“Smart.” Jessica slides it back into place and keeps browsing. “These are organized by emotional impact, aren’t they?”
I stare at her. “What?”
“This whole section is angsty second-chance romances. This one is enemies-to-lovers. This one is—” She stops and pulls out a book.
One of mine.
Book three. The one I wrote right after I stopped talking to my father for good.
“V. Langley,” she says softly. She opens to a random page, and her expression changes as she spots the handwriting in the margins.
“Is this...?”
“Vera’s notes. She read everything I published. Gave me feedback whether I wanted it or not.”
Jessica reads aloud. “‘This hero needs to stop apologizing and start acting. Words are cheap, boy.’” She looks up. “She called you ‘boy’ in the margins of your own book?”
“She called me ‘boy’ until the day she died. Said I’d earn ‘man’ when I stopped being afraid of my own heart.”
Jessica flips to another page. “‘His groveling is almost good enough.’” She’s smiling now, but it’s a complicated expression. “She was tough.”
“She loved me. That’s how she showed it.”
Jessica turns more pages, reading snippets of Vera’s marginalia. I watch her piece together my grandmother through her opinions, humor, and no-nonsense approach to love stories and the men who wrote them.
Then she pulls out another book. The one her two-star review destroyed.
She opens the front cover, and she freezes.
“Scott.”
“Yeah.”
“There’s a note in here.”
I know exactly which one.
“‘My boy’s getting better,’” Jessica reads slowly. “‘Still needs more groveling. But he’s finding his way back to honesty. I’m proud of him.’” She looks up, eyes bright.
“She wrote it before she died. I found it when I was going through her things.” My throat is tight.
“But I gave it two stars.”
“You were right to. It wasn’t my best work.”
Jessica closes the book carefully. Holds it against her chest like she did with the pillow.
“That’s why you kicked me off the ARC team,” she says. Not a question.
“Yes.”
“Because I saw through you.”
“Because you saw me. Period.” I take a breath. “And I wasn’t ready to be seen.”
She puts the book back on the shelf with the same care she’d give something fragile. Her hand lingers on the spine for a moment.
When she turns back to me, her walls are still up. But there’s a crack in them now. I can see it.
