What if she reads it and recognizes herself, and it’s the final violation. Me turning her pain into profit, her story into content?
I close the laptop without responding.
My phone sits on the desk. I pick it up. Put it down. Pick it up again.
Type a text to Jessica. Delete it. Type again. Delete.
Scott:Thank you for staying on the committee. I know it isn’t easy.
I hit send before I can overthink it.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Jessica:It’s for the bookstore.
I deserve that.
Scott:I know. Still, thank you.
No response.
I set the phone down and open the manuscript again. Scroll to the scene where the hero finally tells the heroine everything. Where he lays himself bare and waits to see if she’ll destroy him or save him.
In the book, she chooses to save him, and I have no idea if real life will be that generous.
But I’m starting to realize that the ending isn’t up to me. I’ve done the confessing. I’ve done the truth-telling. Now all I can do is show up, be consistent, and wait.
Mrs. Sanders’ voice echoes in my head:When two people won’t look each other in the eye, it’s either a scrap or a love affair. Usually both.
Both, I think. Definitely both.
I just have to hope the love affair part wins.
FIFTEEN
JESSICA
I’m on my third cup of coffee, and it’s not even eleven.
Caroline noticed the moment she walked in. Didn’t say anything, just raised her eyebrows at the dark circles under my eyes and the fact that I’m wearing the same cardigan I wore yesterday. I could lie and say I got up early. But we both know I was up until one in the morning reading a seven-book series I’ve already read twice.
Nothing like burying yourself in other people’s love stories to avoid thinking about your own.
Austen is sprawled across the counter next to the register, watching me with deep disappointment. Every time I reach for the paperback I brought down from my apartment—book four, the one where the hero finally stops lying to the heroine—he puts his paw on it.
“Cut it out,” I tell him.
He slow-blinks at me. Doesn’t move his paw.
“I’m allowed to read.”
Another slow-blink. Somehow more judgmental than the first.
“It’s research. I own a bookstore. Reading is literally my job.”
He yawns, showing all his teeth, then deliberately pushes the book off the counter. It lands on the floor with a thwack.
“You’re a punk.”
