Ford nods with quiet approval in his eyes. Then he reaches out, gently brushing his fingers against mine.
“You deserve better,” he says.
I smile, small but real. I do deserve better, and I think I’ve found it.
Then I block his number.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel free.
It’s still going to take time to completely heal. But that’s okay.
Ford doesn’t say anything. He just steps closer and wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a side hug. Then he presses a soft kiss to the top of my head. I lean into him for a breath, letting the quiet settle. Then the low rumble of an engine outside breaks the moment.
Ford glances toward the window.
“Van’s here.”
He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze before letting go.
“I wonder how many of those books are emotionally unavailable protagonists just waiting for someone to walk into their lives and ruin their solitude.”
I laugh, the sound bubbling up before I can stop it. “Probably all of them.”
He smirks.
“Figures. You do have a type.”
He looks up at the sky as he reaches the door, pulling it open.
“Come on. Let’s go rescue your books before they get rained on.”
We head outside together. The air is hot and humid tonight, and the grey clouds loom over us. The van doors groan open, revealing a mess of boxes stacked like a game of literary Jenga. Books, mugs, bookmarks, and a few crates of indie merch fill the space, looking like they’ve been packed in a hurry. I scan the pile, already mentally sorting what needs to go in first. I take another glance at the heavy clouds above.
“Okay,” I mutter, more to myself than to Ford. “Let’s move.”
He doesn’t answer, just grabs a box and starts towards the shop. I follow with my arms full and boots thudding against the pavement. My pink summer dress clings to my back, and my hair sticks to my neck.
We carry the boxes inside together, stacking them near the counter.
I grab a box cutter from the drawer and slice open the top of one of the packages—just to check, of course. Inside, nestled between bubble wrapand brown paper, are stacks of books, some with matte covers, some glossy, all of them unfamiliar and full of promise.
I lift one out. It’s a slim paperback with a moody forest on the cover. Tucked just beneath it is a folded note, handwritten on thick cream paper.
I unfold it carefully.
“Stormy,
Thank you for making space for voices like mine. This story saved me while I was writing it, I hope it finds someone who needs it just as much.
With gratitude,
E. Drew.”
I blink, throat tightening.
Ford leans over, reading the note upside down.
“Looks like you’re already changing lives.”
