Page 51 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
April, Randy, and the kids linger a minute before finally drifting back out into the street. The bell jingles, and the store feels lighter again.
That night, Tate doesn’t go home. He doesn’t have to tell me why. The kids took his room. His mother took his space. And the pieces of his father he has left, what little there are, are probably next.
He stretches out on the bookstore couch, Cobweb curled up on his chest like she’s appointed herself guard dog. I bring him a blanket, draping it over his legs. He looks at me like I’ve just handed him something more than fabric.
“You didn’t have to defend me,” I say quietly. “But thank you. I’m sorry about your mom. She doesn’t treat you right, Tate.”
“I know. Is it okay if I crash here tonight?”
“Of course,” I say. Then, before I can lose my nerve: “And Tate?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for all your help today. It means a lot.”
His voice is low, sure. “Anytime.”
Eventually, I climb down the ladder with two steaming mugs in my hands. Tate’s still awake, stretched out on the rug, staring at the ceiling like he’s waiting for the stars to rearrange themselves.
I set one mug down beside him and flop cross-legged onto the rug. My hoodie sleeves dangle over my hands. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
He takes the mug, nodding. “Too quiet. Weird.”
“Weird?” I laugh. “After months on a boat, you can’t handle my bookstore silence?”
“Exactly.” He sips. “Where’s the seagulls? The diesel engines? The drunk guy singing sea shanties off-key?”
I grin. “If you want, I can humMy Heart Will Go Onwhile you fall asleep.”
He groans. “Please don’t. I still haven’t forgiven you for yourTitanicphase.”
I gasp. “Excuse me, every girl our age had aTitanicphase.”
He smirks. “You cried for a week when you found out Leo smoked.”
“Shut up,” I mutter into my mug, cheeks heating. “At least I didn’t go through a puka-shell necklace phase.”
His jaw drops. “Hey. Those were cool.”
“They were so not cool,” I shoot back.
“That was one summer!” he protests, laughing now.
I grin, victorious. “One summer too many.”
We fall into easy banter like that, trading old humiliations and laughing until Cobweb stirs, glaring at us from her spot on the blanket. Tate leans back on his elbows, watching me with a lopsided smile that makes my chest warm.
“You haven’t changed,” he says. “Still bossy. Still ruthless.”
“Someone has to keep you humble,” I fire back, though my lips curve against my will.
For a while, we just sip our tea, not heavy, not complicated. Just us. Laughing, remembering, catching up. The night folds in around us, easy and light, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like nothing’s missing.
Chapter 16
Tate
The dock creaks beneath my boots as I settle on the edge, elbows resting on my knees, gaze fixed on the still, silvery reflection of the moon on the harbor.
