Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
The week runs like a tap I forgot to turn off, constant and a little too loud. I work until my feet ache and the grief blurs at the edges. At night, I draft and delete the same message to Justin, as if precision might make it hurt less. It doesn’t.
When I open the document for “Book Two,” the voice on the page isn’t mine, it’s Lola’s.
Certain, and fearless about love. I used to wear her like a good coat.
Now it hangs wrong. After the breakup echoed my own chapters word for word, I don’t trust what I invent.
If I write the wrong thing, will it happen again?
If I write the right thing, will it be a lie?
On Sunday, we close the cafe, and Nettie wheels out her coffee cart to set up outside for the farmer’s market. The chalkboard sign reads, The Brew Cart. It's white and pink, with a beautiful, oversized cloth umbrella.
Nettie never lets Rey and I work the cart. She insists we must take the day off, forgetting she needs rest too.
Dropping by to pick up my iced latte, I notice the line snaking past other stalls. The eftpos machine is out again. Before she can say a word, I take off with the petty cash tin and takeaway cups, to take orders and let everyone know that it will be cash only for today.
Returning with orders and names written on the cups, she sighs and hugs me. ‘Thanks, kiddo. Now run along and enjoy your Sunday.’
‘No problem, call me if you need me.’
She just nods and gets to work.
I wander the stalls, smelling candles and tasting jams, and of course buying far more than I need to, but I just can’t help myself.
My eyes are drawn to the closed bookstore with ivy climbing the walls and paper covering the windows. Taking a deep breath, I decide not to linger, heading off to find Tess and Marley.
I spot Rey at a pottery booth, phone in hand, filming a slow pan of the market. She catches my eye, grinning. ‘Just capturing local magic,’ she calls. ‘Wattlewood romance in the wild.’
The vendor laughs. ‘Oh, you sound just like that author everyone’s been quoting online, Lola something?’
Rey’s smile falters for a heartbeat before recovering. ‘Guess great minds think alike.’ She pans her camera towards the sunlit jars of jam instead.
The woman nods. ‘Her book’s been all over my feed lately. Someone said parts of it are based on this town.’
My pulse skips. I busy myself with straightening the strap on my tote.
Rey ends the clip and mouths a silent “sorry” as she joins me. ‘Don’t panic.’ She hands me a coffee she somehow conjured from Nettie’s cart. ‘I didn’t tag anything.’
‘I know.’ I force a smile. ‘Just… maybe no local lore in the captions today.’
‘Got it.’ She bumps my shoulder. ‘You live dangerously for someone who doesn’t want to go viral, Lils.’
We fall back into step, the air sweet with cinnamon and wattle. We find Tess and Marley camped beside the heirloom tomatoes—Tess with a stack of celery, Marley bargaining for peaches like she’s hosting a game show.
‘There she is,’ Marley sings. ‘Are you okay, or do we need a tactical pastry?’
‘I already panic-bought jam, so we’re in the clear,’ I say, lifting the tote. ‘Also, Nettie’s eftpos died. I did a rogue cash-only cameo.’
Tess snorts. ‘You’re constitutionally incapable of taking a day off.’
‘I tried,’ I say. ‘But the queue was pleading with its eyes.’
We migrate towards The Brew Cart, its umbrella throwing soft shade. Nettie gives me a look that says, “Go live your life,” as she slides two iced lattes across to Tess and Marley.
Marley drops her voice. ‘So… The bookstore looks like a present. Brown paper and vibes. Are we spiralling or manifesting?’
‘Manifesting,’ I say. ‘Hoping it will reopen if I stare at it long enough, as if she was pranking the whole town.’
‘Very on brand for Carol,’ Marley replies.
‘Ready for the meeting tomorrow? Time to start working on book two?’ Tess is soft but firm.
I haven’t even thought about book two. What even happens once The Year Before You closes?
‘Book two. I am still writing and deleting messages to Justin. I don't know what happens next in life, let alone my book.’
‘Hey, no pressure, we will just chat,’ Tess reassures me.
I nod. ‘Okay.’
‘Doctor-ordered carbs.’ Marley thrusts a cinnamon scroll at me. ‘Also, if you draft that text to “he who shall not be named,” send it to me instead. I’ll delete it.’
I laugh, actually, laugh.
We perch on the low brick wall and let the market move around us: dogs in bandanas, a busker absolutely committing to Iris by the GooGoo Dolls. For a few minutes, my grief is just background noise.
When we part, Tess kisses my cheek. ‘See you tomorrow, writer.’
‘Writer,’ I repeat, and tuck the word in my pocket.
Monday afternoon, the sun filters through the wattle trees that line the main street.
Tiny, yellow blossoms, dusting the pavement like confetti.
I stroll down the street with Tess’s “whenever you’re ready” still steadying my chest. Wattlewood Press wants my second book—no deadlines, no pressure—and for the first time in a while, I almost believe I can do it.
The wig sits in my tote, heavier than it should be, thumping my hip every few steps like a secret that wants out. Marley’s quick, faceless Q&A with “Lola,” is already queued for socials: cropped frame, red lip, oversized glasses.
My feet take the familiar path to Turn the Page.
Muscle memory. The window display is gone, replaced by brown paper taped across the glass and a slightly crooked note: closed for renovations, reopening soon.
I let out a breath. I knew someone would take over after Carol, but seeing the paper, the quiet bench, makes it real in a way I don’t like.
I reach for the handle, then stop. What would I even say? Hi, I’m Lilah. I practically lived here. I shift the tote and turn to leave—right as the door swings open. A tall man backs out, arms full of cardboard boxes labelled bookmarks – free?
We collide.
‘Oh sorry,’ he murmurs, his breath a little short as a box tilts towards me.
I recognise him from the service. He had been quiet. I don't even think he noticed me.
I steady the box with one hand, my tote with my double life in the other. ‘It’s okay,’ I manage, stepping back into the threshold’s light.
He is handsome in an unintentional kind of way.
All quiet intensity and rolled-up sleeves.
His dark hair is a little messy, like he’d run his fingers through it a dozen times while thinking.
A thin silver chain glints at his collar, and tattoos curl up one forearm, just enough to be intriguing.
I hadn't noticed how attractive he was when I first saw him that night.
And he’s framed in the doorway.
Exactly where I once wrote a man like him to stand.
‘Are you… um, closing down?’
‘Just doing some renovations,’ he tells me, nodding at the papered glass. ‘You’re welcome to peek if you don’t mind chaos… Wait, have we met?’
I hesitate, then manage a small smile. ‘Ahh, yeah… well, not really. I was at Carol's service, I saw you just before you left.’
He stills, as if he doesn’t know how to reply. ‘Oh, did you know her well?’
‘Well enough. I practically lived here.’ I chuckle, unsure what else to say.
He smiles and steps aside. ‘In that case.’ He gestures for me to walk inside.
I slip in. Shelves are half-cleared, with spines stacked in uncertain towers. Paint swatches bloom across the walls. A post-it says: new poetry corner? Another: keep the crooked ladder shelf.
The air smells like sawdust and lemon cleaner, and a little bit of hope.
‘It’s a big job,’ I say.
‘Worth it,’ he answers. ‘This place deserves to be loved.’
Our eyes catch. He looks away first, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the box. I could ask how he came to own it, where he’s from, if he plans to stay. The questions crowd my tongue. But grief makes people private, and I’m not ready to offer my own answers back.
Start small, I tell myself. Let him keep his edges. Let me keep mine.
A sign leans in the corner. Cream board, gold pencil marks.
‘Inkwell & Ivy?’ My breath hitches. ‘Are you renaming it?’
The corner of his mouth lifts, then hesitates, like he’s measuring my reaction. ‘It felt like a place where stories grow. Where you can get a little lost and maybe find something too.’ He pauses. ‘But if it feels wrong, I can reconsider.’
The unexpected gentleness lands. He talks about the shop like it has a heart.
‘It doesn’t feel like a loss,’ I say. ‘It feels like a beginning. I think it’s perfect.’
His shoulders drop a fraction, like the name had been waiting for someone else to say it out loud.
‘Thanks. That… means a lot.’ He runs his hands along the counter, checking for dust. ‘Bookstores are strange,’ he adds.
‘They remember the people who walk through. You can feel it, even when it’s quiet.
Carol used to say the walls hold the stories that never got finished. ’
Something in me wants to keep him talking. ‘So… is this a permanent thing? Or are you just passing through?’
He looks up, surprised by the question. ‘Passing through, I think.’ His gaze flicks to the sign. ‘Carol wanted it open again, so I’ll see it through.’
Temporary. I should be used to that word by now.
He digs into the box and holds out his hand. ‘Here. Take a bookmark. I’m donating most of these anyway.’
‘Thank you.’
Our fingers brush as I take it. He looks down quickly, and I pretend to examine the stacks. I don’t ask the personal questions. Not yet. He’s a stranger holding Carol’s keys. I’m a stranger with too many secrets. We can earn the rest.
At the door, I glance back. ‘She would love it.’
The latch clicks behind me. In the gold light, I flip the bookmark:
Prologue = Foreplay. Don’t skip it.
A laugh breaks out of me, bright and surprised. I tuck it into my pocket and head up the path, the quiet hum of Wattlewood Ridge settling like an old song.
The ink on his forearms, the rasp in his voice, the way he spoke about the store like it had a soul, those linger longer than I expect.
I pull out my phone.
LILAH: Just met the new owner of Turn the Page. It’s being renamed Inkwell & Ivy, The guy is fascinating. He's tall, he's tattooed and quiet but sweet. I didn’t catch his name, but I might be a little obsessed.
I snap a quick photo of the bookmark and hit send.
LILAH: He gave me a free bookmark.
MARLEY: That's so hot.
TESS: You need to find out his name immediately.
I smile, tucking my phone away. I didn’t have his name, and I didn’t even know what exactly had passed between us. But something about him, about the way he said the store deserved to be loved, had cracked open a small space inside me that had been locked since the night Justin left.
Walking slower than usual, I pass the mural near the post office.
It isn't my usual route but today I am drawn towards it. The golden strokes of wattle and wildflowers haven’t changed, not exactly, but something about them feels different today.
The flowers were brighter, like they’d been touched by the same light I’d felt in the doorway of the bookstore.
In the space I could’ve sworn had once been filled with tangled vines, now had soft shapes that look suspiciously like stacked books, half-blurred by petals.
I step closer, heart skimming my ribs. One bloom curled at the edge like a half- turned page.
Another shimmered faintly with brushstrokes that remind me of the apartment above the café, chipped paint, and all.
It feels like the mural is watching, not in a scary way but in a knowing way.
Then I saw it, a small signature tucked into the corner.
Ellery.
My breath catches, it's Rey’s last name.
She’d always been the funny one, the chaotic one behind the counter with paint on her hands and a playlist that didn’t match the mood.
But standing here, seeing her name stitched into something this permanent, and quietly magical, it hits me in a way I don’t expect.
Like a heartbeat I never realised was there, echoing under the surface of this town. I pull out my phone and type:
LILAH: Is this your mural?
REY: You found me. Fun fact Beatrice Ellery is my great aunt. She started the gallery. Big shoes to fill, too bad I paint in high-tops.
I stare at the screen, heart tugging somewhere soft. Maybe this town isn’t just holding our stories, perhaps it is gently reflecting them. One brushstroke at a time.
As I turn away from the mural, a breeze stirs the wildflowers painted across the wall, or maybe it just stirs something in me. Either way, I feel lighter.
By the time I reach my apartment, the sun has dipped low enough to cast everything in golden-pink light. I climb the stairs slowly, the quiet creak of each step grounding me. Inside, the space smells like peppermint tea and the vanilla-caramel candle I lit last night.
After kicking off my shoes and shrugging out of my cardigan, I sit by the window with my journal open on my lap. The pen feels warm in my hand. Tonight, I let the words catch up.
Journal Entry - Monday, 11th of August
I met someone today. Not in the big, swoony, life-changing way. In the quiet way. He backed into me with a box of bookmarks.
I don’t even know his name, but he renamed the bookstore Inkwell & Ivy. There's a place where you can get a little lost. Maybe find something, too.
That stuck with me. I don’t know what it means yet, but for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m drowning.
xx