Does Friday work for you?
I watched the message change from “Delivered” to “Read” almost immediately. Three dots appeared, indicating she was typing, and my heart did something complicated and arrhythmic in my chest.
Took you long enough.
The text read, followed by a second one that appeared right after.
Yes, Friday is fine.
It looked like I was going on a date with Detective Sawyer.
The reality of it settled over me like a weight, pressing down on my chest and making it slightly difficult to breathe. It was only a date. I told myself. Something to pass the time while I was trying to figure out where my friend had run off to.
Still, Friday was only four days away. Four days to prepare myself, to decide which version of me Shay Sawyer would meet at a restaurant—the one that she wouldn’t have at gunpoint given the right circumstances. I wanted things I had no business wanting, and Friday was going to come whether I was ready for it or not.
I didn’t know what expression I was wearing, but it made Naomi look at me almost pityingly.
“Boy, you’ve got it bad, don’t you?”
I stayed silent, too afraid of the answer.
* **
Winslow’s Antiquarian Booksseemed to exist in its own pocket of time, ignored by the rush of modern life flowing around it. The storefront was easy to miss, the gold lettering on the window so worn that the name was almost illegible. The bookstore’s shabby exterior did nothing to diminish its peculiar charm, however. If anything, it enhanced it. Warmth enveloped me the moment I stepped inside, carrying the scent of aged paper and cracked leather bindings.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hayes.”
A bright voice rang out from somewhere in the back, threading through the maze of shelves. A second later, a young girl appeared, sleeves rolled to the elbows, fingers bearing the telltale smudges of graphite and ink.
“Hello, Julia.” I smiled at her. “How are you today?”
“Fine, I guess.” She then wrinkled her nose, as if reconsidering. “Actually, that’s not true. Whoever said senior year was the easiest must have either been a pathological liar or homeschooled.”
I chuckled, the sound soft in the hushed space. “We’ve all been there. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“Mr. Hayes, you don’t even know what kind of student I am. For all you know, I could be failing everything except PE.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. I have a sixth sense about these things.”
That earned me a small smile—genuine, pleased, the kind that transformed her whole face. At seventeen, even a passing word of encouragement could go a long way. I rememberedthat feeling, though my own teenage anxieties had revolved around very different concerns.
“Have you given any thought to colleges yet?” I asked, and instantly regretted it when I saw Julia’s expression dim like a snuffed candle.
She sighed, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not sure if I’m even going. You know how expensive everything is these days.” Her voice dropped, growing quieter. “Not to mention Gran—with me gone, there’s no one else to help her keep the place running.”
No hint of self-pity or resentment colored her words. There was only quiet acceptance.
Family loyalty. Such a rare thing to see nowadays. That she turned out the way she did, after growing up under a man like her father, was remarkable in itself. A small miracle wrapped in ink-stained fingers and tired smiles.
“And what does Mrs. Winslow think about that?”
Julia let out a dry laugh. “She keeps leaving college brochures around the house. Inside my school bag, under my pillow, taped to the bathroom mirror. Last week, I even found one folded inside the toaster.” She shook her head, but her eyes were warm. “I’m starting to think she’s planning an intervention.”
“Sounds like someone who believes in your potential.”
Julia offered a small shrug in response.
I knew there was nothing I could say that would untangle the impossible knot of her circumstances. And it wasn’t my place to try, either way. But that knowledge didn’t stop the familiar weight from settling in my chest, heavy and cold as a stone.
