Page 22 of When the Woods Go Silent

My server noted you and your sister enjoying our pomegranate liqueur yesterday, and I hope this comes off as more of an apology than a bribe. I’d like to see you again, and find out the answer to my question.

- Arlo

I suck on my teeth as I read the note twice. What question did he ask me? Peeking into the box, I see four bite-sized tea cakes, decorated with delicate sugared flowers, sparkling in the lamp light.

A flush spreads across my cheeks, then straight down to my core as a sudden memory of the dream I keep having rocks through me. Those icy, flashing eyes. The heat of his mouth...

Right before we were interrupted that night, he’d asked me where I wanted his mouth. And now he wants my answer. Cheeky bastard.

I take the gifts back to our cozy kitchen office and set them on the farthest side of the broad table before settling in front of my laptop with a cold bottle of water. I hold it to my neck for a few seconds before gulping half of it down.

I don’t know how I feel about this apology. Is it sexy, or too little too late? Even my body seems divided. It sort of feels like he forgot about me until we showed up at the restaurant, and I’m not flattered by that. Either way, I know Ruby is going to encourage me to give him another shot.

Maybe I should, but I decide to push off the decision until later. I’m not won over by the gift - I would have rather had him just knock on the door and say hi, instead of creeping around like a weirdo.

Logging into my laptop, I roll my shoulders back and let go of a sigh, trying to clear my mind.

It would be nice to be like Ruby, and still be able to believe in fairy tales and happily ever after endings, but my life experiences just don’t ever seem to follow those plot lines. That’s why I developed this habit with guys - go for what I want from them right away so I’m not disappointed when they inevitably disappear.

Deep down, I’d love to find a forever relationship and have a big family, but I just don’t think it’s in my future. If there wasa fairy tale about a slutty spinster who enjoyed having her back blown out now and then but chose to live alone with cats and books and coffee, I’d be the main character of it.

And I think I can be satisfied with that.

CHAPTER TEN

RUBY

I don’t know what makes me decide to film my content in the woods instead of the store this time, but as I hang out under the dappled shade of the pine trees, I know it was exactly what I needed to feel like myself again.

Even a few days in the city around people I wanted to impress made my energy all chaotic and confused, and the quiet sounds of the forest around me are instantly restorative.

I set up my tripod and phone on the mossy ground, recording several short videos as I move one by one through the topics I brainstormed during the conference. Since we bought the old bookstore and began sharing its rehabilitation and our plans for the business, both my book blog and the bookstore social media accounts have exploded.

In a world of drop shipping books and huge discount stores, everyone is rooting for us to succeed.

Over two hours later, I’ve finally run through all my ideas, and my voice is a little hoarse. I watch my face back on the phone screen as I edit a little here and there, reflecting on how much easier it is to talk to a camera than a person. No eye contact rules, no confusing body language. I can delete and record as many times as I want to, getting my words just how I want them in a way real life never lets me do.

Still, my heart twists while watching the last video, worry spiking in my chest at the truth I’ve allowed to spill through. The last one wasn’t a planned topic, but inspiration had hit with a shaft of sunlight beaming down through the dense pines, lighting up my small clearing with the kind of golden aura reserved for fairy tales.

“Sure, lots of people read for an escape. A distraction. I’ve certainly done that more times than is probably healthy. Who needs therapy when you have books with happy endings?” A shaky laugh escapes my on-screen self, and my thumb hovers over the delete button. Is the topic too personal? Too weird?

Maybe too negative for my audience, who’s used to my role as a happy-go-lucky bookstore owner and perfect-ending story lover?

I let it play, avoiding the decision a little longer.

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