She reorganized my shelves. My shelves built and filled over the years. And my books… placed in an order I don’t recognize.
My jaw clamps shut, aching. The hum in my ears tightens, a pressurized throb.
She’s writing at the table. Her pen drops, and her breathing changes. She notices me.
As she stands, the chair creaks. She pulls on the hem of her cardigan. “Jace, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have touched them. The catalog… I kept looking at the shelves, and my brain can’t leave a collection alone.”
I’m at the shelves. She’s put the books into categories: history at eye level, thrillers low, and literary fiction by the armchair. The westerns are by the window. I stop.
I read westerns there, in the afternoon light, in my grandfather’s chair by the east-facing window. As I inhale, I run my hand along the spines. The wood is warm where the sun hits.
My throat clenches. I swallow, a rough rasp. Finally, I turn.
She stands by the table, knuckles white on the chair back, her green eyes wide behind glasses. Auburn hair loose, frizzed at the temples.
I take another breath. “You put the westerns by the window.”
A blink. “The light was best there. I thought?—”
“I read them there. In the afternoon. In the chair.”
Her lips part. “I didn’t know that.”
“I know.” I cross to the bedroom door and see the poetry. “Berry.”
“I saw the book on your nightstand. I thought you’d want it close.”
I read Berry before I sleep.
“And the McMurtry,” she adds. “I gave it its own spot because?—”
“It’s held together with a rubber band, and I’ve read it a hundred times.”
“Yes.”
Six feet of hardwood separates us. I want to step back, close down. Instead, I remain where I am. “Thank you.”
Her face softens, shoulders dropping. Her grip on the chair loosens. “You’re welcome.”
The CB radio on the counter crackles. I cross the room, lift the receiver, listen, then set it back. “County road crew. Rockslide’s bigger than they thought. A full week to clear.”
“A week,” she echoes.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Neither am I.
Our gazes meet.
One week. Then the road opens, and she drives away.
I pour the coffee she made this morning and reheat it.
“Jace?” she asks.
My back is to her. “Yeah?”
“I reorganized your bookshelf because I couldn’t help myself. Your books are incredible, but they were in the wrong places, and I… I know that’s not a normal thing to do in someone else’s house.”
