Benedict didn’t try to escape today, but he did claw the skirt of my dress, undoubtedly trying to dismantle my limbs.Garbage gobbler.Phoebe didn’t scare the shit out of me because she didn’t appear at all. Archie acted like Archie. The hellblazers brought war; flames and feathers flew everywhere. My skirt, now an ombre of lavender to black, came down slightly shorter than before. Worst of all, the food I’d left for Indo yesterday remained untouched. And Blaze stayed on my shoulder—constantly.
The early spring breeze cooled my skin, calming any traces of anger left behind from burning feathers and stubborn creatures save for Blaze, who insisted on tagging along for my trip to the Stillers’. I carried a bag of healing cream on my shoulder. Springtime in Honey Brooke had always been my favorite season. The last kick of winter blew in, and the air felt like fresh mint in my throat. Something about the crowded buildings with pointed, shaggy roofs, the smell of apple pie luring me farther in, and the sound of an early bird troubadour almost made me happy to be back.Almost.
Walking along the path where trees arched overhead, something felt different. If I romanticized anything I shouldn’t—it was the trees. The way their branches longed for one another, twisting to form an inseparable bond stronger than the ways of nature. The way they grow toward the sun, eager to feel her warmth, hungry for it, even.
That came from my mother; she adored the world—much like Maggie, really. The difference between the two being my mother might’ve loved the world, but she lived in it terribly.Cooking, dancing, singing, painting, all of it. My mother wasn’t particularly gifted or talented at those things, but Gods, sheloveddoing them. A trait I, more or less, skipped out on.
The Stillers lived on the same side of town as we did, a bit past Wilson’s library and Goldie’s Market. Walking past the library, nostalgia filled my bones and split my lips into a grin. The stone walls opened up to me underneath a pink awning, where ivy grew between the cracks. I’d come here every birthday, each year spent with the scent of book pages surrounding me. My gaze caught Wilson in the window, and I couldn’t not go in.
A cheery grin stretched across his face, two old friends seeing each other for the first time in years. He moved faster than I expected across the small space. His wide smile narrowed his thin, hooded eyes. “Reece, my dearest.” Welcoming arms pulled me in, avoiding hitting the baxlin on my shoulder.
As long as I could remember, Wilson’s library had been open and Wilson, himself, ran it alone. Every day, in and out, rain or shine, he could be found within these walls. He’d been there for each birthday, each time I came in past hours needing something to read so I could sleep, and each time I begged to check out more than one book because my mood changed.
Come to think of it, the library was actually called Honey Brooke Public Library. But nobody called it that. It was Wilson’s.
He let go, keeping his hands on my shoulders as he pulledback. Looking into those bright, gleaming eyes, I watched as the wrinkles around them gathered. Wilson’s gray hair resembled peppered snow, yet that’s how I always remembered him. As if he didn’t age. Nor did his library. And according to his khakis and suspenders—neither did his fashion sense, thankfully.
“It’s good to see you,” I replied, and as if I’d been drawn in, he stepped to the side and I ventured in. My feet traveled through the aisles, my fingers traced the surface of his shelves, lined with a thousand adventures packed into leather casings. “It’s good to see some things stay the same.”
And there they were—flying in as if the magic kicked on and their pages transformed into wings, Wilson’s butterfly books. Nobody knew the magic Wilson held within, we only knew his library was rich with it. Eucalyptus intertwined with the wooden planks above, the soft music whispering in our ears, the smell of secrets, journeys, friendship, and love. Books flew around overhead, and I wondered about the adventure each held. Sometimes they’d land on us, as though they knew what we wanted—what weneeded.
“Won’t change something that doesn’t need it, be a waste of time.” His cracked voice bounced in the room. He walked to his desk, kneeling behind it where I could not see him. While waiting for his return, my eyes searched the walls. They remained stuffed to the max with books, old and new. “I’ve been saving this for you.” He handed me a book. “It came in a little over a year ago.”
My gut dropped.
Her Reign’s End. One of my favorite books I’d kept by my bed. Wilson handed me a special edition, signed by the author herself. Foiled edges with a new and darker cover. Words of gratitude couldn’t have enveloped the gratefulness I felt. A gesture that said, “I thought of you.” My eyes watered to the brim.
“Thank you, Wilson.” Though I could never thank him enough for this. Words refused to come to my mind, nothing but a whirlwind of emotions. A special edition? Did he know how much that meant to me? To keep it for over a year, waiting for my return. “This is the best thing I’ve received in more years than I can count. How can I repay you?”
Wilson blinked slowly. “Just keep coming back.” He glanced around the store. “Keep us going.”
A merry little chuckle lightened the air, and I realized I’d missed him. The library. Maybe Honey Brooke did have some good things to offer.
Harvey’s gray stone house, narrow and tall, came closer and with it the voices of children grew louder. Then music. My nose wrinkled and turned up.Spring festival.Where my sour attitude came from, I’m not sure. I used to love this holiday.
But it wasn’t the same.
And neither was I.
“Reece.” Ruth burst through the front door wearing an apron around her waist as she darted down crooked stairs. “How are you, honey?”
A light smell of apples and cinnamon filled my nose; Ruth must’ve been up to her baking. Patches of flour painted her brown skin, as it did her oak-brown hair. She owned a bakery in town, Sweet Fang, which I’d definitely be visiting soon for her to-die-for cinnamon rolls.
Welcoming her embrace, it felt like I’d seen an old family member who truly missed me. “Good,” I answered, pausing. “Well, adjusting, I should say. How have you been?” She pulled back, offering some kind of smile that made me feel better without a word spoken.
“Busy,” she emphasized with a pop of theB. We followed her inside—me and the attachment-issue creature on my shoulder.
Their home always reminded me of my own before my mother passed. The laughs, the closeness, the baking. With a small set of stairs leading up to their house, it opened into a wide layout. An old wooden table with a centerpiece of fresh flowers. A living room and kitchen exactly the right size, not too big nor too small. Tea towels hung everywhere, glass plates and cups dangled from hooks on the walls. Crocheted blankets were folded over the couch, and arguing children lay in front of the fireplace.
At my acknowledgment, Mia and Micah offered their hellos. Mia was being much warmer than her brother, who was sixteen and too cool for anyone else, according to Mia.
“Micah,” Harvey’s voice called down the stairs, two boxes stacked against his chest. “Help me out here a little bit, will ya?”
The young boy with short black curls guided his grandfather down each step, taking the boxes from his arms once they reached the bottom.
Harvey, in his green rubber fishing overalls, greeted me from a distance as he insisted he smelled of the lake, since he’d been fishing on the outskirts of town. I took his word for it. “These are all your father’s things.” He reached into the box. “He always left his shit here.”
“Harvey Stiller!” Ruth chastised.
