His mouth quirks. Almost a smile. "Got it."
I grab my bag. My keys. Hesitate at the door.
He's already moving back toward the shelves. There's another stack waiting. Historical fiction. Just as messy as the biographies.
"Stone."
He turns. Those pale eyes meet mine.
"Thanks," I say. Mean it. "For helping. Even after the awning thing."
He nods once. Solemn. "I'll fix it. The awning. I know someone who does fabric repair. I'll ask them."
"You don't have to do that."
"I want to."
The simplicity of it catches me off guard. No argument about fault or liability or who's technically responsible. Just a straightforward offer to make things right.
My ex never did that. Never offered to fix anything. Just pointed out what was broken and waited for me to handle it.
I push the thought away. Lock it back in the box where it belongs.
"Okay," I say quietly, and something passes between us. Some small understanding that feels bigger than it should. "Thank you."
The pharmacy lineis seven people deep.
I take my place at the back. Grasp my phone. Start drafting an email to the grant inspector that I'll probably delete three times before sending.
Dear Mr. Patterson,
Regarding cultural programming for the Heritage Festival...
I delete it. Start over.
Hi Jamal,
Too casual. Delete.
Mr. Patterson,
I'm writing to confirm our participation...
A notification pops up. Email from my ex.
I swipe it away without reading. Don't need that particular brand of emotional whiplash today.
The line inches forward. An elderly man argues with the pharmacist about copays. A mother juggles a toddler and a prescription bag. A teenager scrolls through their phone with the kind of focused intensity that suggests they're pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist.
I envy them.
My phone chimes. Text this time.
Stone.
Customer asked about poetry section. Where?
I blink at the screen. We don't have a poetry section. We barely have sections. Most of the shop is organized by vibes and wherever I happened to set books down last.
