Chapter 6
Ellie
Book club happened on Tuesdays.
This was an established fact.
It was on the calendar.
It was on the sign I had handwritten and taped to the front door that read:
BOOK CLUB — TUESDAY 7 PM — ALL WELCOME — YES, WINE IS PROVIDED.
All welcome.
I had written that sign.
I had specifically chosen those words.
So technically—technically—I couldn't blame Noah Calloway for showing up at seven-oh-three when we were already settled in and Margaret had already claimed the chair she always claimed and Dennis had already made the tea he always made and we had already begun complaining about this month's book, which all of us had secretly enjoyed but publicly admitting that would have undermined the entire social contract of book club.
Technically.
But when he appeared in the doorway—coat on, slightly damp, and holding a copy of the book we were discussing — what I felt did not fall into the category of technically.
"Oh," he said, stopping in the doorway.
He looked genuinely surprised.
"This—I saw the sign. I didn't assume—"
"All welcome," Margaret said immediately, in the tone that clearly indicated she considered the arrival of a handsome man an intriguing development.
"We've only just started. Sit down."
"Margaret," I said.
"Ellie," she replied in exactly the same tone.
Noah looked at me.
There was a question there.
Is this okay?
Which was annoying because if he had simply walked in without asking, I could have dismissed him easily.
But this was actual consideration.
And consideration was harder to dismiss.
"Sit down," I said.
"It's Jo's bookshop. I can't stop you."
"It's Jo's bookshop and you run the book club," Dennis pointed out helpfully, which was not helpful.
"Thank you, Dennis."
"You're welcome."
Noah came inside and took the chair that was always empty—the one in the corner, slightly apart from the others.
The chair that was technically the spare chair.
The chair I secretly considered mine.
The one where I sat when I wanted to listen rather than facilitate.
He took it without asking because he obviously didn't know that.
Which was reasonable.
And yet.
And yet.
"Wine?" Priya asked.
Priya, who had joined two weeks ago and was already the most enthusiastic member of the group, which I genuinely liked except at this exact moment.
"Please," Noah said.
Priya handed him a glass and, in the process, clearly realized who he was because she had spent an hour in the literary fiction section on her first day here and was obviously familiar with contemporary authors.
I gave Priya a look.
Priya gave me a look that said:
I'm asking later and you're going to tell me everything.
I opened my book.
This month's selection was—and here I would like to clarify that this had not been my choice, this was a group vote, a democratic process, I had been outvoted—The Arrangement, a contemporary romance novel involving a fake engagement, an enemies-to-lovers arc, and a hero I would describe as aggressively brooding in a way that was clearly intended to be attractive.
Personally, I was perfectly comfortable with the genre from a reading perspective.
Professionally, I recommended it often.
In book club, specifically on this Tuesday, with this particular book, it was not my cup of tea.
"So," I said, switching into facilitator mode, "first question. Do we believe Callum and Sera's chemistry feels authentic or forced?"
"Authentic," Margaret said immediately.
"Forced at first," Dennis said. "Then authentic. That's the arc."
"I agree with Dennis," Priya said. "After chapter sixteen, everything shifts. Before that, they're just reacting to each other. After chapter sixteen, they actually start choosing."
"Interesting distinction," I said.
"Reacting versus choosing."
"That's the whole point of romance," Margaret said firmly.
"Someone eventually chooses. That moment—when a character consciously decides that they want this person regardless of the consequences—that's what we're reading for."
Quiet.
I looked up.
Noah had that look.
The cataloguing look.
The writer look.
But differently.
He wasn't observing the group.
He was listening.
Actually listening.
In the way that is slightly different from observation.
"What do you think?" Priya asked directly.
He looked briefly surprised.
Not by the question itself.
By being included.
As though he hadn't expected it.
"I think," he said carefully, "that forcing characters into proximity creates a situation. But a situation doesn't create chemistry. Chemistry happens when two people see something in each other that wasn't deliberately being revealed."
"Give an example," Margaret said.
She had apparently appointed herself moderator of his answer.
He opened the book.
Found the page quickly and easily, which indicated that he had actually read it.
"Chapter nine. When Sera admits that she used to play classical piano as a child and quit after her father told her she was average.
Callum doesn't say anything. He just... holds onto that detail.
Then in chapter twelve he stops to listen to a street musician playing Chopin.
Nothing is explained. The reader knows why. "
Silence.
"I missed that," Priya said.
"Me too," Dennis admitted.
Margaret was looking at me.
I didn't look at her.
"That's a good observation," I said neutrally.
"Thank you," Noah replied equally neutrally.
We both looked back at our books.
The rest of the session went well.
Good discussion, actually.
Dennis and Priya had a debate about whether the dark moment in chapter twenty-seven was earned or manufactured.
Margaret consistently defended every romantic decision both characters made on the grounds that love makes people stupid and that's accurate.
Which, honestly, was some of the best literary criticism I'd ever heard.
Noah spoke twice more.
Both times briefly.
Both times with the kind of observation that nudges a conversation in a more interesting direction without dominating it.
Which, I reluctantly noted, was a harder skill than it looked.
By nine o'clock the group began wrapping up.
Margaret put on her coat.
Dennis washed his tea mug—Dennis always washed his mug, which was something I had learned to deeply appreciate over the years.
Priya gave Ellie her number and suggested they get coffee next week, which was lovely, and something I was genuinely looking forward to.
Noah returned his chair exactly where he had found it and helped stack the books that had accumulated on the counter.
"You didn't tell me," I said quietly when everyone else was leaving.
"What?"
"That you were coming."
"The sign said all welcome."
"Yes."
"So I came."
I looked at him.
He was looking back at me with an expression I had only recently learned to recognize.
Open.
Which I had realized was actually rare on his face.
As though he was usually holding something behind the expression and, at this moment, temporarily wasn't.
"You mentioned chapter nine," I said.
"The piano scene."
"Yeah."
"That was my favorite part of the book."
He didn't say anything.
"It's annoying," I continued, "when someone notices the thing you noticed because then you can't argue that they weren't paying attention."
"I was paying attention."
"I know."
I switched off the last light—the one near the window that somehow created an entire nighttime atmosphere all by itself with a single warm glow.
"You should tell me next time."
"If I'm coming?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"So I can... adjust the space. Logistically."
"Of course."
"It's not a—"
"Ellie."
He said it quietly.
"I'll tell you."
I nodded.
He headed toward the door.
Stopped.
"That chair," he said without turning around.
"The corner one. It's yours, isn't it?"
I paused.
"It's the spare chair."
"You spent the entire evening looking at me in that chair with a very specific expression."
"I— that expression was about logistics. Space and—"
"Ellie."
"What."
"Next time I'll take a different chair."
Then he left.
Back stairs.
Third step.
Creak.
I stood alone in the empty bookshop.
Switched off the final light.
Stood in the darkness for a moment.
The outline of shelves.
The streetlight reflected in the window.
That familiar quiet that arrives when everyone has gone home and only the books remain.
I thought about the piano scene.
Holding onto a detail.
Not explaining it.
Trusting the reader to know why.
Then I put on my coat and went home.