18. Juliette #2
His mouth twitches. “Of course.”
“Don’t smirk.” I shove the stack at his chest. “Romance pays the bills.”
“I’m not smirking.” He takes the books, his hands covering mine for a beat too long before I pull away.
“You’re absolutely smirking.”
“I’m appreciating the irony.” He backs toward the rear of the store. “Where does romance go?”
“Back corner. Private alcove.”
“Private alcove?” He raises an eyebrow, pausing at the entrance to the nook.
“For readers who want to browse undisturbed.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you.” He disappears into the alcove, and I hear the soft thud of books being placed on shelves.
When he emerges, he’s wiping dust from his hands. “Done.”
“The ladder.” I point. “I need the top shelf.”
“You can’t reach the top shelf.”
“I can with the ladder.”
“The ladder I was just on?”
“Yes.”
He steps aside with exaggerated gallantry. I climb up, grateful for the distance - for the excuse to look at shelves instead of at him.
“Hand me the poetry collection.”
He passes up the books. Our fingers don’t touch this time, and somehow that’s worse. The deliberate avoidance is its own kind of contact.
“Higher shelf or lower?”
“Higher.”
I stretch for the top shelf. The ladder wobbles. My stomach drops.
His hands are on my waist before I register the danger - steadying me, holding me in place, his grip firm through the fabric of my shirt.
“I’ve got you.” His voice is close. Too close.
His hands span my waist, thumbs bracketing my hipbones, and he is not holding the ladder at all anymore, and we both know it. The ladder is fine. The ladder was always going to be fine. I’m the structure in question.
“I’m fine.”
“You almost fell.”
“The ladder shifted.” I grip the shelf, knuckles white.
“And I caught you.”
“You caught the ladder.”
“I caught you.” His thumbs press against my hipbones, and heat spreads from the contact.
“You can let go now.”
“You said that already.”
“I’m saying it again with less conviction.”
Step down. Step away. Don’t-
“Let go.”
“Are you stable?”
“I’m stable.”
He releases me and steps back, his hands falling to his sides like they’ve forgotten what to do. I climb down with as much dignity as I can muster, which isn’t much.
“We should finish shelving.”
“Juliette-”
“The store opens next week.” I grab another carton, hugging it to my chest like a shield. “There’s a lot left to do.”
“Can we talk about what just-”
“Nothing happened.”
“That’s not true.” He moves closer, and I retreat until my back hits the shelving unit. Books press into my spine.
“It’s all I’m willing to discuss.”
“Why?”
“Because discussing it leads places I’m not ready for.”
“What places?” He plants a hand on the shelf beside my head, not caging me, just there. Close.
“You know what places.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because saying it makes it real.” I duck under his arm, putting the carton between us. “And I’m not ready for it to be real. I’m not ready to forgive you. I’m not ready to trust you. I’m not ready to-”
“To what?”
“To want you.”
The confession detonates in the quiet room.
“You do, though.” His voice is barely audible. “Want me.”
“That’s the problem.” I set down the carton with a thud. “Because wanting you and trusting you aren’t the same thing. And I’ve spent six years confusing them.”
He takes a step toward me. Stops himself. His hands clench at his sides.
“What would it take?” The question scrapes out of him. “For you to trust me again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is there anything I could do?”
“I don’t know.” The words come out louder than I intend, echoing off the half-filled shelves. “All I know is that I’m standing in my bookstore surrounded by your apologies, and I still don’t know if they’re enough.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he moves to the door and grips the frame, his knuckles going white against the wood.
“Then let me keep trying.” He doesn’t turn around. “I’ll keep answering the notes. I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep doing whatever it takes for as long as it takes.”
“Zachary-”
“I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight.” He looks back over his shoulder, and his eyes are dark with something I can’t name. “I’m asking you to let me keep trying.”
The silence stretches.
Neither one of us moves toward the door.
Neither one of us moves at all.
The overhead lights hum. Outside, a truck downshifts on the hill and is gone. He stands at the door with his hand on the latch, and I stand by the carton with my arms full of poetry, and the whole shop holds its breath with us.
Then he opens the door - cold pours in off the water, sharp as a verdict - and steps out into it, and pulls it shut behind him, gentle as a man closing a book he isn’t finished with.
I put the poetry down.
I breathe.
That, I inform the empty shop, was the most dangerous nothing that has ever happened to me.
I close up slowly. Lights, thermostat, the ritual circuit of a shopkeeper who is stalling and knows it.
The answer-bookmarks go into my coat pocket - all of them, I don’t examine why, I’ve stopped examining why - and I walk home along the harbor with six years of his handwriting over my heart and the cold off the water keeping my face honest.