“The poetry section is right here.” He gestures at the shelves surrounding us.
“Yes. I see that. Mission accomplished.” I should stop talking. “What are you reading?”
He glances down like he’s forgotten he’s holding a book. “Whitman.”
“‘I contain multitudes’ Whitman?”
His mouth twitches like he’s hiding a smile. “You know his work?”
“I own a bookstore. I know everyone’s work.” I edge out from behind the Dickinson shelf, attempting to salvage dignity. “I still can’t believe you’re a poetry reader.”
“No?”
“You seem more like a quarterly reports person. Spreadsheets with color-coded tabs.”
We’re standing too close now. I don’t remember moving toward him. The poetry section feels smaller than it should, crowded with words about love and longing and all the things neither of us seems capable of saying directly.
“I should get back to my research,” I say, retreating before this conversation can get any more confusing. “I’m planning an event. For the bookstore. Revenue generation. Very exciting stuff.”
“What kind of event?”
I pause. This is probably information I shouldn’t share with the man who holds my lease, but something about his expression—genuinely curious, not calculating—makes me answer honestly.
“A reveal night. For the Letters to Local Authors program. Anonymous pen pals meeting face-to-face.”
His face does something complicated that I can’t read. “That sounds...”
“Terrifying? Potentially disastrous? Like the kind of thing an impractical romantic would dream up?”
“I was going to say meaningful.”
I blink. “Oh.”
“Connections matter.” He says it quietly, like he’s admitting something he doesn’t usually admit. “The anonymous letters... they probably mean a lot to the people writing them. Revealing that—letting people see who they’ve really been talking to—that’s brave.”
“Or stupid.”
“Sometimes those are the same thing.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, and I have the strangest feeling that we’re not just talking about the event anymore.
“I should go,” I say again, actually meaning it this time. “Book club meeting. Event planning.”
“Good luck.”
“With the event or with book club?”
“Both.” He almost smiles. “I hope it works. The event. I hope it’s everything you want it to be.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod and escape before I can do something stupid like ask him what poem made him look so sad.
But I think about it the whole way back to the coffee shop.
Twin Waves Brewing Companyis already chaotic when I arrive. Michelle has commandeered the large corner booth and covered the table with paper, markers, and what appears to be a hand-drawn floor plan of my bookstore.
“She’s here!” Amber waves me over. “We started without you. Jo had ideas.”
“Good ones or terrifying ones?”
