Chapter 10 #2
After my mom told me goodbye, Carol touched my arm before I could duck away.
“I’m glad you’re going to game night tonight,” she said, her eyes warm and certain.
“That’s a good group of friends. And don’t even think about skipping out early.
You need to be surrounded by people who love you, Ethan. It’s good for you.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but she plowed right over me, that knowing smile tugging at her lips.
“And don’t worry about your mama—I’ll be with her all day.
We’ll take our walk, I’ll help her get the meatloaf in the oven, and we’re going to watch Tootsie after dinner.
She’ll be fine. Which means you’re free to go and have a little fun. ”
I hesitated. The thought of walking into a crowded house, all those familiar faces turning toward me, sent a ripple of unease through my chest. I hated the way people looked at me now—like I was made of glass, or worse, like they expected me to smile and be the same man I was before.
But Carol’s gaze didn’t carry pity. Just steady affection, as if she saw the parts of me I’d tried to bury and loved me anyway. I let out a slow breath and gave a short nod.
“Alright,” I said at last, though it came out more of a sigh than anything.
Carol’s smile softened, patient and steady as ever.
I fiddled with my keys, searching for something steady to hold onto. “Thanks for staying with Mom. For keeping her company. For… being here. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Carol reached over and patted my arm, warm and certain, the way she always had. “You’ll never have to find out, Ethan. She’s family. So are you.”
The words should’ve comforted me, but they sat heavy instead, pressing against the ache I carried everywhere.
I forced a small nod, gave her a quick smile that didn’t quite reach, and turned toward the truck.
By the time I slid behind the wheel, the silence in the cab was louder than any music Lily Harper could blast.
The road home stretched quietly in front of me, sunlight glinting off the hood of Dad’s old truck. My hands tightened on the wheel the way they always did when I drove alone, and before long I found myself talking to the empty seat beside me.
“Took Mom to church today, just like I promised you I would,” I muttered, the rumble of the engine filling the silence. “She smiled, Dad. She always does. Pretends she’s fine. Carol’s staying with her today, so I know she’s in good hands.”
I exhaled, the sound rough in the cab. “But I’m tired. Tired of being sad. Tired of plastering on a smile every time someone asks how I’m doing. Tired of pretending I’ve got it figured out when most days I’m just… showing up and hoping no one notices the cracks.”
I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel, trying to shake the heaviness pressing against my ribs. “I miss you. More than I know what to do with.”
The words hung in the air. Heavy. Too heavy. I shifted in my seat, swallowed hard, and forced my focus back to the road. That was enough honesty for one morning.
I pulled my truck up to the curb in front of the bookstore. The "Closed" sign hung in the window. I should've gone straight in to restock or run numbers, but my empty stomach had other ideas. Upstairs meant an empty fridge. No thanks.
Across the street, Joni’s Diner glowed with its brick facade, catching the warm light. I shoved my keys in my pocket and crossed over, telling myself I’d just grab my usual to-go order and get back to work.
The bell over the door jingled as I stepped inside.
It was the kind of place that hadn’t changed since the seventies—vinyl booths, chrome trim, a pie case humming by the register.
The air was thick with the buttery sweetness of pancakes and the bite of burnt coffee.
The Sunday crowd chatted over pie and refills, church clothes already traded for jeans and ballcaps.
“Ethan Calloway,” Joni called from behind the counter, one hand on a coffeepot, the other on her hip. “Look what the cat dragged in. Haven’t seen you in here since—what, Easter?”
I gave her a tired smile. “Guess I’m overdue. Can I get my usual to go?”
She scribbled it on her pad. “Turkey on rye, no tomato, extra pickles. I know you better than your mama does.”
That earned her a huff of a laugh. I slid onto a stool at the counter while she disappeared toward the kitchen. A few heads turned my way, and I braced myself.
“Ethan, that was some meeting yesterday,” Mr. Easton said from a booth, raising his mug in salute. “About time someone shook the board awake.”
“It wasn’t me doing the shaking,” I muttered.
“True enough,” he said with a chuckle. “That city gal’s got ideas, I’ll give her that.”
“Big ideas,” his wife added, eyes twinkling. “My granddaughter already asked if she can camp out for tickets. Tickets! For our fair!”
I forced a polite smile. “Guess that’s one way to sell funnel cakes.”
By the window, Mrs. Shipley leaned over her coffee cup and called out, “Ethan, you’d better get used to a crowd. Word is half the county’s planning to stop by your place just to peek at those posters she put up.”
Great. Even here, I couldn’t escape Lily Harper. The image of her running earlier flashed in my mind—legs toned and confident, ponytail swinging, as she waved with that radiant smile. It sent a familiar warmth through me, stirring feelings I was trying to push aside.
Joni slid my sandwich and a paper bag across the counter. “On the house today,” she said, wagging a finger at me.
I opened my mouth, ready to argue, but she cut me off with a look I knew better than to challenge.
I grabbed the bag, muttering, “Appreciate it, Joni,” and pushed out into the sunlight.
****
Back at the shop, I balanced my to-go bag from Joni’s on the counter.
The place was quiet again, the only sound was the faint tick of the old wall clock and the hum of the ceiling fan overhead.
I unwrapped my sandwich, spreading the ledger across the counter while I ate. The grease bled through the paper sack, leaving little translucent circles on the wood. Dad would’ve given me hell for that. He’d always kept this counter spotless, like order could hold everything else together.
I brushed the bag aside and pulled yesterday’s sales slips closer, pen tapping in the margins as I added them up. At first, I thought I’d made a mistake—numbers that high didn’t belong to a Saturday in May. I went back through them twice just to be sure.
No, it was right. We’d had our best day all month.
Honestly, I shouldn’t have been surprised.
The store had been a circus yesterday—music blasting, kids running back and forth with tape and markers, people wandering in to see whatever Lily was doing by the window.
I’d been too distracted following her volume knob and trying not to trip over poster boards to pay attention to the books walking out the door.
I rang people up without thinking about it, assuming it was the usual handful of sales and not… this.
Cookbooks, paperbacks, even a couple of those glossy hardcovers that usually collected dust until I marked them down—gone. People had come in for Lily’s spectacle and left with books under their arms.
I sat back, chewing a fry, the numbers blurring on the page.
Relief tugged at me. Hell, it should have felt like a victory.
Maybe if we had more Saturdays like this, I could keep the store afloat a little longer.
Pay the bills without dipping into savings.
Maybe even fix the damn roof before the next storm rolled through.
But the thought soured almost as quickly as it came.
A spike like yesterday was great, sure, but it wasn’t a plan.
It was a fluke, fueled by Lily Harper’s neon posters and her ability to charm half the town in under an hour.
What happened when the fair was over and she packed up, taking all that buzz with her?
The fry in my hand had gone cold. I dropped it back in the bag, staring at Dad’s faded handwriting in the margins of the ledger.
For a second, it almost felt like he was still here, reminding me to breathe, to keep going, to trust that steady work and good people could pull us through like they always had in his day.
The clock ticked above the register. Game night was hours away, but the thought of a crowded living room made my chest tighten all over again. I closed the ledger, slid my empty food wrappers into the trash, and rubbed a hand over my jaw.
The shop was quiet now, the kind of quiet that should’ve been comforting.
But instead, it pressed in on me, heavy and close, a reminder of all I was trying to hold together.
I leaned back on the stool, staring up at the ceiling beams, and wondered how many more Sundays I could keep pretending I had it all under control.