Chapter Twenty-Three #2
I can’t help grinning. Right now, she's just a fourteen-year-old who gets to ride a motorcycle and eat ice cream. Not a girl who lost her mother. Not my responsibility who I’m unsure how to raise. But my little sister, who’s excited about our adventure.
Inside Scoops, it's all checkered floors and chrome stools at the counter. The cases are full of colorful ice cream, and the air smells like waffle cones and sugar. A handful of other customers are scattered around, and no one seems to recognize Thorne. Or if they do, they're too polite to stare.
I order a pistachio ice cream. Madison gets cookies and cream with rainbow sprinkles. Thorne picks bourbon and honey, telling us how much he missed this flavor while in Quebec. We take our cones and wander outside, strolling down the main street.
The town is charming in that Kentucky way with old brick buildings, gas streetlamps, and window boxes full of summer flowers.
Madison darts ahead to peer into shop windows, a running commentary spilling out of her.
"Oh my God, look at that dress. I want to live in that bookstore.
" She's not waiting for answers, a teenager free of the need to measure her words or guard her enthusiasm.
"She's a good kid.” His lip twitches. “When she’s not blackmailing me.”
I laugh, licking melting ice cream off the side of my cone. "You're good with her."
He snorts. "I let a fourteen-year-old ride on the back of my Ducati. Pretty sure that's the opposite of good."
"Hey." I smack his arm. "I agreed to it. And let her ride with me. Are we both shit at adulting?"
He laughs. "Maybe. But given our parents..."
"True." I lick my cone. "But look at it this way—she wanted an adventure with us. With you. And you said yes. That counts."
"Does it?" He finishes his cone, crumpling the napkin.
"Definitely. It’s more than what my mom did with me.” After some distance from my anger, I see she wasn’t a bad woman. She tried to be a good mom. It just didn’t come easily to her, like it does for some.“And I’m sure it was the same with your dad.”
I watch Madison through the window, her face lighting up as she pulls a book from the shelf. "She laughed today. Really laughed. That is rare for her.”
He glances at me, then away. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I wish I could say I knew if she's always been this eager and bright. Or if it's just today. If grief made her solemn or if she was always quiet before her mom died.”
“Your mom, you mean.”
I tilt my head, not sure what he means.
“You said, ‘her mom,’ she’s yours too.”
“Oh,” I laugh, but it’s hollow. “After she left, I spent so much time trying to forget her that sometimes I did.” I press my palm against the ache in my chest. “I shouldn’t have forgotten about my sister in the process.”
“Cut yourself some slack. You were her age and not even living here when she was born.”
“I suppose,” I reply, not really meaning it.
Madison circles back to us, ice cream already half gone. "Can we check out that bookstore? The one with the cat in the window?"
Thorne nods. “But don’t tell Rosalia or Lillianna that we visited another bookstore besides theirs,” he jokes.
The shop is cozy and cramped with tall shelves and a fat, orange tabby cat sleeping on the counter.
One minute, Madison is beside me; the next, she’s gone, disappeared into the stacks like she’s been absorbed into the books themselves.
Thorne and I drift through the store at the unhurried pace of people with nowhere to be, which feels strange and luxurious in equal measure.
"Romance novels," he observes, running his finger along the spines. "Any good ones?"
"All of them, if you're in the right mood." I pull out a book with a handsome man on the cover. "Though I doubt these are your usual reading material."
"Maybe I'm looking for tips." He leans closer, voice dropping. "Ways to keep you satisfied."
Heat floods through me. "You're doing just fine without a manual, thanks."
"Just fine?" He raises an eyebrow, all cocky confidence. "I seem to remember you screaming my name a few hours ago."
"Thorne." I glance around, making sure Madison can't hear us. "Behave."
"Never." But he steps back, that playful smile still on his lips.
We stay suspended in the pocket of contentment for a while, the fat orange tabby winding between our ankles before losing interest and draping himself across a windowsill. Somewhere in the back of the store, Madison is silent in the way only a fully absorbed reader can be.
It's Thorne who wanders over to a small display near the window and picks up a paperback, turning it over with genuine curiosity rather than performance. I watch him read the back copy, this man who tries to control everything, losing himself in a quiet bookstore on a lazy afternoon.
Making my way to him, I read the blurb over his shoulder. “Sebastian met Rosalia in a bookstore,” he says, not looking up from the cover. “She only had a bookstore then. It was called Novel Idea.”
I wait to see if he’ll spill his secrets. He sets it down carefully. “I learned a lot because of the store. One of them being, you should never underestimate what a bookstore means to someone.”
He doesn't say more. There's a story underneath those words. I can feel the weight of it. But I don't push. Some things need more than an ordinary afternoon to surface.
There’s a soft thump from somewhere deep in the shelves, followed by the particular silence of someone hoping they didn't make a noise. We peek around the corner and catch a glimpse of Madison before she vanishes into the next aisle.
We leave her, but find her twenty minutes later.
Or what feels like twenty minutes, but time moves differently in bookstores, and it’s more like an hour later.
She’s cross-legged on the floor in the YA section, three books open around her like a small paper universe, a fourth in her hands.
She doesn't hear us approach. She doesn't look up when we stop beside her.
She is completely, utterly gone into whatever world she's found.
Thorne looks at me. I look at him.
Neither of us says a word. We just go back to browsing.
We end up buying three books. Two for Madison, who insists she'll read them both this weekend, and one romance novel for me that Thorne keeps making suggestive comments about.
By the time we finally pull ourselves out of the bookstore, the morning has disappeared entirely into one of those Kentucky summer afternoons where the heat doubles down and the light goes thick and amber, pressing against everything like it owns it.
Madison clutches her books to her chest, already reading the back of one as she walks, nearly tripping over a curb. She doesn't notice because she's too busy telling us the entire plot premise she's gleaned from three paragraphs of jacket copy.
This is what I want for her. Hell, for me. A life where books, family, and happiness matter more than loss and regrets.
"Thank you," she says as we reach the motorcycles. "This was... this was really fun. Like, the best day I've had in a long time."
Something cracks in my chest at the earnestness in her voice. "We should do it again sometime," I say, taking her books and tucking them into my saddlebags.
"Really?" Her whole face lights up.
"Really." I look at Thorne, who's watching us with an expression I can't quite read. "Right?"
He clears his throat. "Yeah, sure.”
The ride home is quieter, more contemplative. Madison rides with Thorne again, her arms wrapped around his waist, her helmet resting against his back. They look comfortable together, natural.
Like family.
The thought won't leave me alone as we pull into the garage, as we put away the helmets and jackets, as Madison hugs us both goodnight and disappears into the house with her books.
"That was nice," Thorne says when we're alone. He's leaning against his workbench, hands in his pockets, looking younger. Less burdened.
"It was." I move closer, drawn to him like I always am. "You were nice, good with her. You're not bad at this whole surrogate-family thing."
“The family I grew up with might disagree with you,” he deflects. Dipping his chin, he looks at me.“I feel bad for the kid. She deserves better than the hand she’s been dealt.”
"So do you.”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t. I was born holding a royal flush and still managed to fold.”
“Don’t.” I press my fingers to his lips. “You’re allowed to have struggled even when your struggles came gift-wrapped in bourbon and privilege. Pain isn't a competition and neither is regret.”
For a moment, he doesn't move. Then he pulls me against him, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that's different from earlier. This one is slower, deeper, weighted with things neither of us is ready to say.
When we finally break apart, his forehead rests against mine. "This is getting complicated."
"I know."
He pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "But I'm not ready to stop."
"Good." I kiss him again, quick and sweet. "Neither am I."
We stand there in the garage, surrounded by machines and tools, holding each other as the night deepens around us. Somewhere in the house, Madison is probably already absorbed in one of her new books. The estate is quiet, peaceful.
Everything is perfect.
But in the back of my mind, I can't shake the feeling that this happy moment is just that—a moment. That somewhere, a clock is ticking down to the moment when everything falls apart.
I push the thought away and let Thorne lead me inside, his hand warm in mine.
Tonight, I'm going to let myself have this. Tomorrow can bring whatever it wants.
Tonight, we're two people who found each other in the chaos, pretending we can be something that lasts.