Chapter 38
Ethan
I’d been replaying that night on the bike path more than I wanted to admit. The heat of her hand in mine, the way she tilted her chin when I brushed her hair back, both of us leaning in until the rumble of a passing truck broke the spell.
Part of me wished it had happened anyway. That I’d just gone for it and damn the timing. Another part knew it was better this way, safer. Because once you opened that door, there was no closing it. And I wasn’t sure I could survive her leaving if we crossed that line.
I also couldn’t help but think about our little road trip, how easily we fell into sync—mapping out the day, laughing at the same jokes, and effortlessly navigating the chaos.
It was a glimpse of what could be, a partnership I hadn't realized I craved, and it left me wondering what else we could build together if only I had the courage to take that leap.
Despite my reservations, I couldn't deny the flutter of anticipation in my chest when I thought about seeing her again.
The day started like any other. I unlocked the front door, flipped the sign, counted the drawer. The bell above the door announced each customer with its predictable jingle. Everything appeared ordinary.
Except it wasn’t.
By nine-thirty, I realized the usual soundtrack was missing. There was no Lily with her trail of sticky notes, no music shaking dust out of the rafters. Just me, the hum of the fluorescent lights, and too much silence.
By ten, I was checking the door every five minutes, convinced I’d see her strut in late with some excuse about glitter accidents or coffee emergencies.
By eleven, my chest was tight. I called her phone. Straight to voicemail.
The longer it went, the more my head spun. Was she hurt? Passed out somewhere? Or was this about me—about me almost kissing her? Maybe she was angry, maybe she’d decided to pack up early and leave Willowbrook behind before August even came. Every version hit like a sucker punch.
And underneath all of it was the one thing I didn’t want to admit, even to myself: I needed her here. Even if it was just for two more months. Even if it wrecked me when she left.
I finally broke and called Carol.
“She’s here,” Carol said, voice low. “Sick as I’ve ever seen anyone. Don’t you worry. I’ve got her.”
Relief hit hard enough that I had to sit down, but it didn’t last. “Can I… should I…” I cleared my throat. “Can I see her?”
Carol didn’t even hesitate. “Of course you can.”
I closed the store and was in my truck before she finished.
***
Lily was a wreck. Hair plastered to her forehead, cheeks flushed with fever, lips chapped and pale.
The kind of sick you feel in your bones.
And yet—the curve of her jaw, the fan of her eyelashes against her skin, the small constellation of freckles across her nose I'd never noticed before—without all the makeup and the armor, she was somehow more herself. More beautiful.
I felt useless, standing there with sunflowers in one hand, a plastic bag of lemon ice in the other.
And not just those. I'd gone overboard at Franklin’s Pharmacy.
Cold medicine in every flavor, ginger ale, crackers, Pedialyte because some mom in the aisle swore by it, two different kinds of Gatorade, Vicks VapoRub, and even a heating pad I wasn’t sure she’d need.
I must’ve looked like I was prepping for the flu apocalypse.
Carol took one look at the haul and raised an eyebrow. “Planning to open your own infirmary, Ethan?”
Heat crept up my neck. “Didn’t know what she’d want.”
“She’ll want you to care. And clearly, that part’s covered.” Her face softened. “Let’s put those here on the dresser.”
I obeyed, then backed toward the door, every instinct warring—wanting to stay, knowing I shouldn’t.
Carol touched my arm. “Ethan… would you sit with her? Just for a bit? I need to run home, shower, maybe grab a coffee. She shouldn’t wake up alone.”
I froze. “You sure?”
She gave me that steady, motherly look that left no room for argument. “Positive.”
So I sat. The chair by her bed creaked as I lowered myself into it.
The room smelled faintly of cleaning supplies and the lavender lotion Carol must’ve rubbed into her hands.
Lily lay turned toward the window, looking smaller than I’d ever seen her, like all the sparkle and armor had been stripped away.
For a while, I just watched her breathe, steady and shallow, telling myself I was only here in case she needed something.
But then my hand edged closer, fingertips brushing hers on the blanket.
Before I could second-guess it, I curled my fingers lightly around hers.
Her hand was warm, fragile, but it fit against mine like it belonged there.
I didn’t mean to speak aloud, but the words slipped out, soft and ragged. “Don’t leave, Lily. Not yet.”
Her lashes fluttered, and suddenly she was awake—blinking at me in the dim light, confusion knitting her brow.
“Ethan?” Her voice was hoarse, breaking.
I started to pull my hand away, but she tightened her fingers weakly around mine. That tiny pressure just about undid me.
“Yeah, it’s me,” I murmured. “Carol stepped out for a bit. She’ll be right back.”
She let out a shaky breath. “You didn’t have to…”
“I wanted to.” The truth landed heavy in my chest. I wanted to, more than anything.
Her eyes softened, glistening, but exhaustion pulled at her before she could say more. I stayed, my hand anchored in hers, and for the first time in a long while, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Carol came back twenty minutes later—hair damp from a quick shower, coffee in hand—and shooed me out with that firm little smile. “Go run your store, Ethan. I’ll sit with her. I promise.”
Back in the truck, I sat with the engine off, hands on the wheel. I stared through the windshield and said it like a confession to the empty cab. “I’m in trouble, Dad.”
I rubbed the worn groove on the steering wheel absentmindedly.
“I’m falling for her. I am. And I can see the ending from here.
She’s leaving. I don’t know how to stop this, and I don’t know how to be just the guy at the counter when every part of me wants more.
” I blew out a breath, voice low. “And the worst part? I still want to show up. Even if it breaks me.”
The silence didn’t argue. So I turned the key and headed back to the only place I could do anything about any of it. I re-opened the shop, flipped on the lamps, and went about the day.
By the next morning, I couldn’t take the stillness anymore.
I sat at the counter with a stack of old receipts, staring at the margins where she’d scrawled notes—add snack display here, move romance endcap to the front, think about teen night.
Half the time, I’d rolled my eyes, told her I didn’t have time or money for gimmicks.
But the truth? She’d been right. The weeks she’d been here, sales ticked up.
Customers stayed longer. The place had felt alive.
I realized then that I wasn’t scared of her ideas.
I was scared of what it meant to care again.
For months, I’d let this store limp along because survival was easier than hope.
She’d walked in with glitter pens and guts and reminded me of the kid I used to be, the one who thought books could build a life.
So I started small. Dug out a legal pad.
Scribbled headings: Kids, Teens, Community.
I made calls on my lunch break. To Carol, asking if she’d consider reading for a Saturday morning story hour.
To Rachel, about connecting with her author friend for a Q&A.
To Nate, who claimed he still had an old karaoke speaker in his garage that might work for a “Lyrics Night.”
By Wednesday evening, the plan was real, messy, half-baked, but real. Saturday Storytime, Zines & Lyrics night for teens, Author Talks once a month. Nothing big-city fancy, nothing expensive. Just… possibilities.
I stayed late, shifting shelves the way Lily had suggested weeks ago—mysteries closer to the register, romances up front where the light hit best. Damn if it didn’t look good. Cleaner. More welcoming. More like the kind of place I’d want to spend time in.
Every night I locked up, I found myself glancing at that stool. “You’d like this, Lily,” I muttered once, brushing dust from my hands. “Hell, it’s all yours anyway.”
Lily might be down with a fever, but the bookstore didn't have to be.
I wanted her to walk back through that door and see something had shifted—not just the shelves, but me.
That I hadn't just been dusting and turning pages, marking time until closing.
That something had caught fire here, something she'd sparked without even trying.