Chapter 13
Thirteen
“Do something you love, even if it kills you”
By the time I made it back to Tommo, I felt mostly human again.
The high from last night still buzzed just beneath my skin, like I’d been rewired overnight and my body didn’t quite know what to do with itself yet.
I kept brushing imaginary dust off my jeans, smoothing my sweater, tying and untying my ponytail. Breathe, Alicia, just breathe.
When I pushed through the front doors, Mia was already perched behind the reception desk, typing something aggressively into her computer. The second she looked up, she froze mid-keystroke. Her mouth curled slowly into the most diabolical grin I’d ever seen.
“Well, well, well,” she said, loud enough to make the IT guys snicker from their corner of the lobby. “Look who’s back with a new bounce in her step and a new I got laid glow on her face.”
“Mia,” I hissed under my breath, cheeks flaming. “We’re at work, can we sound like we’re doing work things for a minute?”
She ignored me, eyes narrowing like a bloodhound zeroing in.
“And what’s this?” She leaned over the counter dramatically, pretending to sniff. “New… perfume? Eau de Hot Mess in Love?”
I dropped my bag onto the counter with a thud.
“Stop.”
“Or what? You’ll murder me with kindness? Please. Spill it. Did someone finally water your cactus?”
I groaned and walked toward the printer, desperate for an escape. But Mia followed, relentless, whisper-shouting:
“At least tell me this: was it worth it?”
I turned, fixing her with my best glare, the one that usually worked on overenthusiastic ferry passengers and stubborn software glitches. Mia just raised an eyebrow, and finally I surrendered with a tiny nod, a micro-tilt of my head.
Her face lit up. She did a tiny victory shimmy and whispered, “Yesss. You deserve it, babe, and he seems to be working charms on you.”
I froze for a half-second too long. He? Had I said anything?
Given anything away? Mia caught the flicker in my eyes, but—to her immense credit—didn’t push.
Just winked, plopped a muffin into my hand like she knew I was famished, and I sauntered off toward the coffee machine, and then my desk, my safe haven.
I barely had time to recover when I spotted it.
A small, square Post-it note was carefully stuck to the corner of my monitor. The handwriting was neat, slanted slightly to the right. Familiar. “Terrace. 11:30 a.m. Find me, girl. -?”
My heart thumped once, hard. Then again.
I glanced around: no one was paying attention.
Tom was locked in his office, yelling about the launch of his new carless ferry fleet.
I tucked the note into my notebook, finished printing the customer survey I had started, and made a move for the terrace.
It was almost empty, save for a few smokers huddling near the edge.
Paul stood near the far railing, facing the harbour and Gabriola Island in the distance, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his beige chinos, his head aimed slightly toward the sky like he was thinking about a place only he could see.
My chest tightened at the sight of him. Because he wasn’t just tall or beautiful or just sexy.
He looked… reachable, if I were brave enough.
I crossed the terrace slowly. When I got close enough to speak, he turned and smiled in that devastating way that made my knees forget their purpose.
“Alicia King,” he said softly.
“Paul Andersen,” I answered, voice barely above a whisper.
We stood there for a beat. Two. The noise of the city faded until there was only the rush of blood in my ears. He moved closer, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out something. A book, worn at the edges and dog-eared, and he held it out to me.
“Post Office.” By Charles Bukowski.
I stared at it, then at him.
“You’re giving me homework?” I teased, trying to keep my voice light even as my heart beat a new rhythm. Paul shrugged, smiling a little.
“Thought you’d appreciate some literature after all these pilot training manuals, navigation, and corporate travel brochures.”
I took the book carefully, feeling the soft leather of the cover under my fingers.
“Why this one?” I asked.
He hesitated, a rare thing for him. Then, slowly, he said:
“Because it’s about surviving when you don’t know what the hell you’re doing.”
“And finding something to love, even if it kills you. Bukowski’s drunk wisdom, not mine.”
And by that, he didn’t mean just Bukowski, post offices, or drunk narrators. Before I could speak, he leaned in slightly, his breath warm against my ear.
“And because I figured you deserved something… raw.”
Then he stepped back, letting the air fill between us again. I clutched the book tighter, my palm sweating against the paper. Paul’s smile turned wicked again, like he couldn’t resist.
“Also,” he added, “because Bukowski would’ve lost his fucking mind twice over if he’d ever seen you in that gold bra.”
I choked on a laugh, covering my mouth. Of course he’d hand me a man who wrote about chaos and loneliness, and girls who burned. Paul wasn’t afraid of wreckage; he ran toward it.
“Read it. Have a part of me in your bed. Think of me.” He winked, backing toward the stairwell.
And then he was gone.
That night, after the world finally stopped storming with emails and ferry schedules, and the vague guilt of returning to the real world, I curled into bed with the copy of Post Office he had given me. The cover was battered, the spine cracked, clearly loved, or at least well-used.
Inside, tucked between the first few pages, was a Post-it note written in his neat handwriting: “Let’s just lie around and make love and take walks and talk a little.”
No “Dear Alicia.”
No “Love, Paul.”
Just that.
I ran my thumb over the words. The quote hit me harder than I expected: the simplicity of it.
Because in those few clumsy, honest words, I could almost hear him: that dirty voice, that crooked smile, that hunger he tried so hard not to show unless he was already kissing it out against my skin.
I tucked the note back carefully and started reading.
Post Office wasn’t exactly high literature.
Actually, it was a mess: drunken, violent, bleakly hilarious.
Hank Chinaski—Bukowski’s alter ego—stumbled through life on the fumes of alcohol and bad decisions, treating women like distractions or punchlines, tearing through jobs like loose paper, laughing bitterly at everything resembling hope.
I blinked at the pages, amused and unsettled at once. Was this how Paul saw himself? Not as the man who kissed my scars with reverence, took me to jazz concerts, or who traced my trembles like maps he wanted to learn by heart… But as a cautionary tale? I texted him impulsively.
Me:
I’m halfway through your literary masterpiece.
Seconds later, the dots blinked.
Paul?:
And?
Me:
It’s… bad. Like impressively bad. Chinaski is a dumpster fire. This man needs therapy, and maybe some fiber in his diet.
A pause. Then his reply:
Paul?:
Finally. Someone sees it.
Bukowski wasn’t about writing pretty. He was about telling the ugly parts the way they are. Life’s a mess. You try to survive it without getting too bitter or too boring.
I stared at that message for a long moment. Not bitter. Not boring. Just surviving. It broke something open in my chest, something soft and sore and still healing.
Me:
Is that how you see yourself? The survivor?
Paul?:
Maybe. The survivor. The drunkard. The idiot. Depends on the night.
Me:
Tonight?
Paul?:
Tonight I’m a guy thinking about a girl too much.
And then, after a pause:
Paul?:
And maybe looking for excuses to see her again before morning.
I swallowed hard, my whole body humming, throat closing a little at the tenderness bleeding through his words.
Me:
Excuses like?
Paul?:
Excuses like ‘I left my brain somewhere between your thighs and I need to retrieve it immediately.’
Or just: ‘I miss you, Alicia’.
I laughed, covering my mouth against the sound.
Me:
How drunk are you?
Paul?:
Drunk enough to say what I mean.
Me:
And what do you mean?
Paul?:
Open the door, Alicia.
My heart jackknifed. I pushed off the covers, adrenaline spiking hard.
I tiptoed to the window, and sure enough, a lone figure was leaning casually against the lamppost across the street, looking up at my window.
This man. I threw on a sweatshirt over my crop top and shorts, and snuck downstairs, barefoot, pulse pounding so hard I thought it would echo against the hallway walls.
When I opened the door, he was already halfway up the driveway.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, rougher than usual. “I was hoping you wouldn’t call the cops.”
“I didn’t, but maybe the neighbors took care of that,” I said, with a flicker in my eyes.
He grinned that lopsided, boyish grin that caught me every time. The moonlight caught the mess of his hair, the shadows deepening the angles of his face, the curve of his mouth. He looked older.
“Can I come in?” he asked, unnecessarily.
“Just try not to break anything, my dad is a light sleeper.”
I stepped aside. He brushed past me, close enough that our arms touched, close enough that I could smell him: wine, rain, and sweat.
In the dim light of the hallway, he turned and backed me up against the closed door, hands framing my face but not touching yet, just there, trembling slightly.
“You want to make love,” he whispered. I could feel his breath so close to my lips. “Or you want to fuck? In any case, I can’t guarantee the quiet, Alicia.”
The words landed like a blow. I stared up at him, every nerve ending crackling.
“I…” My voice failed. I knew what he was really asking.
Do you want something slow, something tender, something that might break us both?
Or something wild, something desperate, something that would leave us raw and gasping?
I curled my fingers into the hem of his black leather jacket, tugging him closer until our bodies were flush.