He squeezes harder. “Scarlett?” I meet his gaze. “That sucks, and I’m sorry.”
I watch our hands, joined between us. I can’t help myself—I trace the small tattoo inked across the back of his hand, a tiny black star just below the knuckle of his index finger. My thumb moves over it slowly, feeling the faint texture of the lines, trying to focus on that instead of how raw and seen I suddenly feel. “Yeah, it does suck. But at least I had Celeste.”
“Celeste?”
“My boss.” My lips twitch into a faint smile at the thought of her. “She was a good friend of my parents’, and after their death, she took the one thing she knew could help me and turned it into jobs for us both.” I shrug. “Books.”
He huffs out a surprised breath. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. She made me pick up a bunch of books, then told me to write out my thoughts like I was talking to a friend. Then she made me do it again and again. At first she’d badger me about it, and after a while, it started being fun.”
His thumb rubs over my first knuckle, the soft contact making my stomach do somersaults. “And the rest is history.”
“Right.” Heat creeps up my chest. “She, uh, she used to work at the library when we were kids.”
“Oh my God.” His eyes bulge out. “She’s Mrs. Morgan? Shit, she was terrifying. If you ever returned a book late, she’d add your picture to the wall of Library Delinquents. You know, she suspected I’d drawn a penis in a book, so she told me books had better memory than people and remembered who disrespected them. Scared the hell out of me, especially because Itotallydrew that penis.”
I laugh, rolling my eyes. “She mellowed out. Mostly.”
“Does she still smell like honey?”
“Oh, yes. It’s her perfume—she always smells like summer.”
I can’t look away from our hands, still together, even knowing full well I should pull mine back. Hell, I should at least want to. “Anyway, that’s my sad story.”
“And that’s not the version your brother heard,” Rafael says, tilting his head slightly as if trying to read me better.
“No.” A bitter taste rises in my throat. “And he never forgave me for it.”
“So why don’t you tell him the truth?”
Because the truth is worse than my lie. Knowing his grandparents all but kicked me out would leave him stranded in a house full of bitterness. “I guess I’d rather have him hating me than the people he depends on.”
He exhales deeply. “That’s a hell of a thing to carry alone.”
“Some things are easier that way.”
There’s a pause, and then he shifts slightly, angling his body toward me. “Okay, it’s probably not my place, but… don’t you think he deserves the right to choose?”
“He’s just a kid, Rafael.”
“Wrong.” His lips quirk upward, though his eyes remain serious. “As the president of that club for eighteen consecutive years, I know how to recognize a fellow member.”
I frown, confused.
“He’s not just a kid, Scarlett. He’s amiserablekid.” He leans back, starting the car with a soft rumble. “And something tells me the truth could help with that.”
the small-town gossip[trope]
a relentless information pipeline fueled by nosy neighbors, overzealous hairdressers, and the local diner waitress who knows everyone’s coffee orderandsecrets; in rom-coms, it’s the invisible network ensuring that every scandal, breakup, and steamy almost-kiss is public knowledge before the main characters have even processed it themselves
“So then after the bookstore we had dinner together, right? I swear he spent hours just listening to me talking about books. Asking questions, like he actuallycared. We watchedThe Silence of the Lambs—yes, again—and there was a moment when he wished me good night. A propermoment.” I grin at the memory of him hesitating, smiling somewhat shyly, then kissing my cheek before walking away. “He even said we’d watchHannibalthe next day. And guess what?” My reflection stares back at me in the mirror—brown hair falling in soft waves around my shoulders, bangs slightly uneven from the last time I trimmed them myself. My fair skin looks even paler in the mirror light, freckles scattered across my cheeks and nose. “He was a no-show. No calls, no texts—I know, I know. We didn’t even exchange numbers yet. I guess I’m just worried about him.”
I pause, lowering the mascara and examining my reflection. “Did he really not go to the funeral yesterday? Is he okay?” I continue, grabbing a tube of lipstick. “Maybe he’s just done with me.”
“Rooo,” Sherlock responds in his most judgmental tone.
“I’m not disappointed or anything.” I glare at him through the mirror. “It’s not like I didn’t expect it.”
