Chapter 6 Now
Now
Later that night, Lucas meets me outside the bookstore as planned. He’s leaning against the iron railing with a coffee in each hand.
“I come bearing caffeine and emotional support,” he says, offering one to me.
I take it gratefully. “I think I’m okay this time.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Just okay?”
“Better than last time. Let’s call it nervous but functioning.”
“Progress.”
Beacon Hill Books looks like something out of a movie—four narrow stories tucked between two brownstones, with greenery planted perfectly in window boxes and a tiny tunnel to the right that leads to the café and patio.
A few early guests linger near the entrance, flipping through books and sipping lattes in branded paper cups.
It’s the kind of place that makes you want to write a novel, even if you’ve never had the urge before.
The patio out back is already set up, string lights draped overhead and a few neat rows of folding chairs facing a small wooden podium. It’s charming, intimate, and makes me feel less terrified. Only slightly though.
“I feel like I should be more excited,” I admit. “But mostly I just want this to be over.”
Lucas sips his drink. “Is that a good sign or a bad one?”
“I’m trying not to overthink it. Which means, of course, I’m overthinking it.”
“Sounds about right.” He nods toward the two chairs set up in the front. “You ready?”
I pause, then say, “Not even a little.”
He smiles. “Well, at least you’re honest.”
The staff walks me through the plan while Lucas claims a seat in the back this time, giving me my space to take in the empty chairs that will soon be filled with readers.
I take my spot behind the table where stacks of my books are on display.
The sight alone should make me proud, but all I feel is panicked.
After last time, I don’t trust that tonight won’t derail again.
That someone won’t ask the wrong question.
That I won’t freeze or say something weird or start crying in front of strangers who just came for a signed book and a free sticker.
The crowd starts to file in, one by one filling the empty chairs that sit in front of me, and then we begin.
At first, it’s fine. I talk about my writing process, my inspiration, the characters, and my parents’ Lucky Charms story.
Everyone nods along, laughs in the right places, and I almost start to relax.
Then a girl in the third row raises her hand. She looks about twenty, with blond hair streaked with pink and wide eyes that suggest she’s not just curious, she’s desperately hoping for an answer, the right answer.
“Do you believe in soulmates?” she asks. “Since the book’s based on your parents and all. I don’t know—it just feels like something you’d have to believe in to write something like this.”
It’s not a cruel question, just a wanting one, but I feel myself freeze anyway.
I could say yes. Or I could say something vague and harmless like I believe in timing.
Instead, my mind goes exactly where I don’t want it to go: Cole.
To how sure I once was that we were soulmates.
To how I kept convincing myself that what we had was meant to be, even as it quietly fell apart.
The honest answer is that I used to. Now?
I’m not so sure. I want to, but there’s a difference between writing about soulmates and believing in them.
The cool September air suddenly feels heavy. I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out.
Lucas speaks up from the back. “She has that scene in the middle, remember? The one where the main character Charlotte says something about how soulmates aren’t always the loud, obvious kind. Sometimes they’re the quiet, steady person who makes you feel like yourself.”
The crowd turns toward him. He gives a casual shrug, like he doesn’t mean to interrupt, he is just filling in the space.
“I remember because when I read it, I had to go back and reread it twice,” he adds. “It was one of those lines that just sticks with you.”
I let out a soft laugh. “That’s the goal, right? One quotable line per book?”
The girl nods, satisfied. Someone else raises a hand, and the moment moves on. But the weight of his answer still lingers. I didn’t realize Lucas remembered that line.
Cole never even read the book.
Not the early drafts, not the acknowledgments, not the scene that nearly broke me to write. He said he wanted to wait until it was published—until it was “real.” But now that it is, he’s gone. Maybe that was his plan the entire time.
I sit up straighter, smiling as the next reader begins to speak. It’s muscle memory now. Smile, nod, answer, and pretend I’m not still thinking about someone who couldn’t give two shits about me.
About twenty minutes later, the evening is a blur as we move into the signing portion of the night. It isn’t until I sit down behind the table that I realize Margo never showed up. I was so caught up in my own nerves that I’d completely forgotten about her.
I glance over at Lucas. He’s leaning against the wall now, half watching the line, half scrolling through his phone like he’s trying not to look like he’s waiting.
His jaw is set in that resigned way it gets when he’s disappointed but trying to play it off.
I wonder if she texted, if she said anything, or if he’s just used to this by now.
The first girl in line is no more than sixteen, clutching my book to her chest the way I used to with the baby blanket that I slept with until I went off to college.
“I read this book in a day,” she confesses, her voice trembling.
“I’m not really a reader, but your books are different.
I feel like I’m in the story and that your characters are my friends. ”
I thank her and tell her how much that means to me as I sign her book with a personal message: Friends are exactly what I hope my characters become for you guys.
As she steps away, another girl approaches with a shy smile. “I drove two hours to get here,” she says, handing me her copy. “Your stories have helped me through a tough breakup. It’s like they remind me that there’s always hope, you know?”
I wish I knew.
“I needed to hear that tonight.” I offer some vulnerability as I smile. “Thanks for driving so far.”
A few more conversations follow, each different and special in their own way but still connected.
Stories of how my book touched lives, sparked joy, and offered an escape.
I keep thinking back to the girl who told me my stories got her through her breakup.
If I can’t get myself through mine, how am I supposed to write for all the people out there who feel the same way as her?
The line starts to dwindle as the bookstore staff folds up chairs and thanks people on their way out. Lucas is the last person to approach the table, Margo’s book in hand for me to sign.
“Let me guess, stuck at work?” I ask, taking her copy from him.
Lucas nods. “Yeah, she said one of the partners asked her and a few colleagues to stay a little late, but she’ll meet us at dinner.”
Sure she will. I can’t help but doubt as I gather my things.
The walk to the restaurant is a short one, which I’m thankful for—fall in Boston is much different from what we refer to as “summer 2.0” in North Carolina.
We get seated at a booth near the kitchen, Lucas setting Margo’s signed book on the table next to her empty place setting, and both start scanning the wine list. Lucas orders a bottle of red for the table.
Minutes later, as the server sets the bottle down, she smiles. “Date night with books, wine, and good food is my kind of evening.”
Before I can correct her, Lucas grins. “You hear that, Ains? We’re setting the standard for date nights now.”
I roll my eyes, taking a sip of my wine. “Please, if this was a date, you’d have actually dressed for the occasion.”
Lucas glances down at his navy T-shirt and jeans. “Wow. Brutal. You know I own a cashmere sweater, right?”
“Do you though? Have I ever seen it? Or is this like the way you claim that you could run a marathon if you wanted to, but you just don’t want to?”
“See, this is why you’re single. Too many trust issues.”
I kick his shin lightly under the table, laughing despite being slightly caught off guard by the comment. It still seems a little too soon to be making jokes about my breakup, but I guess if I’d expect it from anyone, it would be him.
Lucas has always been the person who doesn’t tiptoe around me, at least not in the obvious ways.
He knows how to make me laugh when I need it, how to shift the subject when I’m in my head, how to let silence sit without making it awkward.
He’s one of the only people who can call me out without making me feel judged, though sometimes I wish he’d be more forthright about his own feelings and situation.
Not just smooth things over or make everyone else feel okay.
But that’s always been our rhythm: easy, familiar, like slipping into your favorite hoodie, which is fraying at the sleeves, a little faded, but still the first thing you reach for every time.
For a second, I think he’s going to change the subject to something, anything other than my love life, career, or whatever else I seem to be failing at.
But then Lucas leans forward, resting his forearms on the table with that familiar look—the one that usually means I’m about to hear something weirdly insightful for a guy in his mid-twenties who can exclusively live off ground turkey and whose favorite movie is now and forever School of Rock.
“So,” he says, dragging it out. “I was thinking about what you said earlier. About not wanting to dwell on Cole or write about your past.”
I glance at him warily. “Okay…”
“What if you tried dating apps?” he says too casually. “Just for inspiration. You know, to mix things up. Talk to someone new. Shift the energy.”
I blink. “You want me to Tinder my way through writer’s block?”