“Is that a question?”
Yes.
“No, some things are just hard to explain, and the words are never right when you say them,” I answered.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said. His lips twisted briefly, and then he patted the top of the box of books. “Well, thank you for these. Um, take care of yourself, okay?”
“Okay.” My voice was small and unrecognizable even to my own ears. I was sure about John. He courted me. He set expectations, and I met them. I told him my dreams, and he made promises to fulfill them. We checked each other’s boxes and crossed off each itemized part of a relationship until we were six months in, picking out wedding rings.
I fell in love with John.
So, it was painful for me to realize Isaac could unsettle me that quickly.
As he opened the door to exit, the chime rang, and the crisp, cold February air cut through the store, sending a breeze through my hair.
“Isaac,” I called. He paused and turned. “What were you going to ask me?”
His eyes fell to the floor, then to the box of books he was holding, before returning back to me.
“Nothing that matters now,” he said, a sad yet genuine expression on his face. “Happy Valentine’s Day. I hope your fiancé gives you the life you deserve.”
fifteen
NOW
“ARE YOU READY FOR THEgrand opening?” my sister, Jenn, asks as she dusts the shelves of the romance section.
“No,” I admit, straightening bookmarks for the umpteenth time.
My sister, Marie, places a hand on mine. “I’m proud of you, Anna. I know walking away from John last year was hard, and you could have given up and felt sorry for yourself. Instead, you built this.”
She gestures to the bookstore—warm wooden floors, original to the building, etched with scuff and life and memories. Floral wallpaper adorns the back wall, and endless rows of white shelves house all the trendy favorites and the classics—romance, thriller, true crime, historical fiction, and fantasy. Each book selected with purpose. Two separate reading nooks have emerald green velvet couches and wooden end tables. The exposed brick wall houses a neon pink sign with the name of my bookstore hanging above the wine dispensaries.
Wine About Books.
This bookstore has always been my dream. Wine tastings and books. It pairs better than cheese, if you ask me.
I smile, soaking in the beauty of my own accomplishment. I did it. Finally.
The front door chimes open and I hear his voice. The voice of a stranger, yet so achingly familiar.
“I heard someone ordered some wine.” His blue eyes are bright, and the smile lines around his eyes remind me of the years I missed out on him.
He makes me smile more than I ever thought I could. And maybe none of it makes sense. We didn’t fall in love or have any time of longevity between the two of us when we met. But in thirty-six hours, we created a memory that couldn’t be replaced, replicated, or forgotten.
After my divorce was finalized nine months ago, I focused on this dream project of mine. I carefully picked the new floor stain and sampled nearly thirty different kinds of wallpaper. I poured over book lists, deciding which would perfectly fit on these shelves. And when it came time to find the supplier for the wine, I knew exactly who to call.
One business call turned into coffee. Then dinner. Then, sunset picnics, trips to the city, and hikes in the mountains until each moment we spent together was strung together, and we realized the spark we felt all those years ago never died. It was just waiting for the right time for us to let it burn.
“Hey, stranger,” I say, stepping to him, throwing my arms around his neck, and breathing him in.
“Are you excited?” he asks, sweeping a hand through my hair.
“Terrified,” I answer.
He smiles. “Good. The best things in life should scare you a little bit at first.”
I reach up on my tiptoes and kiss him on the lips.
