Chapter 12
Fable
Oaks Folks
Tessa: Fabes, how’d the dinner go? Was Theo drooling?
Fable: Yes. Over a dog named Chewie.
Tessa: . . . you know that’s not what I meant.
Mom: What did you mean?
Tessa: Fabes looked hot last night. I told her Theo would need a towel for his drool.
Millie: Why didn’t we all get a fit check? I want to see!
Fable: The day I start sending you all outfit photos, you know I’ve been possessed.
Dad: fit check!
I slept horribly last night, and there are three words to blame.
That’s really good. Husky and deep. Vibrating across my skin.
All night, I tried to forget them. Tried to pretend they were about something completely different. Unsexy and boring. That’s really good broccoli casserole. That’s really good laundry detergent. That’s really good use of the Pythagorean theorem.
Turns out, however, anything can be made to sound sexy when I’m imagining Theo saying it softly, right against the shell of my ear.
That asshole is currently taking up way too much space in this house.
Acting like he lives here with music playing from his phone, a water bottle sitting on the kitchen counter, a bag of tools in the hallway, and a load of “fire clothes” in the dryer that he needed to wash before his first meeting this afternoon.
This is his first day of A-frame work, and he’s acting like he’s moving in.
Knocks is hanging out with him in the downstairs bedroom while he replaces the wet drywall with a few sheets I found in Gramps’s shed.
He talked me through cutting and replacing the first piece, but I made up an excuse about needing to clean the kitchen cabinets to avoid being in that room with him any longer.
Because if he says that’s really good one more goddamn time, I might lose it.
I’m four cabinets in, sweat beading on my temples from the effort, and at an especially creepy part in a podcast, when I turn to find Theo in the doorway.
“Shit,” I cry out, ripping my noise-canceling headphones off and standing.
The flannel he showed up in is long gone, leaving him in a navy T-shirt that’s barely containing his giant shoulders.
His hair’s a little mussed, curling at his ears, and he has a big smile on his face.
There’s a stack of pictures and a metal box in his hands—the same one I discovered during the bedroom flood.
“What are you doing?” My voice comes out harsh.
His smile falters. “I found these in the bedroom. Have you seen them?”
My heart squeezes. I don’t know what’s in that box, but I know it was Gramps’s. Which means it needs to be put back. Locked. Kept safe. Exactly where he had it.
I snatch the box and set it on the counter, then hold out my hand for the pictures. “Give them back. They’re not yours. Or mine.”
Theo watches me carefully as he hands them over. The second my fingers wrap around the photo paper, a sigh of relief rattles out of me. I press them to my chest and silence blankets the room.
After a few beats, Theo says, “Have you seen those photos?” His eyes are full of sympathy, like he can sense everything I’m not ready to say out loud. “You should look at them. They’re of Gramps and—”
“I can’t.” I press the pictures harder into me, like I might absorb them and end this conversation.
Too late, I realize that choice of words reveals more than I’d like. I don’t want to would be straightforward. But I can’t implies something different.
A difference Theo doesn’t miss. “Why can’t you?” he asks, tilting his head.
Because it would hurt too much. Because I’m afraid of how I would feel after. Because I have an unexplainable, looming sense that if I look, something will fundamentally change.
He steps closer, and my first instinct is to push him away. Create distance between us. I can feel something destabilizing inside me, and I don’t know what it is or how to stop it. I only know that he needs to be far away from it.
But when his fingers graze my elbows—the touch barely there, but warm—and his scent envelopes me—woodsy and sunshine and comfort—my heart settles a little. I draw in a slow breath.
“You’re in them.” His smile is gentle. “Just look.”
Emotion clogs my throat. Something burns behind my eyes. And when I finally lower the photos, a choked sob bursts out of me.
The top image shows Gramps and me in front of an empty building.
I’m probably seven or so, short blond pigtails, denim overalls, and an ice cream cone in one hand.
Gramps is kneeling on the concrete beside me, an arm around my shoulders, a twin ice cream in his grip.
The redbrick building behind us has a For Rent sign in the window.
I know exactly what this is, but I flip over the picture to confirm. And there’s his messy, loopy script. Our Bookshop, Seattle, Washington.
Tears spring to my eyes. I feel Theo shift to stand behind me, his head curving over my shoulder as I go to the next photo.
This one, we’re both in raincoats, a little younger, standing in front of a gray-walled, empty shop.
Our Bookshop, New Meadows, Idaho. I flip through more pictures.
A small white house. A corner spot beside a plant shop.
A tiny airstream camper. All of them with Gramps and me, smiling in front of potential bookshop locations.
I don’t remember every spot, but I remember Gramps in each one. He’s so full of life in these photos. Kind, patient eyes. That wide, toothy smile. Those newsboy caps he wore everywhere.
He always traveled with us, every family vacation we went on, and he’d get so excited when he saw somewhere he thought would make the perfect location for his dream bookstore.
“Pull over! That’s the one!” he’d say. We’d peek in the windows—he’d point to where the reading nook would be, the best location for the register, and how he’d lay out the shelves. “It’s perfect. I’m tellin’ you. We’re gonna do this one day.”
I can still hear the steadfast assurance in his voice. Blinking rapidly, I try to stop the tears gathering at the edges of my eyes. He was so sure we would get to do that one day, but now a stack of pictures in a metal box is all that remains of that dream.
Theo reaches around me to point to the top photo. “Look at your little umbrella. It’s adorable. And Gramps’s hat.” His breath of laughter caresses my cheek. “What’s the story behind these pictures?”
It takes me a few moments to make the words form.
“It was always his dream to open a bookstore. Ever since he was a kid. But Grandma died when Dad was young, and Gramps was working full-time when they moved here. And I think his dream just never became a reality.” I flip to the next picture, where we appear to be standing in front of a barn, and I choke on a watery laugh. He could see his vision anywhere.
Distantly, an awareness comes over me that I’m leaning back against Theo.
He’s a sturdy wall behind me, holding me up, warming me all the way through.
I feel soft and vulnerable—not at all how I normally am in his presence.
But for some reason, I can’t bring myself to slip away from it.
One of his hands lifts to slide up my arm, and I don’t push that away either.
A tear slips down my cheek and I catch it with the back of my hand.
“Once he’d spread his book obsession to me, it became our bookshop.
He’d mention it everywhere we went. We’d talk about what it could look like and every time we read a book we loved, he’d make a note that we needed to stock it.
And I guess he was collecting these pictures along the way.
” My shoulders shudder with a deep breath. “It was just a pipe dream.”
I leaf through a few more pictures, some of them familiar and some I have no memory of. But I don’t even make it all the way through before I realize tears are streaming down my cheeks.
My face crumples. Something has unwoven, and all my insides are spilling out. There’s nothing left to fight against. I don’t know if I’ve ever cried like this—as if the sadness is coming from some bone-deep reservoir inside me. Like I’ve been storing up all my grief for this very moment.
Before I know it, I’ve turned and pressed my forehead into Theo’s chest. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, and I shake against him, letting my tears wet his shirt. As much as I’ve tried to keep a wall between us, his presence feels good. His hug is safe. Warm. Familiar.
He rubs my back. Presses his cheek to the top of my head. Murmurs soothing words I can’t understand, but it’s enough to feel them.
When my hiccuped sobs have slowed, I pull back to meet his eyes.
He cups the sides of my face, slipping his thumbs over my cheeks to catch the dampness there.
His gaze sweeps over my face, soft and searching.
My own self-consciousness follows the path.
I’m probably a mess—swollen-eyed and red and puffy.
I briefly consider hiding behind my hands or running to the bathroom, but my body is too drained. It’s a wonder I’m still standing at all.
Slowly, the world around me comes into focus and I realize there’s a distant ringing in the cabin. I give him a questioning look.
Theo’s hands drop from my face. “That’s my alarm that I need to get going,” he says but doesn’t move to leave. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you should say that the bookshop is a pipe dream. If anyone could do it, it’s you.”
I scoff. I’m about as qualified for that as I am for space travel.
“I meant what I said at Maddox’s.” His voice is measured and deliberate. “Once you set your mind to something, you’re unstoppable.”
Just like last night, those words make me want to hide under a rock. He has no idea what he’s talking about—that couldn’t be further from the truth.
I set down the photos and wipe my eyes. “Theo, that’s . . . not true at all.”
His alarm is still ringing in the bedroom, but he doesn’t seem to care.
He cups my elbows, capturing my gaze. “Do you remember when you were eleven and your parents put up that rope swing over the pond? Your sisters, Mia, and I played on it all day, and the entire time, you stood on that platform, trying to work up the nerve to jump.”
I frown. “Yeah, I was . . . am afraid of heights.”
He smiles softly. “But even after we’d all gotten out and dried off, you were still up there.”
All four of them lined the dock in their towels, eating hot dogs on paper plates, waiting for me. I was terrified—feet sweating, palms clammy, heart racing—but I wanted so badly to be able to jump. Just like them.
Millie and Tessa tried to convince me to come down—said it was okay if I couldn’t do it. Mia whispered that she wouldn’t tell anyone at school. Mom brought me a plate with a hot dog that sat untouched. Dad told me he’d build a slide instead if I thought that would be easier.
But Theo didn’t give me an out. You can do it. Just take a deep breath and jump, he coached from the dock, patient and steadfast.
His thumbs glide over my arms. “And what did you do?” he prods.
“Jumped.” I can still feel that stomach-dropping, breathtaking leap. The way the cool water crashed over my head, and I squealed beneath the surface, bubbles dancing in front of my face. When I got out, Theo was beaming.
He is now too. “I knew you would. Once you set your mind to it, it was a done deal.”
That unwavering confidence makes my stomach twist, and it’s not entirely uncomfortable. However: “You can’t compare a rope swing jump to starting an entire business. They’re not on the same playing field at all.”
“And yet I believe in you even more now,” he insists, sounding so certain that it’s almost convincing. “You just need the right motivation.”
“And where do I find that?”
With a cocky grin, he gestures to himself. “Isn’t that the role we were playing for each other in high school?”
As I study his mocha eyes, something shifts in my worldview. All through high school—the prime of my life as far as accomplishments and achievements—Theo was there, pushing me to keep going, whether it was intentional or not.
Our only interactions back then were full of sharp looks and verbal jabs.
We were subtly and not-so-subtly celebrating and gloating about our wins.
But, in a way, it became addicting to see the light that sparked in Theo’s eyes in those moments.
The rest of the time, he looked like he was going through life in a fog—barely awake and distracted constantly.
I used to watch his hollow expression and wish I knew how to get through to him.
When we were sparring over grades and class elections, though, he was there. Alive. Engaged. He seemed like himself again for those short interactions.
Maybe I was motivating him somehow too.
“I need to go,” he says with an apologetic half grin. “But I did get the drywall done. Later this week, I’ll work on the finishing touches.”
“Okay,” I whisper, my emotions raw and bumbling. I watch him leave the kitchen, then the alarm quiets in the bedroom. Knocks curls himself around my ankles as I place the pictures back in the box and shut the lid.
When Theo makes it to the door, his clothes from the dryer tucked under one arm, I walk toward him. “Thank you for . . . everything.” It feels a like an inadequate statement, but I try to make my eyes say the things my mouth isn’t.
Thank you for letting me cry on you. For helping me with the A-frame. For believing in me more than I believe in myself.
His soft gaze travels all over my face, like he can see everything I left out. “Anytime.”