Because this shop is all I have, really.
I gather my hair up from my damp neck into a messy ponytail, fingers shaky and slick with sweat. My breath still comes hard and heavy, my lungs burning from the sprint. Beads of sweat trace down my temples, sticky and salt slick.
I move through the quiet, past shelves waiting to be filled and a counter standing tall, ready for the rush that might never come. Each step echoes on the wooden floor. It’s a reminder that no one else is here. I reach the bathroom and switch on the light. Leaning over the sink, I splash cold water on my face, hoping it’ll cool something more than my skin. Maybe my thoughts. Maybe the ache in my chest that won’t quit.
This place is so nearly done, and it’s so nearly something beautiful.
A dream written with love and grief and stubborn hope.
But what now?
A text pops up on my phone.
It’s Ford.
Ford: Stormy, where are you?
I set the phone down on the side, staring at the screen, unsure if I should reply. The notification fades, and suddenly, it’s just me and the glow of my screensaver;
"It’s never too late to become who you want to be. I hope you live a life that you’re proud of, and if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start over."
—F. Scott Fitzgerald
A small sob slips out before I can stop it. I flip the phone over, face down.
I grip the edge of the sink, catching my reflection. Wet cheeks. Red eyes. Messy ponytail. I look no better than the girl who had wanted to leave London. Scared and alone. And that hurts most of all, because I thought I was finally becoming someone else. Someone stronger. Someone who knew what she was doing. But the dream feels so thin now.
A noise echoes from deeper in the shop, something faint like a scuff, and I freeze, heart stalling for half a beat. Someone’s here.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and step carefully into the main space.
Will stands by one of the shelves he built, hand gripping the edge tightly.
For a moment, I smile.
Relief flickers through me at the sight of a familiar face.
Maybe he came to check in. Maybe he cares.
But then I remember the look he gave me back at book club.
Cold. Blank.
Not a word when things turned sour.
Just silence.
My smile falters.
“Will?”
He lifts his eyes. His expression shifts, softening into almost something flirty?
“Stormy, I’m sorry,” he says, stepping towards me slowly. “For whathappened back there. I should’ve spoken up for you. I was caught off guard. It wasn’t right.”
I let out a shaky breath, and I nod, swallowing down the lump in my throat.
“Thanks,” I say, voice quiet. “It’s okay.”
