Page 15 of When the Angel Falls First

He turned a questioning look on me, and I bobbed my head slightly. It was theirs to work out, but it wasn’t in my nature to leave a couple on the precipice and in pain.

“Can you take a break?” Jaime’s eyes were on fire for her, a look I knew well.

She cast a worried glance at me, but I waved her off. “I’m good. I need to eat this and get on the road.” I picked up a triangle of sandwich and took a too-big bite to illustrate my point.

Victory rolled her eyes at my immaturity but allowed Jaime to lead her off, his hand gentle on hers.

My mind wandered back over the conversation, seeing things about Josie in a new light. Was she afraid I would leave again, too? Get bored of her, or think she wasn’t special?

That couldn’t be further from the truth, but if that was why she was pushing me away…

No. I wanted to repair our friendship, but I couldn’t afford to do anything more. I had to repair my mistakes, regain my wings, and move forward. No matter how much I cared for Josie, I couldn’t go back.

The last time was disastrous enough.

SEVEN

Josie

I had always dreamedof hosting a book signing at the Bookish Cat, to turn the little haven of books into a bustling hub for authors and readers alike. With my shop finally gaining a foothold in the local community, here was my chance. Never mind that it was a great excuse to get my thoughts off ofothersubjects.

As I scrolled through a colorful article aptly entitled “How to Host Your First Book Signing Event,” I was grinning like I used to on Christmas morning. My eyes drank in the vibrant photos of cozy, crowded bookshops, authors signing books with broad smiles, and readers clutching their newly signed copies like precious jewels.

My mind was abuzz with ideas. Creating an atmosphere with soft music and warm lighting, setting up a cozy corner for the author, preparing little gifts for the attendees. The anticipation of the event was as delightful as the novels that lined the shelves of the shop. The prospect of meeting an author, of watching them interact with their fans, filled me with the same thrill that had been the reason for the bookstore in the firstplace—creating new relationships between the mind, the heart, and the imagination.

And then my phone pinged. Something about it was more foreboding than the high-pitched ding let on.

It was from my brother.

Frederick: Grandma is hitting the big one-zero-zero, Jos. It’s shaping up to be quite the family reunion. You should try showing up for this one. A little time off from your fancy new bookstore wouldn’t hurt. It might actually be interesting for the family to catch a glimpse of the elusive ‘real world’ Josie Ray.

The words on the screen knocked the breath out of me, echoing in my mind with a bitterness that twisted my stomach. I could almost hear his voice, laced with the same old criticisms, comparisons, and underestimations.

For as long as I could remember, Fred and the rest of the family had viewed my passion for literature with a bemusement bordering on scorn. His text was nothing more than a modern-day, digital version of Mrs. Bennet’s complaints fromPride and Prejudice.

Fred’s words weren’t about concern, they were about control. My love for books was never the issue. Their intolerance of it was a reflection of their inability to accept that I didn’t want to follow the family way like Fred did.

Try as I might to get back into the article on book signings, I couldn’t. Fred’s message had a funny effect on me, like the strange dreams that come during a fever. I found myself staring into the distance, the soft hum of the bookstore fading into the background. There it was again, the faint shadow of an alternate life I’d left behind—a life where I was an accountant,working tirelessly in the business that my parents had built from the ground up, just like I had done with the Bookish Cat.

My family’s accounting firm, Ray & Co, was the product of my parents’ shared ambition, a symbol of their hard work and determination. They had labored over it for years, tending to it with the kind of love and passion that people usually reserve for their children. And, in many ways, the firm was like a third child to them—only, it was the golden child, the one that could do no wrong.

They had hoped I’d take it over someday with Fred, keep the family business going with new life. And for a while, I thought I would do exactly that. But it didn’t take long before I realized I couldn’t ignore my calling. I wanted to create a world of words, not figures. I wanted to introduce people to new stories, not new tax laws.

For them, my decision to open a bookstore was a rejection, a refusal to continue their legacy. And their disappointment was like a cold wind, chilling our relationship to the core. Some harsh words between us didn’t help. In the end, I had to make a choice. I couldn’t sacrifice my own dreams in order to carry on the family tradition.

It was hard to disappoint my family, but in the end, not as hard as it was to disappoint myself.

My conscience, my soul, belonged in the quiet aisles of a bookstore, nestled among the endless worlds captured within the pages of books. After all, as Atticus Finch inTo Kill a Mockingbirdsaid, “The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rule is a person’s conscience.” And so I would abide by my own conscience.

It was a choice I had made, and one I’d never regret, no matter how much my family wished otherwise. And trying tostay close to them while I did it had proven too toxic for my own good.

A part of me believed that one day they would come around. After all,theyopened their own business, and I followed in those footsteps—just in a slightly different direction. But it was as though my love for the written word, for stories and escapism, was a foreign language they simply couldn’t comprehend. I wished to my very core that they would see the magic of books, the way stories molded us, how they breathed color into black and white.

Nana Geraldine’s birthday felt like an opportunity on the horizon, a chance to start building again. I knew that was her wish. It tore her apart to see us divided, and she’d do anything so we didn’t end up likeThe Dutch House, where Ann Patchett wrote that five generations passed before anything that resembled reconciliation in the family began to take hold.

The familiar jingle of the doorbell snapped me out of my thoughts. I looked up, half-expecting to see Caleb, but a little girl walked in. She couldn’t have been more than seven, clutching three dollar bills tightly in her hand.

Quit the Caleb-yearn, Josie.

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