Page 30 of Heart Strings

“My mom... she canceled our insurance for the shop a year ago,” she manages between sobs. “I didn’t know... Now, for all the repairs, I’ll have to use what’s left of my savings, and there’s barely anything there, Connor. The shop has barely made money these past few months.”

The weight of her words hits me like a physical blow. This isn’t just about fixing up a store; it’s her life, her legacy from her mom, all wrapped up in this place.

“Gracie, I can help,” I say softly, my voice firm, wanting to do anything I can to ease her burden.

She pulls back, wiping her eyes, a flash of anger crossing her face. “No, Connor! I can’t just take your money. This is my responsibility, my problem.”

I’m taken aback by her vehemence but try to keep my voice calm. “I’m not just offering you money as a handout, Gracie. It’s support from me, because I care about you, about this. I don’t want to see you lose everything you and your mom have worked so hard for.”

She shakes her head, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I know, and I love you for it, but I can’t. It feels wrong, like I’m not taking responsibility.”

I know arguing will only push her further away, so I switch tactics. “Okay, how about this? Let’s go to the bookstore. We’ll start cleaning up, and maybe we can figure out a plan together. Just... let me help with that, at least.”

She hesitates, then nods slowly, her fight seeming to deflate. “Okay. Yes, let’s do that.”

Gracie takes a few moments to gather herself while I grab the keys and my jacket. As we head out, I glance at her, her determination etched into her profile. She’s always been the strongest person I know, but today, the weight of the world seems to rest on her shoulders.

The drive to Chapter One is quiet, each of us lost in our thoughts. When we arrive, the sight of the store hits harder than I expected. Gracie’s sharp intake of breath tells me she feels the same.

We step inside, and the damage is overwhelming. Books scattered, shelves overturned, the obvious spray paint vandalism and the smell of despair heavy in the air. Gracie’s face crumples for a moment before she steels herself and starts picking up books, stacking them with shaky hands.

After a while, she stops, looking around at the slow progress we’ve made. “It’s going to take so much to get this all back,” she murmurs.

I set down a stack of books and pull her into a brief hug. “But you will get it back, Gracie. If anyone can, it’s you.”

She gives me a small, sad smile, then looks around again. “I’ve spent so much of my life in this shop. My mom... she believed in this place so much. I can’t let that be for nothing.”

“You won’t,” I assure her. “You’ll rebuild. And I’ll be right here, for whatever you need.”

We spend the next several hours sorting through the chaos. The silence between us is filled with the sounds of our cleanup, the shuffling of our feet, the soft thud of books being re-stacked.

As we take a short break, I hand her a bottle of water, and she offers me a tired smile. “Thanks for being here, even when I’m stubborn.”

I chuckle, shrugging nonchalantly. “It’s what best friends do, right? Stick around through the stubbornness.”

Gracie nods, taking a long drink before she sets the bottle down. “I just wish I knew why someone would do this. It feels so personal. Nothing was even stolen, the register wasn’t even pried open or anything.”

“Maybe it was just a random act of vandalism,” I suggest, though the thought doesn’t sit right with either of us. “But that doesn’t make sense, either. Not in our small town.”

She sighs, glancing around the slowly improving shop. “Maybe. I just hope they catch whoever did this.”

“They will,” I say, more confidently than I feel. “The sheriff’s on it, and I’m sure they’ve got some leads by now.”

Gracie nods, looking slightly reassured. “I hope so.”

We spend a few more hours working, and by the time we’re done for the day, the shop looks halfway decent. It’s not perfect, not by a long shot, but it’s a start.

Chapter 23

Gracie

Isit cross-legged on the floor of my apartment, surrounded by boxes that have remained sealed since my mother passed away.

Today, the weight of everything feels heavier—the vandalism at my bookstore, the revelation of having no insurance, and now, facing the remnants of my mom’s life packed away in these cardboard containers.

I start with the least daunting box, the one filled with photos and personal items that I couldn’t bear to part with. It’s been just me and my mom for as long as I can remember, and each photograph tells a part of our story. I pull out an album, dusty but familiar, and begin flipping through it.

There’s a picture of my mom and me at the beach, her laughter frozen in time. I run my fingers over the image, smiling through the sting of tears. The next few pages are filled with memories of me growing up, snapshots of birthdays, school events, and lazy summer days.

---