Chapter 5
Cavil
The bell above the door chimed as I stepped inside, and immediately, the warmth of The Book Nook wrapped around me like a memory I hadn’t realized I missed.
The soft glow of amber lighting spilled across weathered wood floors, flickering against the shadows cast by leaning bookshelves.
The place smelled like cinnamon and old paper—comfort layered over time.
Callie stood behind the counter, arms folded across her chest like a shield. She didn’t move when I came in. Just glanced up and met my eyes with a look that didn’t quite welcome me.
“You’re on time,” she said, cool and flat.
“Trying to make a good impression.” I kept my voice light. Didn’t match the weight sitting low in my gut, but it was the best I could do.
“Hmm. Too bad I already know you.” She turned her attention back to whatever she was organizing. The silence between us wasn’t hostile, just taut—like a rope pulled too tight between two people trying not to look down at what lies between them.
"Do you?" I quipped.
Both our phones buzzed at the same time. The vibration against the counter felt louder than it should’ve.
I glanced down. Holiday Delivery Route Begins Tomorrow Morning.
Callie let out a breath. Not annoyed—just tired. “Guess we’re really doing this,” she said, walking around the counter without waiting for a response.
I followed her down a narrow aisle flanked by mismatched bookshelves. She didn’t look back.
“This is the community room.” She pointed to a cozy space tucked into the back. “You’ll have privacy. Coffee’s usually out by the cabinet. We’ve got folding chairs if your guys need more seating.”
She moved like she was reciting a routine, like she’d already given this tour in her head and just wanted it over with. Still, she paused at a table in the corner stacked with wrapped books tied in twine.
“Donations,” she said shortly. “They go out this week.”
She turned as if to end things there.
I didn’t say anything right away. Didn’t plan to, honestly. But something in her posture—the slight slope of her shoulders, the way she kept her hands busy even though there was nothing left to adjust—made the words slip out.
“Thanks… for letting us use the space,” I said quietly. “It means more than you know.”
That stopped her. Just a flicker—a hesitation, a glance in my direction. The barest crack in the armor.
She didn’t answer. Just busied herself with a crooked holiday display like she hadn’t heard me. But I saw her fingers twitch, just a little, like she had.
It wasn’t gratitude I was hoping for. Just recognition. That despite everything between us, maybe there was still a sliver of mutual understanding left.
The silence stretched, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt like standing on the edge of something we both weren’t ready to face.
Then she looked up, brows pinched, voice softer than before. “You think they’ll be okay?” she asked. “Your group?”
I nodded. “They’ll show up. They always do. Showing up is the easy part.”
Her eyes searched mine, like she was trying to figure out if I meant more than just the group. Maybe I did.
But I didn’t say anything else.
And neither did she.
Callie gave a small nod, slow, uncertain. Like she wanted to believe me but wasn’t quite ready to commit to that belief.
“They’ll appreciate this place,” I added, my voice steady even as something twisted low in my chest. “Somewhere quiet. Familiar. It makes a difference.”
She didn’t respond right away, and the silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just weighted, like everything else between us. Her presence wrapped around me the same way the smell of old books did—faintly nostalgic, and dangerously easy to fall into again.
Then, after a moment, she spoke.
“If you ever need anything else… just ask.” The words were careful. Too careful. Like she wasn’t sure whether they’d come out as an offer or a warning.
I met her eyes and nodded once. “Will do.”
It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Not a promise, not forgiveness—just a thread stretched across a ravine we hadn’t figured out how to cross yet.
Her shoulders eased, barely noticeable unless you were watching for it—and I was.
But we both knew we were still standing in the wreckage of something that had never been fully built to begin with. Whatever ease passed between us now wasn’t peace. It was truce.
“I guess we should start prepping then,” she said, breaking the stillness.
“Right,” I murmured, pushing off the shelf.
But I didn’t move right away. Neither did she. The air inside the shop had grown warmer, thicker somehow. As if the walls themselves remembered what we used to be. What we never really had the courage to name.
Outside, the light had begun to fade—casting long shadows across the hardwood floor, catching on her hair, her profile. For a second, I let myself look. Just long enough to feel it.
Then I turned away—before I could say something I’d regret.
Before the past clawed its way into the present and made a mess of everything all over again.
Snow drifted in lazy spirals as I climbed into the van, the cold biting at my knuckles even through my gloves.
The engine rumbled low beneath me, a steady hum in the otherwise quiet morning.
A moment later, the passenger door creaked open and Callie slipped inside, bundled in a wool coat and knit hat, her breath fogging the windshield.
We didn’t speak right away.
She adjusted her seatbelt, then tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I, uh… I think I know the best route,” she offered, her voice light but careful. “We’ll avoid the hills—take the backroads past the old post office.”
I glanced at her. “I’ve got the GPS pulled up.”
“I know. I just thought—” She broke off with a small shrug, folding her hands in her lap. “Never mind.”
The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. Just stiff. Like trying to sit still in a new pair of boots.
I eased the van onto the snow-covered street, tires crunching over the ice like broken glass underfoot. The heater wheezed to life, barely cutting the chill. Beside me, Callie sat bundled up, fingers fidgeting with her gloves like she couldn’t sit still if she tried.
“The bakery on Main used to hand out free donuts on Fridays,” she said suddenly, voice light. “Mr. Kemp would show up at dawn and take five. I think that’s why they stopped.”
I didn’t answer. Just kept my eyes on the road, one hand steady on the wheel, the other tightening in my lap.
Undeterred, she kept going. “Mrs. Dalrymple—our next stop—still puts out milk for the feral cats. They never come, but she keeps doing it, anyway. Habit, I guess.”
A breath escaped me—half sigh, half something else. “You always do this?”
She blinked. “Do what?”
“Fill silence with facts.”
“I talk when I’m nervous,” she admitted, glancing out the window like she regretted saying anything at all.
I didn’t respond right away. Just watched the frost gather in the corners of the windshield.
“Clearly,” I muttered, but the corner of my mouth twitched before I could stop it.
She didn’t see it. Probably for the best.
I didn’t say much. I didn’t really know what to say. She was clearly trying, and I was… not good at this kind of thing.
“You nervous?”
She hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. You?”
I didn’t answer. Just gripped the wheel tighter and focused on the road ahead.
The route was rough—slick turns, poor visibility, a wrong turn that cost us fifteen minutes. She pointed left when I went right. We snapped at each other, quick and sharp, and then fell back into silence that wasn’t quite comfortable but wasn’t entirely cold, either.
The road ahead glistened with packed snow and black ice, a stretch of silence broken only by the growl of the engine and the occasional thump of slush against the undercarriage. I gripped the wheel tighter, jaw clenched, the cabin too warm for how cold I felt inside.
“Should’ve taken that last right,” Callie said, not looking at me—just frowning at her phone like it had betrayed her.
“I’m following the GPS,” I muttered, sharper than I meant to be.
She gave a noncommittal shrug. “Right, well, it doesn’t always know better.”
“Neither do you.”
She let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh in another life. “Funny.”
But it wasn’t. Not really. Just another reminder of how we used to talk without biting and now couldn’t stop drawing blood.
After a few more tense turns and a brief slip that had my stomach lurching, we finally pulled up in front of a squat little duplex tucked between frostbitten trees. The driveway had been barely cleared, just enough for us to park without getting stuck.
“This is it,” Callie said brightly, unbuckling before I even shifted into park.
She was already halfway to the porch by the time I climbed out. I kept my hands buried in my coat pockets, letting the cold bite at my skin—it felt easier to focus on that than whatever was stirring under my ribs.
Two people stood waiting: a small girl practically vibrating with excitement and an older woman who offered a patient, knowing smile.
“Books!” the girl squealed as Callie approached, her face lit up like Christmas morning.
Callie dropped into a crouch, the box of books balanced easily in her hands. “We brought you some new stories,” she said, her voice soft in a way I hadn’t heard in years.
The kid launched herself at her, tiny arms wrapping around Callie’s waist with zero hesitation. Callie froze for a heartbeat, then melted into the hug like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I stayed a few paces back, boots crunching in the snow, watching it unfold. No sarcasm. No armor. Just her—completely present, completely open.
“Do you like reading?” she asked once the hug loosened.
“Yes! I love dragons!” the girl beamed.
Callie laughed, light and real. “Then I have just the thing.” She sifted through the box and pulled out a book with a green dragon on the cover, handing it over like it was a treasure.
I couldn’t look away. Something inside me twisted—hard and low. I’d come here to help, to do something useful, something quiet. But instead I stood there, gut punched by the sight of Callie glowing in the winter light, showing kindness without effort.
And the worst part?
I felt it.
Even after everything—I felt it.
It gutted something deep in my chest—sharp and unfamiliar. Admiration, maybe. Regret, definitely. I didn’t like the way it crept in, gnawing around the edges of whatever careful detachment I’d built up since I walked back into this town.
Why the hell did seeing her like that—on her knees in the snow, laughing with a kid, handing over stories like they were magic—make something stir? Like maybe there was more to her than I’d let myself remember. Like maybe I’d been wrong about the way we left things.
I shook it off, like brushing snow off my sleeves. Useless thoughts. Dangerous ones.
The grandmother thanked us more times than I could count, her voice warm despite the cold that crept through our coats.
Callie stayed there, still kneeling in the snow, chatting with the kid like they were old friends.
And for that moment—just that breath of stillness—it was like the rest of the world fell away.
No tension. No past. Just the three of them framed against the white-dusted trees, and me, standing off to the side like I didn’t belong in the picture.
When they finally started back toward me, Callie dusted off her coat with one hand, tucking her hair behind her ear with the other.
A snowflake clung to her scarf, and she didn’t notice.
My eyes lingered longer than they should’ve.
She moved with this easy kind of grace—like she belonged to this place, like she didn’t even realize people were still watching.
“Nice work back there,” I said as evenly as I could when she reached me.
She gave a small shrug, but the smile she tried to hide pulled at the corner of her mouth. “Kids love books,” she said, like it was obvious. Like that explained everything.
I nodded, but something shifted under the surface of that exchange. Something quiet. Something I didn’t want to name.
“Let’s keep moving,” I muttered, dropping my gaze before it could give anything away. I turned back toward the van without waiting.
She followed, climbing into the passenger seat again like she’d been doing this with me for years instead of hours.
As I started the engine and pulled away from the curb, I kept my eyes on the road. But the knot in my chest stayed there, tight and persistent. I didn’t look at her again until we hit a pothole that jarred the van and made her curse under her breath.
It was stupid, how that sound made me smile. Even worse, how badly I wanted to hear it again.