She hated how nostalgic and bittersweet it felt, those nights, thinking about Dell. Like he was a thing that had happened to her once, that she might not ever be able to see again.
Still, no matter how many nights went by, he was always there in the office, waiting for her.
That was the thing about love.
No matter how far away they sometimes felt, the ones that mattered never really left you.
Your body remembered the shit that was important.
* * *
In mid-December, Mae received a package from Michigan.
Saw this at a bookstore in Marquette, when I was up visiting an old friend. Made me think of you.
Mae let the note drop to the desk. Lifted the book it had been stuck to.
Tessa Dare.Romancing the Duke.
Jesus hugged her shoulders.See?he whispered. Jesus talked to her all the time, since Dell had been gone. Sometimes she wondered if he talked to her too much. If she was quietly losing her mind.
Maybe she did see. Maybe a mass market paperback always helped.
Maybe it was still hard.
She ran her finger over Dell’s almost illegible handwriting before sliding the paper into the top drawer of the desk, next to her favorite pink pens, and returned to her profit and loss spreadsheet.
* * *
One day, Mae was reading an advanced reader copy of an upcoming release when an old white man walked in. He wore a faded baseball cap and a frown that looked vaguely familiar.
It wasn’t until he brought up a book a short minute later, as if he’d known exactly what he was looking for and didn’t have time to browse for anything else, that she recognized him. Remembered Liv’s quiet laughter on her first full day in town.
Brooks, the writer with the secret pen name.
She examined the book he was purchasing, a new literary hardcover—thank you for your service, Brooks, she almost said—and tried to deduce if it was a clue.Is this you?!No, this book was definitely written by a Black man Mae had seen online a hundred times.
But still. It could be a clue.
She smiled politely, thanked him for visiting Bay Books.
And as soon as he left, she grabbed her phone, laughing as she brought up the group chat.
Until the door jingled again.
And Mae slowly put her phone back down.
He looked a touch different—older, scruffier—than he had in his profile picture. But Mae still recognized him all the same.
“Hi,” she said. It was mid-morning on a Tuesday; there were no other customers to cushion them from each other. After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “Luca.”
“Hi,” he said with an acknowledging nod. “Mae.”
They exchanged small, awkward smiles. He turned toward a bookshelf.
“Let me know if you need anything,” she said. And then she stared at her computer, heart thudding in her chest.
Until Luca brought a Martha Wells to the counter.
