Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Only pretty stories are worth telling.
I couldn’t hate John Kater even if I tried.
Some cravings get worse when you give in.
“Ah, ah, ah,” John tugged on my arm, redirecting me from his car toward the shop front. “You promised me a drawer reveal.”
I grumbled. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to see the store—Skye’s was everything to me.
My pride, my joy, and my occasional nightmare.
But I wasn’t thrilled at the thought of him spotting the peeling paint on the door, the shelves barely held together by other books shoved beneath them, or the computer that had long since become more decorative than functional.
I needn’t have worried. As soon as I unlocked the front door and flicked on the small light behind the counter, John’s eyes started.
..gleaming. A tentative smile broke loose as he took it all in: the golden velvet sofa, patched but comfy, the thrifted coffee table, the nooks and crannies of my teenage years.
He tilted his head. “I spy something green,” he said smugly.
“Shut up.” Of course, he would spot his own books from a mile away. Damn you, Otis.
The floorboards creaked beneath his steps as he crossed the carpet—once part of my mom’s flat in Berlin. Now, a little worse for wear.
I plopped myself onto the desk, actually quite enjoying the sight of him perusing the stacks.
A slow pitter-patter began as heavy raindrops decided to make this even cozier than it already was.
They painted a pattern of shadow and streetlight on the rug.
It was almost romantic. Instead of scoffing, I found myself grinning. Ew, Nora.
John’s next words took me by surprise.
“It hasn’t changed a bit.”
“What?” I let out a breathless laugh, crossing my legs on the counter and leaning my weight onto my palms. “Don’t tell me you’ve been here before.”
John’s smile was as smug as always, but there was a gentleness to it. “The morning of the lecture, actually. And then every time I was in town. I just didn’t know Robert Skye was your dad.”
I was speechless. Call the cops. Call Otis. This was an event for the calendar: the day Nora officially had nothing left to say.
He stopped his roaming and stood in front of me. The smell of him mingled with the scent of books. “I remember him. Your dad. I’d almost forgotten about it, but when I saw his picture on your mom’s wall, it all came back. I’m sorry he passed.”
I swallowed hard. My throat suddenly thick—almost painful. “What do you remember?”
John tilted his face toward the ceiling, as if searching his memories. “Joy. He was joyful. Loved helping people. His eyes sparkled like yours do when you talk about books. I felt welcome.” He stepped closer and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear.
“He was a welcoming sort of guy. That apple fell rather far,” I said, staring down at my crossed legs, focusing on the fray of my jeans.
The room felt foggy, out of focus. Mom would call this sentimental nonsense.
But it was nice to hear those words, nonetheless.
To talk about Dad without pretending nothing had changed.
To talk about him, period. Because yes, there was grief, but there were also happy memories.
Otis mostly respected the "we don’t talk about Dad" rule, but I realized it might not have been my choice. “He was great. Lew Elliot’s biggest fan.”
“That’s why you didn’t tell your mom about the competition. Because of him.”
I nodded. “And because Mom’s oblivious to the fact that I need the money to keep this place afloat. I can’t...” I cleared my throat. “I can’t imagine losing this part of him too.”
John pushed his fingers through his curls. “It’s personal.”
I leaned my head back and blinked away the tears. “Second shelf to the right.”
“What?”
I pointed vaguely in that direction. “There’s a bottle of whiskey hidden behind the Lord of the Rings movie cover books.”
He raised a brow.
I shrugged. “No one in a sane state of mind buys those.”
After some shuffling, he found the bottle, nodding at the label in approval. He opened it and held it out to me. I took a swig, relishing the burn on my tongue.
“This is new.” John nodded toward a shelf behind the counter, hidden by a fake ficus Otis had bought, thinking I wouldn’t notice he’d killed the real one. I never pointed it out.
I handed John the bottle, and he took a healthy swig as well. The rain outside intensified.
“It’s a fan fiction shelf,” I said. “I bind my favorites and read them on slow days.” I shrugged. “It’s my little secret.”
“So, what’s in the drawer?” John leaned against the counter, both hands placed on either side of me. Not touching, but so...so close.
I sighed, hoping he’d forgotten. I leaned back, very aware that by doing so, the sides of my thighs brushed against his inner forearms. I unlocked the top drawer of the old counter with a key from my keyring. “Knock yourself out,” I said, waving at it.
John stepped around the counter. I didn’t turn, but I heard the stiff wood groan and a shuffle of paper.
I waited, my breath held. I was nervous. Why was I nervous?
“Nora, this is...”
When he decided to torture me by not finishing the sentence, I reluctantly turned.
He was standing there, eyes fixed on the drawer in front of him—on the papers, sketches, rolls, and sticky notes. “This is...” He looked up at me, and I swear I saw a new emotion wash over his features. Awe.
“You can say it,” I waved my hand in a nonchalant way that was the exact opposite of how I felt. “I’m brilliant. The next Gauguin. Kahlo has nothing on me.”
He shook his head.
“Can I?” He asked for permission to take some of the drawings out. I gave it.
Placing a few of my sketches on the counter, John drank them in.
The studies of people—customers mostly—who came to the store.
There was a coal sketch of the older lady who bought Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.
There was Otis flirting with the delivery boy.
There was a tattooed mom with her toddler on her lap, trying to get him interested in his very first book.
There were two lanky teens talking D&D, slouching with their school bags over the velvet sofa.
There were girls swooning over the Winchester brothers while Otis gave them recommendations based on their favorite show.
This drawer wasn’t just me sketching random people.
It was the heart and soul of Skye’s. A place for the weirdos with too much imagination.
“Nora. These are fucking brilliant,” John finally said, studying them and then me. He took out a large piece from the bottom of the drawer, and I nearly stopped him.
His eyes were transfixed on the portrait of my parents. “I can feel their love for each other.”
The photograph I’d based the sketch on had slipped out of one of Dad’s planners. It showed the two of them before I was born. He was sitting in the front seat of a sky-blue Vespa, and she wore a heart-patterned scarf in her honey-blonde locks and a smile I hadn’t seen in ages.
“It would make a great book cover,” he said.
I tilted my head, not sure if he was mocking me. I wasn’t used to all this...praise. My skin felt too tight.
“You are exceptionally talented, Nora.”
I scrunched up my nose.
“It’s a shame people don’t get to see these.”
The last time my cheeks reddened in Skye’s was probably when my dad caught me kissing Tobias behind the Historical Fantasy shelf.
I grabbed the papers, placing them back in the drawer. “It’s just a bunch of sketches. Not the Mona Lisa, John.”
He looked troubled at my comment.
I looked at the windows. The rain had picked up further, and it was almost impossible to see the outline of John’s car parked across the street from here.
“It’s your parents, isn’t it? The reason you don’t do relationships?”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “I was in a serious relationship once. Tobias.”
“What happened?”
I shrugged. “He ticked all the boxes. Good looking. Had aspirations as a journalist. His family was well-off, and, well…Dad loved him. Tobias was the kind of guy who threw Sunday barbecues and wore sensible footwear.” I shook my head.
“I thought it was love.” I turned my face toward the ceiling.
“Then the accident happened. Me and dad…we came off the road.”
The lump in my throat came and went.
“We were going to move up to Milwaukee, can you believe it? He’d gotten a job at the Daily. He wanted kids, lots of them…”
“It took me three weeks to recover enough to go home.” I brushed my finger over my stomach. “Three weeks that Mom had to deal with everything on her own. Dad…passing.” I shook my head. “It broke her.”
John interlaced his fingers with mine.
“I told Tobias I needed more time. Told him to go ahead. I waited for her to get better. But…she didn’t.” I swallowed hard. Pressure built behind my eyes. “She was the same, day after day. Her heart just…didn’t heal.”
“I saw what was ahead of me. The prospect of spending my life with someone, intertwining myself so deeply with another person, that when that person is ultimately taken from you, you feel like you’ve been ripped in half.
I couldn’t do it. Love so deeply that you’ll never feel whole again, being on your own. ”
My voice had grown thick. I pulled on the frays of my jeans, avoided looking at John.
“So that’s why I don’t date. I don’t think the pain that ultimately follows is worth it.”
He didn’t speak for a long while. My legs became restless. I hopped off the counter.
“What about your parents?” I took the bottle of whiskey with me as I plopped myself onto the sofa.
His gaze darkened. He twiddled with his watch, seemingly fighting with himself.
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
“It’s not a pretty story.”
“Most aren’t.” I patted the space beside me. “Doesn’t mean it’s not worth telling.”