"This all looks...thorough," Jessica says, flipping through pages. "Forty percent increase, eighteen-month term, standard renewal clauses." She looks up at me with an expression of faux admiration. "Very comprehensive destruction of my livelihood. Did you have a team of lawyers draft this, or did you stay up late crafting it yourself like a sociopath with a word processor?"
“Jessica—”
“No, really, I’m impressed. Most people just send eviction notices. You’ve created a wholeexperience. There’s probably a PowerPoint somewhere, isn’t there? Graphs showing exactly how my dreams will die quarter by quarter?”
“There’s no PowerPoint.”
“Missed opportunity. You could have included animations. Little clip art of bookstores exploding.”
I deserve this. I absolutely do.
“It’s fine,” she continues, still reading. “This is business. You made that clear. Community impact doesn’t appear on balance sheets, and balance sheets determine whether buildings get kept or sold.”
She’s quoting me. Using my own words like knives.
It’s incredibly attractive, and I’m definitely going to the bad place.
“I should clarify,” I start, then stop because I have no idea how to finish that sentence. Should clarify what? That I'm in love with her? That I fought the board to keep this increase from being even worse? That I'm V. Langley and she's been reviewing my books and we've been writing each other love letters disguised as craft discussions?
“You should clarify that you’re actually a decent human being underneath the corporate shark exterior?” Jessica sets the folder down and finally looks at me. “Don’t bother.”
“That’s not?—”
“Caroline says you read poetry at the library.” She crosses her arms, and I become acutely aware that we’re alone in her bookstore, and she’s angry, and anger looks devastating on her. “Every Tuesday. In the corner. With coffee and old books. Like a man who hasfeelings.”
My throat goes tight. “Caroline talks too much.”
“She’s observant. It’s why she’s good at her job.” Jessica tilts her head, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve. “Michelle says you’re Grayson’s best friend. And he’s not the kind of man who keeps friends without souls. So which is it, Scott? Are you the calculating businessman who measures human value in profit margins? Or are you something else?”
“I—” Words fail me. This is what I do. I write words for a living. I’ve published thirteen novels full of words. And right now, standing in front of the woman I love, I have exactly none.
“It’s complicated,” I manage finally.
“Everything with you is .” She moves toward the display she was working on when I arrived, putting distance between us. “You know what’s not complicated? Honesty. Saying what you mean. Being who you actually are instead of performing some version you think the world expects.”
She’s talking to me, but I hear Between the Lines’s words underneath. Walls built so high you forget what you’re protecting. Performing different roles for different audiences. Being most yourself when you’re most afraid.
“You’re right,” I say quietly.
Jessica freezes, book in hand. Turns slowly. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You’re right. I’m not honest. I say what I think people need to hear instead of what’s actually true. And I perform a version of myself that’s easier than being seen.”
She stares at me. “Are you feeling okay? Did you hit your head on the way in? Get bitten by a radioactive truth-teller?”
Despite everything, I almost laugh. “I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I might be more comfortable with drunk. This vulnerability is deeply unsettling. I don’t know what to do with my face.” She gestures at her own expression, which has shifted from angry to confused to something I can’t quite read. “Should I be supportive? Suspicious? Both feels like a lot before eight AM.”
“Both is probably appropriate.”
“Great. I’ll be suspiciously supportive. Or supportively suspicious.” She sets down the book she’s holding. “Why are you really here, Scott?”
The question is softer now. Almost gentle. Like maybe she actually wants to know. Like maybe she’s not just asking about the paperwork.
I could tell her. Could admit that I drove past her shop too many times yesterday because I can’t seem to stay away. That I read poetry at the library every Tuesday trying to find words beautiful enough to match how she makes me feel. I argued the board down from an even higher increase because the thought of pricing her out made me physically ill.
That I’m in love with her.
