Page 12 of Embers in Autumn
I did not cry. Not because there was nothing to cry about, but because the emotion lived differently now. Less like a storm,more like a tide. Dean stood a respectful step away, hands in his pockets, gaze averted to give me privacy. When I rose he looked at me, and there was no pity in it, only understanding.
“Do you want to walk a little more,” he asked, “or should I see you home?”
The question held no pressure, only an offering. I considered the quiet of my shop, the candles that waited unlit, the ledger with its neat columns, the upstairs rooms where the floors creaked in a pattern I now knew by heart. Then I considered the way my heart felt in this moment. Less guarded. Not exposed. Simply awake.
“Walk me home,” I said.
We took the long route. Past the bakery that sent warm air through its door like a promise. Past the barber with the striped pole that spun lazily. Past the schoolyard where leaves gathered in drifts along the fence. He told me about the first book Lana truly loved, a dog-eared fantasy she refused to return to the school library because it felt like a friend. I told him about the first time I shelved books as a teenager and how a single tidy spine could make me feel like I had put the world to rights. We brushed against our histories without digging trenches. We let the day be made of small bright pieces, and somehow that made room for a future-shaped thought to slip in and settle.
When we reached my shop the window lights glowed soft, reflected in the glass like a double. The bell inside would ring when I opened the door and the place would smell like paper and the last of the cinnamon. The porch step held a leaf I had meant to sweep and never did. The sight of it tugged a smile out of me. Home. A word that had hurt for a long time now felt like a hand I could hold.
Dean stopped on the path and looked at the facade with a half smile. “It suits you,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said. “For coffee. For the walk. For not beingterrifying.”
He grinned at that, then sobered a little. “I like talking to you, Amber.”
My name in his voice landed like something I wanted to keep repeating to myself. The thought startled me with its simplicity. I liked talking to him too. I liked the way he had drawn a circle around this morning without trying to own it. I liked the way my body felt near his, aware but not endangered. I liked that he looked at me like I was not invisible.
I took a breath and reached for a fragment of courage. “Would you and Lana like to stop by the shop later this week? I could set aside a couple of things she might like. And the fog machine is due to arrive on Thursday, which is obviously the pinnacle of literary culture.”
His eyes brightened. “She will love that. And yes. We will come by.”
I nodded, suddenly shy and suddenly not. The air between us held a faint electricity, the kind that makes your skin notice the exact place where a breeze touches it. He stepped closer by a small degree. I did not step back. He did not reach for me. He only searched my face like he was looking for a yes that was not verbal. I let him find it or not. I did not overperform. I simply stood there and let my heartbeat climb in a way that felt healthy.
“May I,” he asked, not quite a whisper, “kiss your cheek?”
The asking undid me more than a bolder move would have. I leaned in. His lips were warm and careful at the edge of my cheekbone, a press more than a kiss, enough to mark the moment and leave me feeling both steadied and bright. When he drew back his smile had returned, quiet and lit from within.
“I will see you soon,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “Soon.”
He turned down the path. I watched him go, the shape of him blurring a little in the thin light. My pulse settled at a newtempo. I listened to it for a second, then unlocked the door and stepped into my shop, the bell giving its small glad chime. The place smelled like paper and possibility. I set the vegetables behind the counter, lit a candle with a steady hand, and told myself, out loud and softly, that it was all right to feel hopeful.
CHAPTER 4
Amber
The morning was cold, the kind that seeped into the bones of the old house and made the windowpanes rattle with rain. Drops slid in lazy rivulets down the glass beside my bed, blurring the view of the street below into soft grays and muted browns.
It was Monday, and for a moment I entertained the delicious thought of rolling over and opening the shop an hour later. What was the point of being your own boss if you couldn’t carve out little luxuries for yourself? An extra hour with blankets pulled up to your chin, listening to the rain, sounded like heaven.
But then reality pushed back. If I didn’t work, the business didn’t make money. The store wasn’t magic. It needed my presence, my energy, my hands arranging the shelves and my smile to coax hesitant browsers into buyers. Life wasn’t fair. It never really had been.
I sighed, stretched, and forced myself out of bed. The wood floor was cold against my bare feet, but the familiar creak of the boards followed me down the narrow stairs into the kitchen.
Coffee came first. Always. I scooped grounds into the filter, the rich scent blooming as the hot water hissed through. The aroma filled the small space, comforting and grounding, the way my grandmother’s house always used to smell.
While it brewed, I cracked a couple of eggs into a bowl and whisked them until the yolks melted into golden ribbons. My grandmother’s trick had been a splash of cream and a pinch of salt before they ever hit the pan. I poured them into a skillet with a pat of butter that fizzed and spread across the bottom. I stirredslowly with a wooden spoon, folding them back on themselves until they were soft and pillowy, almost custard-like. At the last second, I shaved a bit of cheddar over the top and let it melt in.
I slid the eggs onto a plate and poured my coffee into a wide mug, the steam curling up like a welcome. Settling at the small kitchen table by the rain-dappled window, I took a bite. The eggs tasted exactly the way I remembered from childhood breakfasts—rich, simple, a little indulgent. A hug on a plate.
And as I sipped my coffee, my mind, traitor that it was, wandered straight to my date with Dean.
Date?Was it even a date? The word felt both too young and too heavy. Did people even call them that anymore, or had the language shifted while I wasn’t paying attention? When I was a teenager, a date was a movie ticket stub, an ice cream cone, a nervous kiss under a porch light. Now? What was it? Coffee with a man who made me feel like my guard was lowering in ways I hadn’t planned?
It had felt like something.
