Page 11 of Embers in Autumn
Tears pricked my eyes, absurdly fast and hot. I blinked them back and took another sip, grateful for the way the latte offered something steady to hold. “I am not used to telling it without feeling like I should apologize for how messy it was.”
“You do not need to apologize for surviving,” he said.
The way he said it made something inside me shift. Not the dramatic kind of shift that redraws a map all at once. More like a small, confident turn of a compass needle toward true north.
“What about you?” I asked, wanting to share the space, not just take it. “You said Lana’s mom is not in the picture.”
He rubbed a thumb along the ridge of his mug. “She left when Lana was two. I do not talk about it much. Not because I am hiding anything. It just is not the story I want to keep telling.It is old and it does not get better in the retelling.” He looked up. “What matters is Lana. She is a good kid. Reads everything. Laughs like it surprises her when she does. She has my whole heart, and I am not sorry about it.”
“You should not be,” I said. “She is lovely.”
“She liked you,” he said, something like relief softening his voice. “That means more than most things.”
I ducked my head and smiled into my cup, suddenly shy. “She liked the books. I am secondary.”
“You,book girl,might be underselling yourself.”
“You heardthat.”
“Hard to miss you being hailed like a minor celebrity at the market. Hey, book girl. I thought for sure you would bow.”
“That was almost my response,” I said, and his laugh came again, that quiet rumble I wanted to hear more than was reasonable.
We drifted into easier talk. He told me about the firehouse. Not the gruesome parts. More the life inside it. The rookie who polished the engine like it would grant wishes. The veteran who pretended to be grumpy but fed stray cats behind the station. The way the air felt in his lungs after a day with smoke in it, thick and stubborn, and how coffee sometimes did not cut through the taste. I told him about ordering books for people who whispered their requests like confessions. About Carol with her pearls and her scandalous reading list. He tipped his head back and laughed, a true one, the kind that creased the corners of his eyes.
“Carol is a menace,” I said fondly. “I adore her.”
We shared a pastry because it felt right to share something. The barista warmed a slice of pumpkin loaf until the edges turned sweet and sticky. Dean split it and slid the larger half my way without comment. It felt like a tiny vow. He had that manner of doing small considerate things without making a show of them.
“Do you want to bring Lana to the Halloween event?” I asked once we had wiped crumbs from our fingers. “We are doing costumes and trivia and a scavenger hunt in the stacks. There will be prizes. It will be chaotic in the best way.”
“I saw the flyer,” he said. “She is pretending to be cool about it. Which I am pretty sure means she wants to go.”
“Tell her there will be a mysterious fog machine and candy with names that sound like potions.”
“Now she will definitely go.”
We fell quiet. Not a heavy quiet, but a listening one, like we were both testing the air for what came next. The cafe had filled. People chattered in little clusters. Someone pushed the record arm back to the start and the first track wandered through notes like falling leaves. Outside, the fog had burned off enough for a pale sun to show its face. The light moved across the table and warmed the curve of his cheekbone.
I realized I was falling for his gentleness first. It snuck up on me. The steadiness of his attention. The way he did not crowd me even as he leaned closer to hear. Then the rest of him followed. The kindness. The dry humor. The way his hands cradled the mug like he respected heat. The fact that he asked questions and waited for answers. My body answered too, quietly at first, a low hum under my skin. Every time his knee brushed mine beneath the table I felt the tiniest spark skip. It did not feel dangerous. It felt alive.
He reached across and touched a leaf that had snagged in the knit of my hat. “You have autumn in your hair,” he said lightly. “Hold still.”
He plucked it free. His fingers brushed my temple. It was the slightest touch, a whisper of contact, yet my pulse leapt like I had taken a step off a dock into cold water. He noticed. Not in a smug way. Just an attuned way. His smile shifted, softened, warmed at the edges. The cafe, the people, the record, all of it moved to thefar edges of my awareness and left the two of us at the center.
I could have told him then that I was not ready. That I was still figuring out how to be alone without feeling lonely. That my trust felt like thin ice. Instead I said, “Thank you.”
“For the leaf?” His mouth quirked.
“For the coffee. For asking. For not insisting.”
“Low bar,” he said, though there was a seriousness under it. “But you are welcome.”
We finished our drinks. He made no move to rush me. I watched the foam collapse into the last swallow and felt a tug in my chest that was not regret. More like a tug toward the next thing. He must have felt something similar, because he stood and reached for my coat as I pushed back my chair. He held it open. I slid my arms in. It was such a simple gesture. It made me feel carefully seen.
When we stepped outside the chill found the places the latte had not reached. Clouds had thinned to wisps. The square had shaken awake fully. Children tugged on sleeves. A dog barked at pigeons. The apple seller shouted the morning’s final discount like a town crier.
I lifted the flowers and he fell into step beside me without asking if I wanted company. He matched my pace. We walked toward the churchyard at the far end of the lane where the old stones leaned together like cousins at a reunion. The gate squeaked. The grass was wet enough to darken the toes of my boots. I stopped at the spot where my grandmother’s name was carved. I knelt and set the mums against the base, tucking the stems so they would not topple. My breath fogged and thinned as the air moved across my cheeks. I whispered thank you. For the house. For the recipes I still forgot to write down. For the bravery that had sent me back here.
