“Hey,” I say gently, taking a step closer. “Is there someone you want to call? I don’t know what else to do here, but you’re safe. You can just relax now.”
The saddest expression passes over her face before she carefully composes herself.
In that moment, my heart cracks for her.
She looks so young then, younger than a woman who owns her own business and who moved halfway across the country alone should.
“How old are you?” I ask, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
She lifts a brow at me, but she answers. “Twenty-nine,” she says. “Why? How old are you?”
“I’m thirty-eight,” I tell her. “And it’s nothing. I just… I’m going to make some food.”
I turn and clomp downstairs. There’s no point in telling her she looks so young I want to physically stop the world from throwing scary shit at her. I can’t. I can’t protect her, and I don’t understand this almost primal instinct in me to do so.
I have a little sister. I’ve watched Grace go through hard shit, and yeah, I’ve always been there to back her play. But this feels so very different. So much more complicated. I don’t pity Chloe or feel a duty toward her.
I slam my frustration against the kitchen cabinets and fill a pot of water to boil, heavily salting it. I warm the sauce in a pan, adding a little olive oil and water to thin it without changing the flavor too much.
Just after I dump the box of pasta into the stockpot, Chloe pads downstairs. Her hair is damp and is hanging in smooth, combed locks over her shoulders. Little droplets of water drip from the ends and land on a towel she has wrapped over her shoulders like a shawl.
For the many layers of clothes she wears out there in the world, her sleepwear is surprisingly minimalist. She’s wearing a pair of soft sleep shorts, emphasis on short, and a loose V-neck T-shirt. Her feet are bare, and I yank my gaze away from her naked legs to pour myself something strong.
“What’re you drinking?” I call from the freezer. I drop a generous serving of ice into a glass and set it on the counter. “I’ve got beer. I can open some wine…”
“Just whatever you’re having is fine,” she says. She sits at my kitchen table and picks at her nails. “Can I help?”
I shake my head and fill a second glass with ice. The pasta’s got another three or four minutes to cook, so I grab a lime from the fridge and make us each a strong gin and tonic. I hand her a drink, strain the pasta, and then serve up a plate for each of us.
We eat in silence, and it’s almost painfully awkward. I can smell the fresh berry scent emanating from her wet hair, and her face is scrubbed clean but has a lot of the color back in it.
“What did you do back in… Where did you move from? I’m sure my ma told me, but I don’t remember.”
She nods. “Pennsylvania.” She takes a long sip of her drink, and her shoulders relax a little more as she chuckles. “I worked in a bookstore,” she says. “But the one back home was a major retail chain. You know the kind—we had an in-store café that was owned by another big company. Having books and a café and running it all myself is quite the change.”
“Must be.” I’ve eaten every morsel on my plate, and now I’m feeling it. I’m full and tired. I lean back in my chair and sip my drink. “Are books a thing in your family? Like, did you always know you wanted to own your own bookshop one day?”
I’m slowing down her meal by talking to her, but the silence is too painful. I feel like the less we talk, the more we both get lost in the memories of what happened tonight.
She lets out a laugh and sets down her fork. “Not at all,” she says. “It was actually a huge shock when I learned my aunt left me Latterature.”
“Yeah?” I watch her as she talks, checking out the loose curls that are taking shape as her hair dries.
“Yeah,” she echoes. “My family wasn’t really close to Aunt Ann. Not as close as my mother and I would’ve liked. I was really shocked she left the place to me. I wasn’t sure I even wanted it, but I knew I had to come here and check it out.”
Instead of looking away, I watch, a curious heat rising under my skin as I let myself appreciate this woman.
For the first time, she maintains eye contact. “Can I speak freely?” she finally asks.
“That’s the only fucking way to do it,” I assure her.
“My dad was a drunk,” she says simply. “And I know I should be more considerate. He had a disease. An addiction. Alcoholism is no joke, and it’s not his fault that he had a problem. But it’s hard to separate the man from the booze when the two have such a close relationship.”
Hearing that her dad had issues with alcohol makes me sit up a little straighter in my chair, but I don’t interrupt.
“My dad never cooked a meal in his life.” She chews another bite of pasta and shakes her head thoughtfully. “He sure knew how to scream at me or my mother to bring him dinner, though.” She twirls the curly end of a piece of hair between her fingers and looks at me. “My family life was completely opposite of yours. Dad drank and yelled. Mom hid and enabled. And I just tried to stay out of the way.”
“In your own family?” I set my glass back on the table, making a louder thud against the wood than I intend. “That sucks,” I tell her. “I’m sorry.”
