Rosalind
As I walk toward him,rain hits my face. Each step leads me to my future, and I want to know whether it includes him and Spool.
His not speaking won’t stop me. Not after making fifty-two index cards. I started them after he told me about Ghost and confessed that books were the only thing that made the silence bearable. I wrote a card for each book on his shelf: every one I’d read, recognized, or pulled down while he was up the mountain.
My gaze stays on Jace.
Title. Author. A line about why he loves the book. My recommendation for what to read next.Except for the one I just finished.
Rosalind Egan. Filed under: Yours. Checkout status: Permanent. No returns.
He’s coming toward me with Spool at his heels. I stumble on the wet ground but don’t fall. If he sends me away, the truth will, at least, be out there.
Wet fabric clings to his shoulders. He meets me halfway.
“Jace.” The icy drops sting my scalp. “The pass opens in two days. I can leave. Finish the Bluebird contract from the lodge when my reservation starts.”
The quiet stretches.
“Or I can stay,” I continue.
His head dips.
“I reorganized your bookshelf. I wanted to be part of something you love.” My voice stays steady. “I put the westerns by the window because the light was right, and some instinct told me you read them there. Paying attention to you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
His hands flex at his sides.
“I kissed you first. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. Not even close. I’ve spent my whole life being easy to overlook. Giving and never asking.” The rain falls harder. I don’t care. I force the words out. “I’m asking now. I want to drink your coffee, sleep in your bed, and read on your couch while you pretend you’re not watching me. I want to know your bookshelves. I want to stay. Here. With you.”
He swallows. His eyes are red. “I’m not good at this.”
“I’m not asking you to be good at it. I’m asking you to let me stay.”
He stands there, wet. His chest heaves. Five seconds of quiet stretches.
He takes my face in both hands. His palms are wet and shaking. “Stay. Please don’t leave me.”
A laugh escapes. My shoulders relax, sagging. Relief drains the tension from my legs.
He kisses me or I kiss him.
Jace holds me tight. I grab his soaked flannel. Rain falls on us, but I’m lost to his kiss. He pulls back.
“There are fifty-two index cards on the table,” I whisper. “For your books.”
His lips part. “You made me a card catalog.”
“Yes, but the last one is about me.”
His eyes widen. “I want to see.”
He takes my hand, lacing his fingers with mine, and leads me inside.
I asked. He said yes.
A choked laugh escapes me, and relief floods through my veins.
The rain hasn’t stopped, but inside, the stove warms the cabin. The air smells like woodsmoke, cedar, and books.
