Chapter 2 #3
"I need to run an errand," I say. Look at Stone. At the shop. At the disaster waiting to happen if I leave him unsupervised. "Can you hold down the fort for twenty minutes? Don't touch the espresso machine. Don't rearrange anything. Don't talk to customers unless they talk to you first."
"What if they do talk to me first?"
"Be polite. Don't mention the borscht incident."
His mouth quirks. Almost a smile. "Got it."
I grab my bag. My keys. Hesitate at the door.
He's already moving back toward the shelves. There's another stack waiting. Historical fiction. Just as messy as the biographies.
"Stone."
He turns. Those pale eyes meet mine.
"Thanks," I say. Mean it. "For helping. Even after the awning thing."
He nods once. Solemn. "I'll fix it. The awning. I know someone who does fabric repair. I'll ask them."
"You don't have to do that."
"I want to."
The simplicity of it catches me off guard. No argument about fault or liability or who's technically responsible. Just a straightforward offer to make things right.
My ex never did that. Never offered to fix anything. Just pointed out what was broken and waited for me to handle it.
I push the thought away. Lock it back in the box where it belongs.
"Okay," I say quietly, and something passes between us. Some small understanding that feels bigger than it should. "Thank you."
The pharmacy line is seven people deep.
I take my place at the back. Grasp my phone. Start drafting an email to the grant inspector that I'll probably delete three times before sending.
Dear Mr. Patterson,
Regarding cultural programming for the Heritage Festival...
I delete it. Start over.
Hi Jamal,
Too casual. Delete.
Mr. Patterson,
I'm writing to confirm our participation...
A notification pops up. Email from my ex.
I swipe it away without reading. Don't need that particular brand of emotional whiplash today.
The line inches forward. An elderly man argues with the pharmacist about copays. A mother juggles a toddler and a prescription bag. A teenager scrolls through their phone with the kind of focused intensity that suggests they're pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist.
I envy them.
My phone chimes. Text this time.
Stone.
Customer asked about poetry section. Where?
I blink at the screen. We don't have a poetry section. We barely have sections. Most of the shop is organized by vibes and wherever I happened to set books down last.
I type back: Back corner. Small shelf next to the window. Mixed with literary fiction.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Found it. Customer is very excited about Neruda.
Despite everything, warmth blooms in me. Someone is excited about Neruda. In my shop. My weird little pop-up shop that doesn't officially open for another week.
Great. Ring them up if they want to buy.
How?
Right. I never showed him the register.
Square reader on the counter. Tap the amount. They tap their card. Receipt prints automatically.
Got it.
I shove my phone back in my clothes. The line moves forward. Two people left before me.
My brain won't stop spinning.
Cultural programming. Heritage Festival. Espresso machine. Aunt Rene's prescriptions. The awning. The grant money that's supposed to cover operating costs for six months but probably won't stretch that far because nothing ever does.
Stone's face flashes through my mind. The way he held that brittle biography. The careful precision of his hands.
I shake my head. Focus on the email I still need to write.
The line moves again.
Twenty-three minutes later I'm back at the shop.
The door alerts when I push through. Custom sound. Three ascending notes that cost too much but felt important at the time.
Stone is behind the counter. Talking to a customer.
Talking.
Not scaring. Not demolishing anything. Just talking.
The customer is a woman in her fifties. Glasses. Cardigan. Tote bag that says I'd Rather Be Reading.
She's smiling.
Actually smiling.
At Stone.
"And that's why I think the octopus would win," he's saying as I approach, his voice carrying that same earnest quality I've started to recognize. "Superior tactical thinking. More limbs. Ability to camouflage."
"But the bear has claws," the woman counters, clearly delighted by this entire ridiculous conversation.
"Octopus has venom. And psychological warfare. The bear doesn't know what it's dealing with."
She laughs. Actual laughter. "You make a compelling case."
Stone bags her purchase. Three paperbacks. The Neruda collection. A cookbook. A mystery novel with a cat on the cover.
"Thank you for coming in," he says, handing over the bag with both hands like it's something precious. "I hope you enjoy them."
"I'm sure I will." She glances at me. Back at Stone. "You've got a good one here. Hire him permanently."
"Working on it," I say, even though technically he's already hired. Technically I had no choice.
The woman leaves. The door chimes again. Three descending notes this time.
Silence settles.
Stone peers at me. Uncertain again. "Did I do okay?"
"You sold books and convinced someone an octopus could beat a bear in a fight." I settle the pharmacy bag on the surface. Start unpacking prescriptions. "I'd say you did fine."
His whole face brightens. That lopsided smile again. The one that makes him look younger in a way I'm absolutely not ready to examine.
"She asked about the poetry section," he continues, like he's giving a mission report. "Said she loved Neruda but wanted recommendations. I suggested the cookbook because it had a recipe for octopus." He pauses, reconsidering. "That might have been where the octopus conversation started, actually."
I pause mid-reach for the blood pressure medication. Look at him. Really look.
He's still too big for the space. Still a walking disaster waiting for the next curb.
But he sold books.
And made a customer laugh.
And he's standing there like he's genuinely proud of the octopus conversation, which is possibly the most endearing thing I've witnessed in months.
"Stone," I say slowly, an idea forming. Half-formed. Reckless. "How do you feel about cooking demonstrations?"
He blinks. "What kind?"
"The kind that won't make people throw up. For the Heritage Festival. Cultural programming." I'm talking faster now. The pieces clicking together. "You said you made borscht at your last placement. What else can you make?"
"Lots of things." His brow furrows in concentration, like he's mentally cataloging his entire culinary repertoire.
"Orc cuisine is mostly about preservation.
Smoking. Pickling. Things that last through long winters.
" He ticks items off on his fingers. "Smoked root vegetables.
Pickled mushrooms. Bone broth. Fermented cabbage that probably violates several health codes. "
"Okay, maybe not the fermented cabbage."
"Probably for the best."
"But the other stuff." I relax and feel the first flutter of actual hope I've had all week. "Could you teach that? At the festival? Make it a whole cross-cultural cooking thing?"
He considers. Slow and serious. Like I've asked him something that actually matters.
"Yes," he finally says. "I could do that."
"Without property damage?"
"I'll be very careful around curbs."
I snort. Can't help it. The sound escapes before I can stop it.
His smile widens. Just a fraction. But I see it.
And something shifts. Nothing big. Nothing dramatic. Just a small recognition that maybe, possibly, this disaster of a morning might turn into something workable.
My phone goes off again. I ignore it.
Stone moves back toward the historical fiction stack. Back to shelving. Back to that careful, methodical process that shouldn't be as mesmerizing as it is.
I watch him for a moment longer than necessary.
Then I reach for my phone. Start typing the email to Jamal Patterson.
This time I don't delete it.