Page 49 of Always

She leads me through the rows of high shelves. The store houses the latest bestsellers along with used books and an antique book section. I inhale the earthy aroma of leather and parchment.

She sidesteps a stack of books, her hand never leaving mine,and we wind our way to the back of the store. The space here is more open, a welcoming corner set up with a couple of worn couches, a pair of armchairs, and a coffee table stacked high with glossy magazines from years past.

“This is where I used to sit for hours on end,” she tells me, her voice just above a whisper. She releases my hand and sinks into one of the couches, patting the cushion beside her. “Running away from home without ever stepping a foot out of town.”

I sit beside her. She seems distant for a moment, but then she smiles at me.

“We didn’t have a lot of money, so I couldn’t buy many books. But Mr. Lambert—he owned this place back then—let me read them here. He even saved some books for me if he knew I was coming. Once, he had an old copy ofJane Eyrethat he gave me. I’ve re-read it so many times. It’s one of my favorite stories of all time.”

The softness in her voice moves me, and I place my arm around her. She leans into me and rests her head on my shoulder. I inhale the raspberry fragrance of her silky hair.

“When I was older,” she continues, “I would ride my bike over here during summer break and read all day until the sun set, and Mr. Lambert would have to remind me to get home before it got too dark.”

I can’t miss the nostalgic glint in her eyes. “This is a great place. I can see why you spent a lot of time here.”

“I loved it. It’s not the same since Mr. Lambert passed away, but I still like to hang here for a few minutes each time I come to town. I don’t get back here often.”

“Why not?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. My mom and I…”

“What about your mom and you?”

“It’s nothing. We were just always kind of like oil and water, you know?” Then she gasps. “Braden, I’m sorry. I’m whiningabout my mom when you lost yours. Please forgive me.”

I kiss the top of her head. “Nothing to forgive.”

In fact, I just learned something more about her. And maybe she did, too.

She leans forward and then stands. “Come on. There’s a great antique shop and an ice cream parlor that still makes everything from scratch from recipes from the 1950s. Then there’s the grocery. I can’t believe they’re still in business since the Super Walmart opened on the outskirts of town, but they are.”

I follow her out of the book shop, and we amble farther down the road, passing the shops she mentioned until we get to the restaurant called Luigi’s.

The place exudes old-world. The building itself is modest, and the space is cozy, with checkered red-and-white tablecloths draped over wooden tables that have probably seen generations of family meals. The scent of garlic, simmering tomatoes, and freshly baked bread wafts toward me. I inhale deeply.

Framed black-and-white photos line the walls, and an old jukebox in the corner softly plays. The menu is handwritten on a chalkboard, offering simple, hearty dishes like spaghetti with meatballs, lasagna, and homemade cannoli for dessert.

“Just sit anywhere you like.” A young woman dressed in jeans and an apron smiles and gestures to us.

Skye leads me to a table by the window, where I hold out a chair for her. She points me to the chalkboard. “The pasta here is to die for. They make it all from scratch. I usually get the spaghetti and meatballs, but there’s always a pasta special.”

I take a seat across from her. “It smells amazing.”

“They take garlic seriously here.”

A server walks to our table. “Skye, is that you?”

“Yeah. Hi, Maralee.”

“I didn’t know you were back in town.”

“Only for a few days. This is Braden. Braden, this is Maralee.We went to high school together.”

From Skye’s tone, I gather they weren’t exactly friends. “Nice to meet you,” I say.

“Our pasta special is penne arrabiata,” she says. “I’ll be right back with some waters.”

“Friend of yours?” I ask once the server is gone.

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