Page 46 of The Words of Us

Evie thrives here. She’s in her element, guiding people to the right books, recommending poems that will change their life. I love watching her work, seeing how effortlessly she moves through this world she’s created. And she lets me be a part of it, in the quiet way she always has.

As the afternoon fades into evening, we’re back home. The sun is setting, casting a golden light through the windows, and we’re curled up on the couch, a bottle of wine between us. The day’s been full, but now, it’s just us.

We’re talking about the future. We do that sometimes—dream about what’s next, even though we’re both happy with where we are. Evie’s been toying with the idea of expanding the bookstore, maybe adding a café or hosting more events, and I’ve been thinking about starting a poetry workshop for local kids.

“What do you think?” she asks, swirling her wine in her glass. “Should we take the plunge? Go bigger with the bookstore?”

I smile at her, loving the way she gets when she’s excited about something. “I think whatever you decide will be the right choice.”

She nudges me with her foot. “That’s not an answer.”

I laugh, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “Fine. I think it’s a great idea. The store’s already a hit, and you’ve got the talent to make it even bigger. Plus, it’ll give me an excuse to spend more time there.”

Her smile softens, and she looks at me for a long moment, something tender in her gaze. “I love you, you know that?”

My heart stutters a little, the warmth of her words settling over me like a blanket. “I love you too.”

It’s so simple, but it’s everything.

Later, we’re in bed, the night quiet around us, but I can’t sleep. I’m lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, my mind running over the years we’ve shared and how much we’ve been through together. I turn to look at her, at the way her face is softened in sleep, her hand resting gently on my chest.

I think about the life we’ve built. It wasn’t easy, not at first. There were times when I wasn’t sure if we’d make it, if we’d be able to move past the things that kept us apart. But we did. We found our way back to each other, and now... Now we have this.

I reach out, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, and she stirs, her eyes fluttering open.

“Can’t sleep?” she murmurs, her voice soft and sleepy.

“Just thinking,” I say quietly, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

“About what?”

“About how lucky I am.”

She smiles, her hand sliding up to cup my cheek. “We both are.”

I pull her closer, wrapping my arms around her, and she settles against me, her body warm and familiar. We lie there for a long time, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around us like a cocoon.

And as I hold her, I realize that I don’t need to think about the future. Because everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ve ever needed, is right here.

Five years later, and we’re still writing our story. Every day, every moment, we add a new line, a new chapter. And I wouldn’t change a single word.

The quiet stillness of the night settles over us as I hold her close. Her breathing is soft and even, and for a moment, I just let myself feel it—the warmth of her body against mine, the weight of her arm draped across me. There’s something grounding about it, this simple act of being together. It reminds me of how far we’ve come, how much we’ve grown since those early days of uncertainty and fear.

I think back to the first time we kissed, to the heat of that moment, and the years of passion and intimacy that followed. Those nights when we couldn't keep our hands off each other, the way we explored each other’s bodies with a hunger that seemed to burn forever. But now, there’s a different kind of intensity between us—deeper, quieter, more enduring. We still crave each other, but it’s balanced by the ease of knowing we’re safe in each other’s arms.

Her hand moves slightly in her sleep, fingers brushing against my chest, and I can’t help but smile. Even in her dreams, she reaches for me.

Kenneth passed away two years ago, and sometimes, I still expect to see him walk through the door of the bookstore, his arms full of new books, his easy smile lighting up the room. He’d been a constant in both our lives, someone who knew the bookstore as intimately as Evie and always seemed to know what we needed before we did. His absence is a quiet ache, a missing piece of the space that can never really be filled. When I walk past the counter, I can almost hear his voice, teasing me about one thing or another, offering unsolicited but always spot-on advice about my latest poem.

After he died, the bookstore felt different for a while—quieter, as if the energy had dimmed. Evie took it hard, of course. He was more than just an employee to her; he was a friend, a confidant, someone who had been by her side during some of her hardest moments. We honored him the best way we knew how: by keeping the poetry nights alive, something he always said was the heart of the place. Now, we always have a moment of silence for Kenneth at the beginning of every big event, and his picture still hangs behind the counter, watching over everything like a silent guardian.

Glass took it hard, too, in his own way. He was never the type to show much emotion, but I could tell it affected him. The four of us were close, bonded by our shared love of words and art, and Kenneth had been the glue that held a lot of things together. After Kenneth’s passing, Glass threw himself into his work, performing more and pushing the boundaries of his poetry, almost as if he were trying to outrun the grief. It wasn’t until recently that he found a kind of peace with it, and I think that’s what led him to where he is now—performing on bigger stages, his voice reaching more people than ever before.

Watching Glass perform these days is something else entirely. There’s always been an intensity to him when he’s on stage, but now there’s a fire that wasn’t there before. It’s as if losing Kenneth pushed him to dig deeper, to find parts of himself he hadn’t tapped into yet. His poetry is sharper, more raw, and audiences respond to him in a way that’s electric. He’s become something of a local legend, and whenever we watch him perform, I can’t help but feel a swell of pride for my friend who’s finally stepping into the spotlight he deserves.

Evie and I still keep in touch with him, of course. He comes by the bookstore when he can, and we sit and reminisce about the old days, laughing about Kenneth’s terrible taste in coffee and his surprisingly good taste in poetry. But those visits arefewer and farther between now that Glass is performing more often. It’s strange to think of him on those bigger stages with audiences hanging on his every word, but he’s earned it. I know Kenneth would be proud, too, seeing how far Glass has come since those quiet nights at the bookstore.

In a way, both of them—Kenneth and Glass—are still part of what we do here. The bookstore isn’t just about the books or the poetry nights. It’s about the community we built, the people we’ve loved and lost, and the ones who’ve helped shape us along the way. Even though Kenneth is gone and Glass is out there performing for the world, their spirits are still here, woven into the fabric of everything we do. And for that, I’m endlessly grateful.

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