Chapter 38 Stormy
Stormy
Walking into the back room of the newly built community centre—the one that apparently sprang up after the original stopped running—I’m hit by a wave of scented lavender candles, mingled with that unmistakable undercurrent of old biscuits and pensioners.
Folding chairs form a loose circle in the centre of the room.
Most are already filled, mostly by women who are chatting in clusters.
Their voices are warm and animated. Some are young—most are not.
It's the kind of crowd that you know would remember your birthday and your pet's name, even if you forgot theirs. I take the seat beside Grace, nerves fizzing with excitement. I’m here to meet people, pass out flyers for the bookshop’s opening, and maybe talk about a few favourite reads.
I reach into my tote bag just to double-check that they’re still there.
Ford drops into the seat on my other side—well, tries to. He’s too big for the room and definitely too big for the chair. The poor thing groans under his weight like it might collapse at any moment. He scans the crowd, eyes darting to keep track of the exits. The room notices.
A handful of women glance over, not even bothering to pretend they weren’t watching. One smiles like she’s just spotted a celebrity at Tesco. Another elbows her friend and whispers, too loudly. I hear his name spoken as if it’s legendary.
Ford nods politely when someone waves and offers a small smile when someone else says he looks ‘handsome as ever.’ He takes it in stride but doesn’t feed into it. He’s not rude, just … not vain, I guess.
Still, I catch the flex of his jaw and the way he grips his knee for a second to anchor himself.
This isn’t his scene, but I love him for being here anyway.
I love that he’s here doing this for his mum, even when he clearly would rather be anywhere else.
The chair creaks as he shifts to look at me. I’m grinning. I can’t help it.
He raises a brow.
“What?”
“You’ve just become the fantasy of half the room,” I whisper. “I bet they’re wondering if you lift bales of hay shirtless.”
He smirks, low and crooked.
“You’re just wondering that yourself, aren’t you?”
I scoff, but the heat rises to my cheeks anyway.
“That obvious, huh?
Ford leans back—or tries to. The chair gives a loud protest. He ignores it.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, voice low enough to remain just between us, “I can give you a demonstration sometime.”
An image of him doing exactly that flashes through my head: bare chest, jeans low on his hips, straw dust in the air.
For a moment, I forget how breathing works.
I gawk at him like a schoolgirl nursing a hopeless crush.
I suddenly know just how the other women in this group feel right now.
Then, his fingers brush the outside of my thigh, casual but unmistakably intentional.
“Got you a little flustered there, sunshine?” he asks, his smirk widening.
I open my mouth, some kind of flustered nonsense queuing up, but before I can respond, my eyes snag on Will, just behind Ford, staring straight at me.
I smile and wave politely.
He doesn’t smile back. Just looks at me with a cold, blank stare.
My stomach shifts, but before I can make sense of it, a hand lands gently on my arm.
“Hello, dear!”
A middle-aged woman beams down at me, all cardigans and cheerful energy.
“I’m Mrs Barker,” she says brightly, “So lovely to see new faces in the group.”
Ford leans away, giving us space as Mrs Barker begins chatting about the book club.
I push the chill of Will’s stare to the back of my mind and focus on the warmth in her voice.
She asks me about my favourite genre, and I don’t hesitate to tell her all about the books I love—fantasy, romantasy, romance—feeling instantly more myself.
Mrs Barker nods along like I’ve just passed an important test. “It’s lovely to see someone so passionate about books. We need more of that.”
A few others join the conversation, looking at me with warm curiosity.
At first, it’s magic, and my voice brightens with excitement, heart thrumming with hope.
I gush about the stories I love—the way fantasy and romance make the world feel less lonely, my whole heart and enthusiasm spilling out of me.
But then I mention the shop, and everything shifts.
Mr Hargrove, a retired librarian, smiles kindly.
“A new bookshop could be just the thing to bring in fresh energy.”
I nod, gratefully.
Then the gift shop owner speaks, her voice clipped and her smile tight.
“I just don’t see the need. We already have places that sell books. Adding another shop will just split business.”
“I agree,” says the woman from the stationery store, arms folded like a fortress. “It’s hard enough keeping our doors open. We don’t need someone swooping in with shiny shelves and coffee tables.”
My breath catches, and my smile falters from the sting.
“I’m not trying to take anything away,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even. “I just want to create a space where people can connect. Read. Share stories.”
The stationery owner doesn’t budge.
“Sounds like competition to me,” she says, before gesturing around the room. “Besides, we have the book club.”
Next to me, Ford shifts. His jaw tightens like he’s biting his tongue.
“She’s not trying to compete,” he says, voice low and firm. “She’s trying to contribute. There’s room for all of us.”
My chest squeezes. I haven’t spoken to him much about my plans for the place. But the way he’s standing up for me means more than I know how to say.
I glance past him, searching. Will’s still at the back of the room. Watching. Just watching. Not speaking. Not smiling. Not defending me.
That stings too.
A woman scoffs from across the circle. “Easy for you to say, Ford. You’ve got the ranch. You’re not worried about foot traffic or loss of sales.”
Something in me wilts, the fight draining out of my bones. Grace leans into the conversation.
“Now come on, Marlene …”
But I interrupt, voice trembling.
“I just thought …” I pause; the words caught in my throat. “I thought people might be excited.”
Silence swells, thick and stifling.
I push back from the chair. The legs screech across the laminate with a sharp, jarring sound.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to upset anyone.”
I turn and walk out—throat burning, tote swinging against my hip, flyers still tucked inside, neat and unread. The doors swing shut behind me. The echo snaps like the sound of judgement. With fumbling fingers, I yank the tote off my shoulder angrily and rip the flyers out in a messy blur.
They crumple in my hands until the perfect paper is creased and ruined—just like my hopes for the bookshop. I shove them into the bin by the door, hard enough that the lid rattles.
But it doesn’t make the ache stop.
Birds chirp in the trees, and the sun shines high and golden overhead.
People wander past, laughing and chatting.
They’re entirely oblivious to the pain twisting in my chest. A small sob breaks loose.
Just one. The rest I bury deep in my throat, where it burns sharp and bitter behind my ribs.
I don’t want to cry. Not here. Not over this—even though right now I feel defeated, like the world is against me.
I stand there for a moment, chest heaving, wondering what to do with myself. Ford drove me here, and the thought of waiting for him and his mum, then sitting in silence with them on the journey back, sets my nerves on edge.
So, I run. I head for the edge of town. Towards the bookshop. My bookshop.
Or maybe … not anymore.
Not if this is how the community sees it— sees me.
I used to picture that building full of light, warmth, and joy.
Now it just feels like a broken shell, faulty and cracked, with hope leaking through the cracks.
Walking through the bookshop door hurts.
It creaks on its hinges like it’s mourning with me, and the hush that greets me feels louder than any words.
I don’t know what I’m going to do about this place.
Will the community ever accept me? Will I ever see customers walking through this door, laughing and leafing through paperbacks, making this space come alive?
Or has this all been a waste of time, effort, and the money from my Mum and my sister.
I didn’t run here just because it was close.
I ran because I didn’t know where else to go.
Because this shop is all I have, really.
I gather my hair up from my damp neck into a messy ponytail, fingers shaky and slick with sweat. My breath still comes hard and heavy, my lungs burning from the sprint. Beads of sweat trace down my temples, sticky and salt slick.
I move through the quiet, past shelves waiting to be filled and a counter standing tall, ready for the rush that might never come.
Each step echoes on the wooden floor. It’s a reminder that no one else is here.
I reach the bathroom and switch on the light.
Leaning over the sink, I splash cold water on my face, hoping it’ll cool something more than my skin.
Maybe my thoughts. Maybe the ache in my chest that won’t quit.
This place is so nearly done, and it’s so nearly something beautiful.
A dream written with love and grief and stubborn hope.
But what now?
A text pops up on my phone.
It’s Ford.
Ford: Stormy, where are you?
I set the phone down on the side, staring at the screen, unsure if I should reply. The notification fades, and suddenly, it’s just me and the glow of my screensaver;
"It’s never too late to become who you want to be. I hope you live a life that you’re proud of, and if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start over."
—F. Scott Fitzgerald
A small sob slips out before I can stop it. I flip the phone over, face down.