“Darlin’,” he says, sliding his hand into mine, “I think we can make that happen.”
He pulls me gently to his side, presses a kiss to the top of my head as we step out into the crisp air, our boots crunching over the snow-packed sidewalk. The town may be quiet. But something between us is loud and clear.
We walk three buildings down, the cold biting at my cheeks, but I barely feel it with Sam beside me. The streets are still quiet, sleepy in that small-town kind of way, likenothing here ever moves too fast even when everything in you does.
The library’s front door creaks as we step inside. Another bell jingles overhead, and the scent of old books and lemon polish fills the air. It’s warm and quiet.
An older woman with silver hair pulled into a tidy twist looks up from behind a wooden desk. She beams the moment she sees Sam.
“Good morning, Sam,” she says, her voice honey sweet. “Who’s this?”
“This is Charlie,” he says, gesturing to me like I’m something precious. “And we’re hoping your internet’s working.”
“It is.” She pats the counter and begins her slow wobble around it, leaning heavily on a cane with a floral handle. “Let me get the old girl booted up for you.”
I smile, biting back a snort as she leads us toward a corner desk. The computer is ancient—cream-colored plastic, the monitor thicker than a dictionary, and a keyboard that looks like it’s seen generations of snack crumbs.
“I think I used this same model when I was in grade school,” I murmur to Sam as the machine lets out a low, grinding whir.
“Still runs faster than Phern before her coffee,” he whispers back, and I chuckle.
We wait in silence while the screen flickers to life one pixel at a time, and I glance at him, just watching him.
This is what life looks like with him. No red carpets. No urgent headlines. No pretending. Just an old computer, a friendly librarian, and a man who makes me feel like I could belong somewhere. Even here. Even now.
“There you go, dear.”
“Thank you.”
I settle into the worn, creaky chair, the padding thin andarmrest cracked, but somehow it fits. Like everything in this town, it’s a little battered but still standing.
The computer takes its sweet time loading, the fan humming like it’s about to lift off. When my inbox finally appears, I groan. Four hundred and twelve unread emails. I stare at the number for a beat, then shake my head and ignore them all.
I click into my last thread with Frederick. Two replies blink back at me.
Char, The station expects an update by Tuesday.
-F
Char, Sorry to do this, but you’re being cut.
-F
No greeting. No explanation. Not even myactual name.
My chest goes tight for a moment, but it fades fast like I already knew this was coming, and it’s just the confirmation I needed.
I crack my knuckles and start typing.
Frederick,
Sorry for the delay in response. I was caught in a freak storm and just now have access to the internet. Sorry for any inconvenience it may have caused. I’ll clean out my desk when I return.
Best,
Charlotte
My finger hovers over “send” for a half second. Then I hit it. Clean. Done.
