Page 50 of A Novel Love Story

Coming from … above me?

Then again, two more.

Well, that was odd. I’d had enough of weird sounds thanks to last night, but something told me to climb the spiral staircase, so I did, and followed the knocking. There was a line of windows on the right side of the bookstore that looked out to a small rooftop ledge. I hadn’t really explored this area of the store yet, mostly because it was cookbooks and poetry, and there were also some window seats lined with lush velvet cushions. The windows all had latches on them, so on nice days you could open them from the inside and let the breeze in. And framed in the third window was none other than Anders, his back pressed against the glass, sitting as far up on the sill as he could.

On theoutside.

“Anders?”

On hearing his name, he gave a start and glanced over his shoulder and through the window. Butterscotch was tight in his arms. Upon seeing me, the hope in his eyes flickered out. “Ohgod,” he replied dreadfully, “did it have to be you?”

I took in his predicament, kneeling up on the bench inside the window. “What are you doing on theroof?”

“Admiring the view,” he replied sarcastically, throwing his free hand out toward the view of … trees. Lots and lots of trees. In his other arm, he clung tightly to a fat orange-and-white cat who looked more terrified of the rain than of anything else. “I’mtrapped, that’s what. Butterscotch snuck out here and he wouldn’t come in so … I crawled out.” He glanced at the edge of the rooftop, and then back at me. “And now I’m stuck. The window is jammed.”

I inspected the lock. It was stuck fast. “Can’t you just slide off the roof?”

He gave me a pained look. He motioned to the cat. “It’d be a bit hard.”

“Ah.” I nodded. “You couldn’t just draw him in with treats or whatever?”

“I tried, but he was after the starlings.”

“So now you’re stuck,” I echoed his earlier sentiment. “And I’m standing by the only window that will let you in.” His mouth twisted, thinking that I was taunting him. I shoved off from the window. “Hold on, I think I saw a screwdriver down under the counter. I’ll be right back.”

He shouted something after me, but I couldn’t understand it through the window as I hurried down the spiral stairs again, and searched for the screwdriver under the counter. I found it, beside a tape dispenser, and quickly returned to the window. The sky outside was looking darker and darker by the moment. A few errant raindrops splattered against the roof.

“What did you say?” I asked as I returned, kneeling up on the window seat, and beginning to jimmy the clasp free.

He hesitated, watching me. “I … didn’t say anything,” he decided, and slumped back against the window. Butterscotch looked quite fretful in his arms, his eyes wide as another roll of thunder carried itself across the valley. He muttered to his cat, “Learned your lesson? Isthisreally worth a damn bird?”

“Meow,” the cat replied, which sounded a lot like a resounding no.

The clasp to the window was rusted, and held fast as I tried to pry it loose. “Damn,” I muttered, and tried from a different angle.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, so quiet I didn’t think I’d heard him correctly.

“You’re what?” I pried the screwdriver out of the clasp, and decided I’d just pull the entire sucker off.

“Sorry,” he repeated, turning his head to the side so I could read his lips. “I’m sorry for being so rotten to you.”

I froze, letting the words sink in. He was apologizing?Now?“Ah,” I replied levelly, trying to get purchase on the screws in the hardware, but most of them had been stripped years ago. So, plan B it was. “So you’re sorry now that I’m useful to you?”

“What? No,” he quickly replied. Another roll of thunder quaked through the air, and Butterscotch’s ears went back in fright. “Ow ow, stop, Butters,” he muttered, and then told me, “I meant to tell you earlier, but you said I hated you.”

“You don’tlikeme.”

“I don’t hate you,” he said, and he sounded earnest. “I was—I am … sorry. I’m sorry.”

Honestly, I was very close to believing him. Hell, I’d had bad days before, and I had a bad day yesterday, too, when I slapped him. He just said the exact wrong thing at exactly the right time. It wasn’t just him who needed to apologize, I realized.

But I wasn’t about to let him get off easy on it.

“Could you say it again?” I asked, changing the screwdriver to a flathead, and jabbing it between the wood of the window and the clasp. “The apology? I didn’t hear it the first time. A little slower, maybe. Let me relish it.”

“You heard it the first time.”

“I did,” I admitted, and began to twist the screwdriver, “but I’d like to hear it again.”

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