33. Alice
ALICE
I press my forehead to my knees, pulling my legs tight against my chest. There are a thousand things I need to tend to before opening next Friday, but my body is too heavy to lift, my mind too foggy to think clearly.
My parents finally left after a forty-eight hour vigil that made me feel twelve instead of twenty-two.
Every fear I harbored that my parents would find this place—and me—lacking came to fruition.
The entire time I was working on this dream, a small voice in my mind whispered that I’d never pull it off.
And when it came down to it, I didn’t. Because I had a concrete goal to have this place operational by the soft opening, and it wasn’t.
My parents saw that, and they held a spotlight to the shortcoming the same way they have my whole life.
I am a constant disappointment.
They’ve called their realtor to get quotes on the house that was never quite a bookstore, and insisted that I’ll fulfill my potential in Shreveport.
With us to supervise your every move, they didn’t add, but undoubtedly thought.
If I ever had any misconceptions, I now know exactly where I stand in their eyes.
I wish I could say the same about Colt and me.
I tilt my head, pressing my cheek to my knees, and peer out the side window. The sky is an oppressive, wet gray; late afternoon already, and November at long last. A month I’ve counted down to since the defining moment Colt said, his hand raised in the air, Let’s fucking go, kid.
I close my eyes, and it’s a mistake. Because behind my lids, Saturday night repeats itself. I see my dad and Warren yelling at each other. I see Warren shoving Grant. And I see Colt—my Colt, steady as an oak tree—exchanging blows with his own brother.
And then I see him walking away from me in the dark.
And while I know it’s insecurity talking, it felt like—when Colt left—he was choosing his past, his brother, over any future with me.
Like he’d seen who my parents really were and picked those who were familiar, however flawed, over those who’d outright reject him.
After the horrible thing my parents accused him of, I can’t blame him for disappearing.
My body jerks at a sharp knock on the door. For a moment, I remain still, boneless. But then I force myself to my feet, body filled with lead, and trudge toward the front door. When I open it and see Colt standing on the porch, a smile flickers on my face, heavy, but there.
He wears a canvas jacket, collar turned up against the damp chill. He looks tired too, his jaw shadowed with stubble, eyes rimmed red in a way that says he hasn’t slept any better than I have.
“Hey.” His voice is low, almost cautious.
“Hey.” I push open the screen door, hinges creaking mournfully. “Come in.”
He steps inside but doesn’t move far from the threshold. His eyes sweep over the room, but it’s not unfinished tasks he’s seeking. Instead, it looks like he’s searching for physical evidence of he and Warren’s altercation.
“Your parents are gone?” he asks, confirming what I texted him earlier.
I wrap my arms around my middle. “Yeah. Left like…thirty minutes ago.”
Colt nods, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets and gazing down at his boots.
The silence between us isn't the comfortable kind we share while working on the bookshop. This one feels combustible, like something is about to be said that will undo everything we’ve built.
I want to throw my arms around him. I want to kiss him.
No. I want him to do those things to me.
When he doesn’t, I say, unable to stand still a moment longer, “I was about to feed the girls.” I point toward the back door.
Colt’s shoulders drop an inch, relief relaxing his features. He needs a task as badly as I do. Something to do with his hands. “I’ll help.”
We walk through the kitchen and out the back door without another word.
The backyard is spongy from last night’s rain, the grass transitioning into a dull, dormant brown.
I breathe in the smell of smoke from a neighbor’s chimney.
It nearly makes me smile, imagining a fire in the bookshop’s hearth, stockings and twinkling Christmas lights hung on the mantle.
The hens charge over, legs practically pinwheeling because they know what we’re good for.
I toss feed onto the ground and then sprinkle out a few mealworms from the treat bag.
Pickles, Mabel, and Dixie peck in a flurry of motion, trying to outeat the other two.
Pickles pecks Dixie, scaring her off from the last mealworm.
Leaning down, Colt reaches for Dixie. She flattens her back, feet tap dancing on the ground, and he lifts her into his arms. He holds out his hand, and I sprinkle a couple of dried mealworms into his palm. Dixie pecks at them when he offers them to her.
Colt transitions to petting her, his eyes fixed on the docile hen. “Alice, I can’t begin—” He sighs sharply, the air huffing out in a faint cloud. And then he shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, Alice.”
My heart pounds in my chest and a tingling sensation shoots across my skin. Is this it? Is this apology a preamble to the end? “For what, exactly?” I ask. And what I mean is—are you apologizing for what happened between us, or for what happened Saturday night?
Colt finally looks up at me, his expression grieved. “For all of it. For ruining your party. For upsetting your family and embarrassing you in front of your friends. You worked so hard, and I screwed it all up for you.”
I take Dixie from his arms. He lets her go easily, and I set the hen on the grass where she dashes back to the other two.
“You didn’t mess it up, Colt. There wouldn’t have been a party without you.
” I can feel my voice rising, panic setting in because I don’t like how he’s looking at me.
Like he’s decided something, and won’t change his mind.
“My parents were out of line. And trust me, I told them so.”
“They did what any parents would’ve done.” Colt’s voice is terrifyingly calm. “They were scared I’d done something to you. And they saw the way Warren behaved and remembered that…” He shrugs here. “That we come from the same place.”
“But they know you,” I snap, anger striking through me.
“They had no right to accuse you of…anything. And honestly? Maybe Warren was right. Maybe they only gave you a place to stay because you helped Grant. My brother would’ve flunked his sophomore year if it weren’t for you.
So maybe they did have an agenda.” I turn my face away, fuming. “I wouldn’t put it past them.”
Colt grabs my arms, his grip light but reassuring.
“Hey. No. Don’t turn on them. They’re good people doing what they think is right.
They shouldn’t have left you alone when you were in high school.
That pisses me off. But they did help me.
That happened. Regardless of what their motivations were, they gave me a place to stay.
They fed me, clothed me. They treated me like I was… one of their own kids.”
Colt releases me and steps back, the sudden absence of his touch jarring. He shifts his weight, folds his arms across his chest, and looks past me toward the horizon, like he’s working up the nerve to say something. “I, uh… I got an offer on my mom’s place.”
The words hit me square in the chest, nearly taking me off my feet. I knew this was coming, but I’d pushed it from my mind. Thinking about it—him selling, him leaving—was far too complicated to dwell on.
I manage a small nod.
“I still want to finish the bookshop,” Colt continues quickly. “If you want me to. The deal on my mom’s place won’t close for a few weeks anyway.”
I turn away, pretending to check the latches on the chicken coop. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Because crying would mean this is really happening. That he was serious when he said he’s only here until his mom’s house sells.
I’d allowed myself to believe…
I straighten and turn back, forcing a smile onto my face. “Of course I want you to help finish the bookshop,” I say, injecting lightness into my tone. “We started this together. We need to finish it together.”
Colt attempts to return the smile. But it’s no more convincing than mine is.
“And then,” I say, forcing the words out. “And then you’ll go back to Inwood. That was your plan, right?”
Colt glances at the hens, his jaw clenched. “That was the plan.”
He seems upset. I think he seems upset. But I don’t know why. Does he regret us? Does he want more of us? I wish he’d say something!
Anxiety twists my insides. I suddenly envision Birds Bookstore opening.
I envision running it alone, with him three hundred miles away.
No more waking up to his knock at my front door.
No more cold pizza dinners, sawdust in our hair, Brooks & Dunn on the record player.
No more stolen moments beside the house.
Or in the shower. Or in my bed, his hands on me. My lips on his.
How can I bear losing him after I’ve learned what it’s like to be with him?
“Hey,” I say, pulse racing. “Let’s go to the river.”
Colt’s brow furrows. “The river? Now?”
I grab his hands, gripping them. They’re cold, but I squeeze his fingers anyway, afraid to let go. “Yeah. Right now. Just like we used to. Like we did when you first got back. Let’s just go.”
Colt’s expression softens. “Alice—”
“Come on, Colt.” I hear the naked plea in my voice. But I don’t care what I sound like. I only care about keeping him. I already lost my parents’ approval that I dared hope for. And I might lose this bookshop if it doesn’t come together by next weekend. Losing Colt too? It’s inconceivable.
“Please,” I continue, “I’ll just change into my tennis shoes. It’ll take two minutes.” I shuffle backward toward the house, a smile—practically a real one—stretches across my face. “Say yes.”
Colt watches me for a long beat, wearing an expression I can’t quite read. Finally, he lets out a breathy laugh and nods. “Okay. Yes.”
I rush inside, taking the stairs two at a time. If I stop moving, the reality of everything will catch up to me, pin me to the floor. So I outrun it. I yank on my sneakers in a flash and fly back down the stairs.
Outside, he holds the truck door open for me, and I slide in, a smell I’ve grown to love greeting me—old leather mixed with the peppermint gum he keeps in the cupholder.
Colt climbs into the driver’s side and cranks the engine.
The truck rumbles to life, and he shifts into reverse, throwing one arm over the back of the seat as he looks through the rear window.
The muscles in his forearm flex, and for a second, I just watch him, memorizing his face, his mannerisms. My hands move nervously in my lap, twisting and untwisting, as I tell myself over and over again that he hasn’t left. He’s right here.
And that I won’t be left alone.
Again.