“Like I mattered. Like he was two seconds away from doing something incredibly stupid and couldn’t decide if he wanted to or not.”
“That’s”—Caroline presses a hand to her heart dramatically—“that’sromantic.”
“That’s a rent increase, Caroline.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
She has a point. But I'm too tired to examine it.
Caroline finishes counting the register and hesitates. “Hey, can I ask you something? About the Letters to Local Authors program?”
“Sure.”
“I was thinking...” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly shy. “What if we did an event? Like a big reveal night where all the anonymous pen pals finally meet each other?”
I blink at her. “What?”
“Think about it. People have been writing to each other for a while now. Building these connections without knowing who's on the other end. What if we hosted a night where they could finally put faces to the letters?” She's warming to the idea now, hands moving as she talks. “We could sell tickets. Have the local authors do readings. Sell books. It could be this whole celebration of community and connection and?—”
“Caroline.” I hold up a hand, my heart suddenly pounding. “I’m not sure I have the bandwidth for something like that right now. With the rent increase, I’m already stretched too thin.”
“No. Think about it,” Caroline says, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “This could be some really great publicity for your shop. It could get you on the map. Especially if we really advertise the event well. You know I can gather a crowd with my Instagram when I need to.”
“You might be on to something.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” My mind is already racing. Ticket sales, book sales, and visibility for the shop. A reason for people to care about The Fiction Nook beyond just another retail space. “It wouldn't solve the rent crisis entirely, but it could help. And it would show Scott Avery that this shop matters to people. That it's not just a line item.”
Caroline grins. “See? This is why you keep me around.”
“I keep you around because you work for almost nothing and you're weirdly invested in my love life.”
“Both things can be true.”
I send her home with instructions to enjoy her evening and not spend it shipping me with my landlord on bookish TikTok (she makes no promises). Then I’m alone with Austen and the quiet settling of my shop after a long day.
This is usually my favorite time. When the day’s chaos fades and it’s just me and the books and the peaceful knowledge that I’ve created something worth protecting.
Tonight, it feels fragile. Like the whole thing could disappear in sixty days if I can’t figure out how to save it.
I check the Letters to Local Authors mailbox out of habit.
There’s one envelope.
My heart skips when I see the handwriting. Coastal Quill’s careful script. The small sticker of a pen crossing a heart that he always uses to seal his envelopes.
I open it right there at the counter, even though I should wait and maintain some boundaries between the program and my personal investment in this anonymous writer.
Dear Between the Lines,
Your letter arrived exactly when I needed it. Which seems to be the way our correspondence works—you saying what I need to hear right when I’m too afraid to ask.
You’re right. Being seen is worth the risk of rejection. And maybe the version I think I’m hiding is the one she’s falling for.
The problem is: how do I tell her? How do I admit that I’ve been lying by omission? That the person she thinks she knows is just a fraction of who I am and everything I’ve been too afraid to show her is the best part of me?
I’m not brave like you. You write about your fears so honestly. Your ex-husband’s voice in your head. Your terror of not being enough. The dream you’re afraid to chase.
