Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
The price for sofas had gone up marginally.
I loved the pink walls.
Secret drawers should stay secret.
“Ten minutes to go.”
I clutched my best friend’s arm as the countdown to midnight ticked away.
On my other side, I bumped elbows with May, Mom, and Jeremy.
They were just a few of the many faces packed into the biggest crowd Skye’s had seen since it opened.
From the back of the store all the way to the entrance, people craned their necks toward the screen.
May hit refresh again. The fundraiser tracker now read eight minutes. The progress bar inched closer—so close—to our goal.
I whispered a prayer to Bowie, to Freddie Mercury, to Princess Diana. Around me, the whole crowd held its breath.
Once the idea was born, it spread like wildfire.
Everyone in town pitched in. Otis practically skipped when I let him add a romance section.
We sold tickets to a Drag Queen story hour—Femme Fatale reading The Boy Who Grew Dragons and, when the kids begged for more, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
It was such a hit we were already planning to make it a monthly thing—assuming we reached our goal and could keep the store open.
With a little push from my friends and some gentle nudging from Mom, I’d turned my secret drawer into a gallery wall. The sales from those sketches alone could cover a few months' rent—but not the full cost of repairs and bills. Not yet.
The drawing of my parents sold first—before the doors even opened—to an anonymous buyer. Thanks to Jeremy, we now had a proper website, where people could order books online.
May was selling knitted book sleeves. Otis’s theater friends floated through the room with trays of champagne and orange juice.
Mom and our neighbor Carol had made muffins, little apple pies, and a book-shaped cake ready to be cut.
I saw Mom’s knuckles whiten around the knife as she stared at the screen.
Seeing her down here, cheeks flushed with hope and her eyes glowing with purpose, it almost felt like Dad was here, too. I glanced at the wall, at his new portrait, Founder of Skye’s engraved into the frame. The wall behind it had been painted the same soft pink as Mom’s kitchen.
The store wasn’t quite the same anymore. But it felt right. Skye’s had changed—and so had its owner. No matter what happened next, the people of Middleton hadn’t forgotten my dad.
“Ten, nine, eight…”
The crowd chanted as the seconds dropped. I tensed, gripping May’s sleeve.
“So close,” she whispered.
“Four, three…”
May refreshed the browser one last time. “Oh my god, Nora—”
“ONE.”
The room erupted. Arms wrapped around me. Kisses landed on my cheeks. My ribs were compressed by a hundred hugs at once.
But I couldn’t look away from the screen.
We hadn’t just made it.
We’d exceeded it.
As the cheers slowly died down, I heard May again. “Someone sent a HUGE donation. Right before the clock ran out. Look at this.”
I gaped at the number. That was…a lot of zeros.
“Who would—?” My voice caught as my eyes scanned the note beneath the anonymous donation.
I owe the store a new sofa.
While the celebration continued downstairs, I slipped away. Partly because my social battery was long dead. But mostly because, ever since I read that message, my heart wouldn’t stop pounding.
There was no doubt in my mind where the donation had come from.
I sat on my bed and looked around the room, still half-filled with unopened boxes.
I’d been too busy planning for today to fully move back in.
Jeremy and Otis had been over a lot; Mom was loving the company.
And when May showed up with snacks and showed my mom how to knit, we’d somehow become a little patchwork family.
Still, I couldn’t shake the John-shaped shadow in the room—or the way everyone else had seemingly decided he didn’t exist. I knew it was for my benefit, yet, the utter refusal to even mention his name was louder somehow.
I set my champagne glass on the floor and crouched beside a box I hadn’t touched yet. I knew what was inside.
My sequined jumpsuit sparkled against the spines of the books like scattered stars.
My gaze landed on the one that used to sit in the shop window. The one Otis had quietly removed when all of this began. An unnecessary gesture, but a kind one.
I ran a fingertip over the author’s name. Then took a deep breath and opened it.
Inside the dust jacket, his photo stared back at me.
The shock hit like a punch to the chest. I braced myself on the floor.
Like a recovering addict, I’d gone cold turkey—blocked his socials, replaced every online mention of his name with cat news (yes, there’s a plug-in for that).
Lately, I’d even had moments without daydreams. Without what-ifs.
The stress of saving the store had kept me grounded.
But now here he was—black and white, in my hands.
I cracked the spine and started skimming.
I’d once overheard a customer say they didn’t read fiction because it wasn’t true. Because it was all just lies dressed up as stories.
Well, here in my hand lay 796 pages of John’s words.
Written by a man who knew how to lie.
Because there was nothing of him in there. Not one sentence reflected the man I knew—or thought I knew. These pages read like a son trying to impress his father.
I was just about to close the book for good when I noticed an interview printed in the back. Skimming through the usual plot questions, my eyes snagged on one paragraph.
Interviewer: What’s the one piece of advice you’d give to aspiring writers?
John: First of all, you don’t have to be young to start writing. Write when you’re forty, fifty. Hell, if your fingers itch to write at eighty-five, do it. Don’t overthink it. And never compare yourself to other writers. No one can do what you can do.
Interviewer: Meaning?
John: No one can tell a story the way you can.
I see new writers afraid to share their work, scared someone will steal their “unique” idea.
But the truth is, you could give a hundred writers the plot of The Stand and you’d get a hundred different stories.
No one else has your voice. Unless you're Sanderson finishing The Wheel of Time—that's a different story. Write from your soul.
Interviewer: You’re often praised for your plotting, but your characters feel very real. How do you approach that?
John: If you love what you’re doing, your characters come alive. I let them lead. I just follow.
And just like that, something flared inside me.
A spark of clarity. A jolt of recognition.
I finally understood why I hadn’t been able to write my Captain the way she deserved. My own fear of love had clouded her choices. I’d been the one holding her back.
I bolted to my laptop, nearly knocking over the chair. The screen’s harsh blue glow stung my eyes as I opened the file.
And wrote.
As blue light faded into the warm haze of dawn, I saw it—what Caruso had been trying to tell me all along.
Jupiter’s light filled the cockpit. Serene leaned in. This might be the last time she saw her companion—her best friend. And with that thought, something in her broke open.
Captain Caruso pulled her lieutenant close, and kissed the woman she loved.
I logged back into my fan fiction account and uploaded the story.
Romance didn’t have to be grand gestures and cringey declarations. It didn’t have to be a billionaire waving roses from a fire escape or promising a perfect life in exchange for sacrifice.
It was hope.
And when I searched the romance tags in the forum, that’s what I found.
Amid the engagements and pregnancy tropes, I found my Captain.
Happy.
Independent.
Loved—without being diminished.
Because the right person doesn’t clip your wings. They help you fly. They don’t hold you back. They push you forward.
My Captain hadn’t set out to find love. She hadn’t gone searching for her “better half.” But her second-in-command had chosen her. And that choice—quiet, steadfast, inevitable—had changed everything.
They made each other braver. Stronger. Freer.
Because what’s braver than choosing love, knowing it might break you, and saying yes anyway?
Her love story wasn’t about sacrifice. It was about partnership. Two people who were whole on their own—
but together, they shined bright.
As bright as every star in the galaxy combined.
I printed the final chapter of the Captain Caruso series, bound the pages into a small folder, and slid it onto my fan fiction shelf.
The story was complete.