“Bailey.”
“Fine. He breathed my air and said things.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I sold him books. He fixed the cash drawer and… offered to help with the roof.”
She squeals like I just announced a royal engagement. “Bailey.”
“It’s a roof, not a proposal.”
“Yet.”
“Out,” I say again, but I’m smiling. I can feel it, traitorous and warm.
When the sun finally starts its slow drop and the tourists thin, I flip the sign to CLOSED. The shop breathes with me. I lock the register, turn the lamps low, and climb the spiral stairs to the little apartment that sits like a secret on the second floor.
From the landing window, the bay is all pewter and scattered light. The farm is a dark smudge across the water. Ipress my palm to the cold glass and pretend the chill is the reason my chest aches.
A truck idles down by the dock, taillights glowing red in the gray. The driver's door opens. A familiar silhouette leans against the frame, looking out at the same horizon I’ve stared at every day since I learned how to want things like they were allowed.
Crew tips his head back like the sky just gave him an answer. He turns toward the lighthouse, and even from this distance, I feel it when his eyes find the window.
We hold that line of sight across the evening like we’re balancing on it. Neither of us waves. Neither of us looks away first.
The wind lifts. Leaves scrape the boardwalk. Somewhere, the diner’s neon sign buzzes to life.
I drop my hand from the glass and whisper to the empty room, “Breathe. It’s just a hammer.”
Because tomorrow exists now, apparently. Because my life—the quiet, alphabetized, laminated version—just invited trouble back in and called it repairs.
Downstairs, the shop creaks like approval.
I make tea. Not because I want tea, but because doing something small feels like control. I curl on the old velvet chair with a blanket and the romcom I handed him—my copy, dog-eared and soft. I read the first page three times without absorbing a single word. My brain keeps replaying stupid details instead—the scrape of his stubble when he smiled, the way he guarded his shoulder, and the controlled softness when he saidlet me helplike help was a verb he finally learned how to conjugate.
The kettle clicks cool. The lamp hums. The sea keeps breathing, relentless and sure.
I close the book and tilt my head back until my eyes sting.
“I can do this,” I tell the ceiling. “I can be a functioning adult around a man I once wrote to like a fool and who let my heart get turned into gym-class entertainment.”
The ceiling, a longtime realist, neither disagrees nor encourages.
My phone buzzes again, and even before I flip it, I know who it is.
Unknown:Noon tomorrow. Promise I’ll bring a hammer. And muffins. -C
I stare at the screen. The letter. The nerve.
I type three replies and erase them all, then land on the most responsible one.
Me:Don’t be late. The eave is dramatic.
Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear. Reappear.
C:Me too. See you, Book Girl.
I let the phone slip to the cushion beside me and press my knuckles to my mouth until the ridiculous smile behaves.
