"True." I lick my cone. "But look at it this way—she wanted an adventure with us. With you. And you said yes. That counts."
"Does it?" He finishes his cone, crumpling the napkin.
"Definitely. It’s more than what my mom did with me.” After some distance from my anger, I see she wasn’t a bad woman. She tried to be a good mom. It just didn’t come easily to her, like it does for some.“And I’m sure it was the same with your dad.”
I watch Madison through the window, her face lighting up as she pulls a book from the shelf. "She laughed today. Really laughed. That is rare for her.”
He glances at me, then away. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I wish I could say I knew if she's always been this eager and bright. Or if it's just today. If grief made her solemn or if she was always quiet before her mom died.”
“Your mom, you mean.”
I tilt my head, not sure what he means.
“You said, ‘her mom,’ she’s yours too.”
“Oh,” I laugh, but it’s hollow. “After she left, I spent so much time trying to forget her that sometimes I did.” I press my palm against the ache in my chest. “I shouldn’t have forgotten about my sister in the process.”
“Cut yourself some slack. You were her age and not even living here when she was born.”
“I suppose,” I reply, not really meaning it.
Madison circles back to us, ice cream already half gone. "Can we check out that bookstore? The one with the cat in the window?"
Thorne nods. “But don’t tell Rosalia or Lillianna that we visited another bookstore besides theirs,” he jokes.
The shop is cozy and cramped with tall shelves and a fat, orange tabby cat sleeping on the counter. One minute, Madison is beside me; the next, she’s gone, disappeared into the stacks like she’s been absorbed into the books themselves. Thorne and I drift through the store at the unhurried pace of people with nowhere to be, which feels strange and luxurious in equal measure.
"Romance novels," he observes, running his finger along the spines. "Any good ones?"
"All of them, if you're in the right mood." I pull out a book with a handsome man on the cover. "Though I doubt these are your usual reading material."
"Maybe I'm looking for tips." He leans closer, voice dropping. "Ways to keep you satisfied."
Heat floods through me. "You're doing just fine without a manual, thanks."
"Just fine?" He raises an eyebrow, all cocky confidence. "I seem to remember you screaming my name a few hours ago."
"Thorne." I glance around, making sure Madison can't hear us. "Behave."
"Never." But he steps back, that playful smile still on his lips.
We stay suspended in the pocket of contentment for a while, the fat orange tabby winding between our ankles before losing interest and draping himself across a windowsill. Somewhere inthe back of the store, Madison is silent in the way only a fully absorbed reader can be.
It's Thorne who wanders over to a small display near the window and picks up a paperback, turning it over with genuine curiosity rather than performance. I watch him read the back copy, this man who tries to control everything, losing himself in a quiet bookstore on a lazy afternoon.
Making my way to him, I read the blurb over his shoulder. “Sebastian met Rosalia in a bookstore,” he says, not looking up from the cover. “She only had a bookstore then. It was called Novel Idea.”
I wait to see if he’ll spill his secrets. He sets it down carefully. “I learned a lot because of the store. One of them being, you should never underestimate what a bookstore means to someone.”
He doesn't say more. There's a story underneath those words. I can feel the weight of it. But I don't push. Some things need more than an ordinary afternoon to surface.
There’s a soft thump from somewhere deep in the shelves, followed by the particular silence of someone hoping they didn't make a noise. We peek around the corner and catch a glimpse of Madison before she vanishes into the next aisle.
We leave her, but find her twenty minutes later. Or what feels like twenty minutes, but time moves differently in bookstores, and it’s more like an hour later. She’s cross-legged on the floor in the YA section, three books open around her like a small paper universe, a fourth in her hands. She doesn't hear us approach. She doesn't look up when we stop beside her. She is completely, utterly gone into whatever world she's found.
Thorne looks at me. I look at him.
