Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Not a date, definitely not a date. Just coffee and churros with a man who feels a little too familiar for someone I barely know.
As I sit up and stretch, my journal slips shut beside me.
I see myself in the wardrobe mirror across the room, puffy-eyed, hair slightly chaotic, and my pyjama top twisted.
I shower slowly, letting warm water rinse off the nerves. Stepping out, I dab on the perfume I haven’t worn in weeks. The one that smells like jasmine, that always reminds me of picnics in the middle of spring. I tie a bow in my hair, to keep the hair off my face. ‘Perfect.’
Well, as perfect as it is going to get. I pause. What am I doing?
He’s kind, yes. Steady. But so was Justin in the beginning. Steady until he wasn’t. Until every conversation turned into a small test I didn’t know I was failing. Maybe this is different. Maybe it’s not.
Lucas feels safe in a way that makes me suspicious of safety. He listens. He looks at me like he’s actually seeing me, and that’s almost worse. Because what if he does? What if he figures out that I’m still rebuilding. Still holding pieces of someone I’m not sure I want to be anymore?
I grab my bag and my keys, and whisper to no one, ‘It’s just coffee.’
But the pulse in my throat doesn’t believe me.
I finally make it downstairs, the bell over the café door jingles as usual.
Halloween decorations cling to the shopfront, and light streams through the front windows, casting soft shapes across the tiled floor.
Rey is standing behind the counter, smudged with flour and cinnamon, stirring a double shot into a ceramic mug.
She looks up at me grinning. ‘Someone’s wearing lip gloss on a Saturday morning.’
‘It’s self-care, babe.’
Rey slides the iced vanilla oat latte towards me. ‘Uh-huh, and the perfume?’
I take a sip of the icy cold liquid. ‘Coincidence.’
She leans in narrowing her eyes. ‘Okay. So just to clarify, this is not a date?’
I savour the taste of coffee. ‘It’s coffee, churros and books. He said it wasn't.’
Rey tilts her head. ‘Sounds like the perfect Lilah date if you ask me.’
I laugh softly, playing with the bow in my hair. ‘It’s just been a while since I’ve looked forward to anything. That’s all.’
Her expression softens, warm as the cinnamon roll beside her. ‘That’s enough of a reason, you know.’
I smile, my heart thudding a little louder than necessary. I pick up my takeaway cup and tuck it beneath my chin like a shield, and whisper, ‘Wish me luck.’
Rey raises her coffee in a mock toast. ‘May your churros be hot, but your bookstore boy hotter.’
It’s a short drive out of town over to Maple Grove, but always a drive I enjoy taking, even just to clear my head. Maybe that’s part of the reason I told Lucas I’d meet him there. I tell myself I’m calm, but my stomach’s doing slow cartwheels that say otherwise.
The book fair had taken over the tree-lined main street. Rows of canvas tents stretch down the boulevard, their tables piled high with weathered hardcovers, vintage bookmarks, and crates marked “Trade 3, Take 1.”
Music drifts from a portable speaker near the bakery stall, the scent of roasted almonds and apple pie thick in the air. Behind me, someone is doing a dramatic reading of Shakespeare into a portable mic.
That’s when I spot him.
Lucas.
Standing near the poetry tent, the late morning sun casting soft golden light across his shoulders.
He steps towards me with that easy smile, the one that makes it look like the world isn’t pressing too hard on his shoulders.
Wearing what appears to be his signature, a linen button down, this one is a light brown colour paired with navy linen dress pants.
His hair perfectly tussled, whilst also looking as if he put no effort.
Why does he have to look this good? It’s unfair really.
‘Hey,’ he says.
‘Hey,’ I reply, or at least I meant to.
Because when he leans in for a hug, the second his arms wrap around me, my brain lit up like someone has hit a switch, short-circuiting the part of my brain that allows me to function like a normal human.
He smells good. Unfairly good. Woody and warm, like cedar and books.
It was cologne that belongs in the backseat of a slow-burn scene, not real life.
He pulls away and I miss his touch immediately. I open my mouth to say, “Hi again,” and somehow end up with, ‘hi, good. You smell… I mean, hi. You smell like books.’
Really Lilah? You smell like books. Lilah the author and that's what you come up with?
He leans back slightly, raising a brow. That smile of his, tugging wider. ‘I smell like books?’
‘Yep. In the best way,’ I say quickly, cheeks burning as I pray for the earth to open and swallow me whole.
‘Well, good. That’s kind of my brand.’
I nod, still mentally screaming. ‘I like your shirt.’
He glances down, looking confused. ‘Thanks, it’s a good shirt.’
‘Oh my god,’ I mutter under my breath, gripping my coffee like a lifeline. ‘Pull it together, Lilah.’
He tilts his head and gives me a crooked, knowing smile. He definitely heard me.
‘Okay, I should go. I’ll see you when my brain’s fully functioning again,’ I mumble, covering my face in embarrassment.
Gently, he reaches for my hands and pulls them down, holding them just long enough for my breath to hitch. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he murmurs. ‘Come on, let’s walk.’ He lets go, gesturing towards the line of tents.
Warmth lingers where his fingers had touched, small, electric. My pulse catches; I already miss his touch. Which is ridiculous and impossible.
We wander the fair slowly, talking about everything and nothing.
‘So, Lilah, what was the first book you fell in love with?’
‘Oof, probably The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants. I would read it every school holiday. It was a ritual.’ I smile.
‘I remember the first time I picked it up, being obsessed with the way this one pair of jeans fits all four girls. Then the more times I read it, I realised how important the story actually was. Friends who hold you together while you discover who you are and become yourself.’
‘That tracks,’ he agrees, with a small smile.
‘The right people fit because they stretch with you, not because they squeeze you back into the old shape.’ He pauses.
‘Also, I’m stealing that line for the staff-picks card, “thought it was about jeans that fit; it’s about friends who do.
”’ He tips his head. ‘Sounds like you’ve got a few of those. ’
‘I do. I am very lucky.’ I smile and accidentally graze my fingers against his. I move away quickly. ‘What was the first book you fell in love with?’
‘Eragon. I was very into it. Embarrassingly so, actually. I once wrote a fanfic, well before Wattpad was popular.’
Unable to keep from laughing, I say, ‘Oh, please tell me you still have a copy of it?’
‘I might, yes… but you will never read it.’ He nudges my shoulder.
‘Come on, that would be gold. Please Lucas, what do I have to do to get my hands on that story?’
‘I am sure we can think of something,’ he winks, throwing an arm over my shoulder.
I swear my whole body flushes. That was definitely an innuendo, right? ‘I’m sure we can,’ I say softly as he pulls me towards an empty bench.
‘Churro?’ he asks as I sit down.
‘Uh yeah, it’s the only reason I am here.’ He smiles as he walks off.
Maple Grove really is beautiful. Sun on the leaves, bees making small talk with the lavender, a breeze that knows when to hush.
And then there’s him and that soft scrape to his voice when he says my name.
Before I can stop it, my shoulders ease, a quiet surrender, like I’ve known him longer than I have.
It’s the strangest kind of déjà vu, the cadence of his voice, the way he listens before speaking. It’s not Lucas I recognise. It’s Eli, the man I wrote when I didn’t believe men like him existed.
After Justin, I filed love under fiction, safe to write about, unsafe to live.
I told myself I’d keep the feelings on the page of my journal where they couldn’t get out.
But here I am, noticing the way he listens, the way his mouth tips when he’s trying not to smile, the way my pulse steadies instead of sprints.
Maybe it isn’t a lightning-bolt thing.
Maybe it’s this—someone who feels like fresh air and sunlight after living in the dark. I’m not ready to name it. But I’m not pretending I don’t want to.
Lucas wanders back over, churros in one hand, water in the other. ‘Thought you might be thirsty as well.’ He hands me a churro.
‘Thank you.’ I take a bite and OMG this is the best churro I have ever had. The crunchy outside with the soft doughy inside, topped with sugar. Yum. ‘This is so good.’
‘Best churros ever, right?’
I nod. He brushes a bit of sugar from my cheek with his thumb.
The touch is light. Natural. But it makes my heart thud loudly in my chest. My stomach flips for no good reason.
Except for maybe the way his thumb lingers a fraction too long, or how my body hasn’t been this aware of someone in what feels like forever.
For a minute, neither of us say a word. The fair stretching out around us, families laughing, pages flipping, soft guitar music playing somewhere in the distance.
Lucas shifts slightly on the bench, glancing towards the horizon.
‘My grandfather used to take me to places like this,’ he says, his voice quieter now.
‘Not book fairs, exactly. Garage sales, op shops, and library clearance bins. We’d make a day of it.
He always said the best stories were the ones you weren’t looking for. ’
I glance at him, surprised by the change in tone, but I don’t interrupt.
‘When Carol passed,’ he said gently, ‘she left the bookstore to me. I didn't know she’d done it until I was given this letter.’