Page 10 of Heart Strings

“Do you have a ‘Closed’ sign I don’t know about?” Sophie’s voice slices through the quiet bookstore, brimming with her usual sass. I look up to see her marching in, hands on her hips, her expression a blend of amusement and accusation.

“No, just... had a lot on my mind,” I admit, feeling a bit sheepish under her scrutinizing gaze.

She raises an eyebrow, leaning on the counter. “And none of those thoughts included telling your best girl friend that Connor is back in town?” She’s trying to keep the mock hurt in her tone, but I can see the genuine surprise there.

“Oh,” I wince, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I, uh, forgot?” It’s a feeble excuse and we both know it.

Sophie crosses her arms, the smirk back in place. “He gave me the shock of my life, popping into the cafe like he’s not some heartthrob rockstar who’s supposed to be on the other side of the world!”

I can’t help but smile at the thought of Connor dropping by Sophie’s cafe, probably causing a mini uproar with his presence. “He kind of surprised me, too,” I admit. “Came by the bookstore out of the blue.”

Sophie leans against the counter, her curiosity piqued. “So, how is he after everything?”

I frown at the way she phrases that. “He’s not himself. There’s something going on with him and Ty, but he won’t talk about it.”

Sophie’s eyebrows shoot up, her lips forming an ‘o’ of realization. “Oh. You haven’t heard, then?”

I straighten up, feeling defensive on Connor’s behalf. “Sophie, I don’t want to hear gossip. Whatever it is, Connor will tell me when he’s ready.”

Sophie holds up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I respect that. But it’s big, Gracie. Just... be there for him, alright?”

I let out a sigh, my concern deepening. “I always am. It’s just... I hate seeing him like this, and not knowing how to help.”

Sophie tilts her head, considering. “Babe, you know Connor better than anyone. If he wants to talk, he’ll talk. But you also have a way of... gently nudging people.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Gently nudging?”

“Yeah, like a bulldozer with a feather touch,” she quips, and we both laugh.

The bell jingles again, signaling a customer’s arrival. Sophie gives me a quick hug before heading towards the door. “Remember, bulldozer. Feather touch.”

I watch her go, the corner of my mouth lifting in a small smile. Sophie’s energy always leaves a buzz in the air, a stark contrast to the quietude of the bookstore.

As I help the new customer find a book they’re looking for, my mind can’t help but wander back to Connor. There’s a tightness in my chest, a worry that’s curling around my heart. He’s always been an open book with me, so to see him closing off like this... it’s concerning.

I spend the rest of the day with one eye on the door, half-expecting, half-hoping Connor will walk in and spill everything. But the hours tick by with no sign of him, and the tension just grows.

Closing time comes, and as I lock up, I decide I’ll give Connor his space. If he’s not ready to talk, then I’ll be here when he is. That’s what friends do, right?

I decided to walk here this morning, good thing too because I need the time to myself. The walk home is quiet, the evening casting long shadows on the sidewalk. I think about Connor and Ty, about Ava, and the unspoken thing that’s put a wedge between the inseparable duo. It’s like a puzzle with missing pieces.

I reach my apartment, the weight of the day settling on my shoulders like a heavy cloak. Tomorrow, I decide, I’ll be that bulldozer with a feather touch. But tonight, I’ll just be Gracie, hoping her friend finds his way back to her.

In bed, I close my eyes, and it’s not long before sleep sweeps me away, taking the worries of the day with it, at least for a little while.

***

I’m jolted awake by the sound of a thud next to me on the bed. My heart hammers against my ribs as I scramble for the lamp, the room swimming into focus with the soft glow of light.

It’s Connor. But something’s off.

He’s sprawled out beside me, his breath heavy with the sharp tang of whiskey. “Gracie,” he slurs slightly, a lazy smile on his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Are you drunk?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

He’s looking up at the ceiling with glassy eyes. “Nope,” he says, but the smell of whiskey that’s clinging to him tells me otherwise.

I push myself up, concern knotting my stomach. He never gets like this, not to the point of crashing into my bed in the middle of the night, reeking of alcohol.

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