Page 60 of Embers in Autumn
The group fanned out through the aisles, their voices filling the usually quiet shop. Lana lingered by my side, her fingers brushing over the spines of books as we walked.
“You’ve got pumpkin candles again,” she said, nodding toward the little display I’d set up near the register.
“Just came in yesterday,” I replied. “Scented too. Cinnamon pumpkin and apple pumpkin.”
She grinned. “I might have to get one. My dad’s gonna say it’s a fire hazard, but… well, that’s his problem.”
I laughed, the sound surprising even me. “You know your father well.”
She shot me a look, her green eyes mischievous, and for a second I saw so much of Dean in her it made my chest tighten.
The girls returned first, their arms full of books about old rituals and seasonal foods. The boys took longer, distracted by the fantasy section, arguing over which cover looked cooler. Lana finally picked out a slim volume on harvest myths and, true to her word, one of the pumpkin candles.
As they gathered at the counter, chattering and teasing each other, I wrapped the books in paper bags and rang everything up. Lana lingered until the end, sliding her tote strap higher on her shoulder.
“Thanks, Amber,” she said softly, almost shyly. “I like coming here. It feels… I don’t know. Different.”
“Different good, I hope?” I asked.
She smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. Different good.”
The other kids scattered through the shop, flipping through books and teasing each other about who had to carry the heaviest stack. I busied myself straightening a shelf, but I noticed it—the way Lana lingered near one of the boys. He was tall for his age, messy dark hair that fell into his eyes, the kind of awkward hands-in-pockets stance that only thirteen-year-old boys seemed to have.
And Lana was looking at him. Not just looking—watching. Careful, quiet, almost like she hoped nobody else would see.
I knew that look.
Butterflies. The sweet, dizzy kind that tangle up in your stomach when you’re young and wide-eyed and everything feels like a possibility.
I remembered being thirteen, sitting in class and feeling my heart race for the first time when Michael looked my way. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a smile that seemed carved just for me. Of course, nothing ever happened—I never had the courage to do more than daydream little meet-cute scenarios in my head. Later, in high school, I learned he was gay, and I laughed at myself for the hours I’d spent doodling his name in the margins of my notebooks. But still, those butterflies had been real.
I knew what Lana was going through.
Eventually, the kids decided on their books, a mix of history and mythology, and crowded toward the counter. I rang them up, packed everything into bags, and listened to their chatter about who would write which part of the project.
They filed out into the drizzle, laughter trailing behind them, but Lana lingered at the door, her tote slung over her shoulderand the little pumpkin candle tucked inside.
“So…” I said softly, catching her eye. “What’s his name?”
Her cheeks flushed instantly, pink blooming across her pale skin. “What? I—no, it’s not—”
“I was thirteen once too. I know that look, Lana.”
She ducked her head, biting her lip. “Ethan.”
“Ethan,” I repeated, letting the name hang between us. “He seems nice.”
Her eyes darted up to mine, uncertain, but I kept my smile easy, warm. “Butterflies can be scary. But they’re also kind of wonderful, aren’t they?”
“Yeah. They are.”
Lana’s blush deepened, but her lips curved, small and secret. She lingered there, shifting her tote strap higher on her shoulder, chewing at her lip like there was more she wanted to say. Finally, it spilled out in a rush.
“Not that it matters. He only looks at the pretty girls, not the smart ones.”
Her voice was so soft I almost missed it over the rain tapping against the glass. My chest ached.
“Lana,” I said gently, coming around the counter so I could be closer to her. “Pretty fades. Smart doesn’t. And for the record, you’re both.”
