Page 20 of Befriending the Bear
He grabbed his keys and a jacket, and we made our way to his truck. The cab smelled like coffee and something mechanical, oil maybe. The engine turned over with a rumble that seemed too loud on the quiet street. We said little as he drove, but it was a light silence, a comfortable one.
Too soon, we were pulling up outside my house. The porch light I’d left on seemed dim after the warmth of his kitchen. Ididn’t want to get out, didn’t want to return to my empty rooms and careful solitude.
“Thank you. For d-dinner. For understanding. For…” I gestured helplessly, encompassing the whole evening.
“Thank you for coming over. For the book. For trusting me with your stories.”
We sat there for a moment, engine idling, rain drumming on the roof. This was the moment in movies where someone would lean across the console, where gratitude would transform into something else. But this wasn’t a movie, and I wasn’t ready for that transformation, might never be ready.
Fraser seemed to understand. He smiled, soft and patient. “See you soon?”
I took a deep breath. “Yes. Soon.”
8
FRASER
The Fall Festival rolled into town like a friendly invasion. When I arrived at the town square early Saturday morning, vendors were already setting up booths, stringing lights between lampposts, and transforming our quiet streets into something out of a Hallmark movie.
The October sun had decided to show up and show off, painting everything in that particular golden light that only came with autumn. The air was crisp enough to require a jacket but warm enough in the sun to make you want to shed it. A light breeze carried the scent of cinnamon and apple cider from the food vendors, mixing with the earthy smell of fallen leaves that crunched underfoot. The mountains in the distance were showing their first hints of snow on the peaks, while the trees in town blazed with reds and oranges so vivid they looked almost artificial against the cloudless blue sky.
It was the perfect day to be outside, and that was exactly what I planned to do. The library’s large book sale booth was tucked between Brianna’s pastry stand and a local artist selling watercolors. I’d somehow let Eleanor rope me into helping with setting up the booth.
“We need your muscles,” she’d said, which was such a clever manipulation-disguised-as-compliment that I hadn’t even recognized it at first. And then when I had and had wanted to cancel, she’d countered with, “You wanted to get more involved in the community, didn’t you?”
Hard to get angry when someone played the game that well.
Of course any thought of canceling had evaporated when I found out Calloway would be volunteering too. We’d hung out twice more since our shared dinner, and he hadn’t left my thoughts. What that meant was something I chose not to focus on.
I spotted him immediately, bent over a box of donated books, sorting them with the same careful attention he brought to everything. He wore a rust-colored sweater that made him look like autumn incarnate, and when he glanced up and saw me, his whole face changed with surprise, melting into something warmer that made my stomach go weak.
“G-good morning,” he managed, straightening slowly like his back was protesting the work.
“Morning. Eleanor put you to work already? I thought I was on time.”
“She’s always early.” His lips quirked in that almost-smile I was learning to treasure. “I’ve l-l-learned to show up half an hour b-b-before.”
“Well, I’m here, so put me to work. I know nothing about organizing books. You’ll have to tell me what to do.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement, maybe, or recognition of the reversal. Usually, I was the one leading our interactions, creating space for him to step into. But here, surrounded by books, he was in his element.
“F-fiction by author’s last name,” he said, already moving to demonstrate. “Nonfiction by s-subject. P-poetry gets its own section.”
We fell into an easy rhythm, him sorting while I grabbed new boxes and opened them for him, our movements finding a natural synchronization.
“You two work well together,” Eleanor observed during a lull, her tone too innocent to be trusted.
Calloway flushed, suddenly fascinated by the spine of a cookbook. I busied myself straightening already-straight rows, hyperaware of the foot of space between us that felt simultaneously too much and not enough.
When I was certain Calloway couldn’t see me, I sent Eleanor a silent warning, and she held up her hands in an equally wordless acknowledgment. Getting close to Calloway was like approaching a crown fire—one wrong move and he would torch up, retreat to higher ground. I couldn’t have Eleanor spook him like that. Luckily, she kept her mouth shut after that.
The festival officially opened at ten, and Main Street filled with a mix of locals and tourists, all eager for small-town charm and reasonably priced crafts. Our booth drew steady traffic. Books were five for ten dollars, a deal that had people loading up bags. Luckily, we had countless boxes under our tables to restock when the tables got too empty.
I watched Calloway navigate the interactions with a grace I hadn’t expected. When customers asked for recommendations, he’d point rather than speak, or he wrote titles on a notepad Eleanor had thoughtfully provided. Most people didn’t seem to care about his silence, too focused on their finds.
“He’s good at this,” I said to Eleanor during a brief break.
She smiled, giving me her knowing teacher look that made me feel twelve years old. “He spent years as a public librarian. You develop strategies.”
