“It’s probably garbage.”
“All first drafts are garbage. That’s what revision is for.”
She laughs softly. “Spoken like a real author.”
“Spoken like someone who’s written a lot of garbage.” I want to ask to read it, to offer help, anything to keep this conversation going. Instead, I say, “I’m glad you’re writing.”
“Me too.” She reaches for the door handle, then pauses. “The cottage, Vera’s place, is special.”
“It is.”
“Don’t let anyone else change it.”
“I won’t.”
She opens the door, steps out, then leans back in.
“Goodnight, Scott.”
Not ‘Mr. Avery,’ not cold. Just my name, in her voice, like it belongs there.
“Goodnight, Jessica.”
She closes the door, walks down the boardwalk to her building, and disappears inside.
I sit there for a long time, engine idling, replaying every moment of the evening. From the candles to the laughter to Grandma’s signs. And finally, the framed review and her face when she finally understood.
It’s not forgiveness or a beginning, but it’s not an ending either.
And for now, that’s enough.
NINETEEN
JESSICA
Sleep refuses to come.
Every time I close my eyes, I’m back at Vera’s cottage—rose petals scattered across heart pine floors, Scott’s voice cracking when he talked about being called “your mother’s son” like it was a curse. His grandmother’s handwriting filling the margins of his books:My boy’s getting better. Still needs more grovel.
And then the condo. That hollow penthouse that looked like a showroom because it was never meant to be a home. The locked door. The chaos behind it—manuscripts and romance novels stacked to the ceiling. My two-star review framed on his wall like a prayer he’d been answering for months.
You broke me open.
I reach for my phone in the darkness, put it down, reach again. TypeI can’t stop thinking about tonightand delete it. TypeThank you for trusting meand delete that too. At this rate, I’ll have carpal tunnel from all the emotional typing and deleting.
What would I even say? That I’m terrified? That I believe him now—all of it—and that’s exactly what makes this so hard?
I believed David too. For ten years I believed him when he said my dreams were impractical, my feelings too much, my hopes unrealistic. I shrank myself into the shape he wanted until, when he finally left, I didn’t even know what size I was supposed to be anymore.
Scott isn’t David. I know that in my bones. But knowing something and trusting it are two very different things, and my track record with men isn’t exactly inspiring confidence.
By the time the sun comes up, I’ve made a decision. I’m going to work, run my bookstore, and figure out my feelings like a rational adult.
Then I check my email over breakfast, and all my rational plans go straight out the window.
From:Scott Avery
Subject:For you
