busy. But I also know what you look like when you're busy."
I reach for another book, line it up with the stack, and slide it into the box. "I've been a little occupied myself," I say. "In case you missed the part where I'm in danger of losing my bookstore."
"No," she says, flat and immediate. "That's not it."
I roll my eyes because Cordelia always thinks she's right.
I look back down at the box, adjust the edges of the stack that don't need adjusting, and let out a breath. "I'm in a situation."
"A situation where you are in love with him?"
I look at the spines of seventeen drama novels and don't answer.
Cordelia doesn't have the mercy to stop pushing. She leans her hip against the shelf and watches me pack like she's waiting for a confession I'm not planning to give.
"Stop processing and start deciding," she says.
"I've decided to move my store back from this temporary space to the building I own that's now fully fire compliant." I snort, dragging a stack of paperbacks closer. "And I'm deciding to finish this box."
"I once spent four months deciding whether I was in love with my dentist," she says, like this is a reasonable comparison. "By the time I figured it out he moved to Phoenix."
I look up. "Deely, that's not the same situation."
"The dental coverage alone," she says.
"Cordelia."
She pushes off the shelf, steps closer, and nudges the box with her foot like she's testing how full it is. "This box will be here tomorrow. Let him bring you takeout tonight. Or even better, go to him."
I reach for the tape, tear a strip with my teeth, and seal the box. "I have things to do."
I stand there with my hand still on the box and feel it, the fact that she's right, that none of this has to be finished tonight, and I'm only pretending it does.
"Shane!" I call towards the back.
He wheels the cart back into the front room. "Yeah?"
I grab the tape then stop, setting the roll down on the counter, and wipe my hands on my jeans. "Let's pick this back up tomorrow."
He looks around at the half-packed shelves, then back at me, easy as always. "Works for me."
"Eight," I say. "Early start?"
"Sure thing," he agrees.
Cordelia nods like this was always the plan and grabs her bag off the counter. "Look at you, making healthy decisions."
"That's my running mantra," I say, reaching for the light switch.
She stops halfway to the door and turns back, squinting at me like she's trying to confirm I haven't been replaced by a stranger. "Okay, who are you and what have you done with my best friend?"
Cordelia and Shane head out together, her pushing the door open with her hip and him holding it for her like he's always been the kind of person who would do that. The bell chimes and then the store settles.
I turn off the lights, check the lock twice, and stand outside the door for a second with my hand on the handle.