“Find everything okay?” I ask when he approaches me, a copy ofTwo Hands, Three Babies: A Guide for New Fathers of Multiples.
“I have now.” His tail wags, so I know he means me.
I pat my cheeks, willing them to cool. “Great! Ashleigh will ring you up.”
He winks at me and heads for the register, but once he has his periwinkle paper bag, he stops by my section on his way out. “What time is your shift over?”
“Nine. I’m closing tonight.”
He frowns. “That’s late. Is there someone to walk you to your car?”
Sweet that he’s concerned, but Apple Grove is a very safe town, and the streets are well-lit. “I’ll be fine.”
He doesn’t argue, just gives a nod that I wish was a hug, and heads for the door. But at eight fifty-five, when the last customer leaves and I start the closing routine of cash drawer, returns cart, tidying and trash, and lights, I hear the front door chime. I should have locked it even if it was a few minutes early.
“We’re closed!” I call, not looking up.
“I know.”
My heart does a little skip, because that’s Ian’s voice. There he is, standing in the doorway, holding two to-go cups.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, even as I’m walking toward him. “Ashleigh will murder me if she finds out I let someone in after hours.”
“Then we better not get caught.” He hands me the cup. Barley tea, I discover when I take a sip. My favorite in the evening. “Figured you could use some help.”
I should send him away. Instead, I lock the front door and hand him the broom.
We work through the closing checklist in relative silence, moving through the tasks in tandem.We reshelve the returns together, and I catch myself smiling more than once at the sight of this huge, flannel-clad wolfman carefully aligning the spines of picture books. Usually when I close, I hurry through the routine so I can get home as soon as possible, but tonight, I don’t want it to end.
When everything is done in the children’s section, we end up flipping through our favorites. The streetlights outside cast a warm glow through the frosty glass storefront, and the empty aisles feel cozy rather than eerie.
“Read me a chapter?” Ian pulls a book from a nearby shelf. It’s part of a series of middle-grade adventure novels with animal protagonists. “I slept with it under my pillow when I was nine or ten. Must have read it a dozen times. I want to hear it in your voice.”
How can I say no to that? We settle into the big window seat, and I read to him. His head tips back against the window as he listens, eyes half-closed, tail occasionally thumping against the cushion.
When I finish the first chapter, he doesn’t move.
“Ian?”
“What?”
“It’s the end.’”
“It’s not,” he murmurs. “It’s still the beginning.”
My heart thumps, hard. I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. We sit there in thewindow seat, my shoulder pressed against his arm while I pretend to drink the dregs of the cold barley tea that I finished forty-five minutes ago, until finally I have no more excuses not to turn off the lights and lock up.
He walks me to my car, of course.
“Text me when you get home safe,” he says before I shut the door.
I watch his taillights disappear, then sit there for another few minutes, wishing I could tuck this evening into my nightstand with all his little notes.
When I get home, I do as he asks. His reply comes immediately.
Ian: “Goodnight. Hope you sleep well.”
Julia: “You too. Thanks for helping tonight.”
