Page 173 of Fault Lines
“We’ll have to do a stock check next week,” I added. “And I’m redoing the schedule, but I’ll keep everyone’s hours thesame. Unless you want more. Or less. I guess just… let me know.”
Another pause, this one warmer.
The pink-haired girl said, “Congrats, Livi,” and the others echoed it, one after another.
After the meeting, I climbed the rolling ladder and spent an hour reshelving books that no one would ever check out. At ten thirty, a delivery came in—four boxes of paperbacks and a handwritten invoice from the same supplier Richard had used for twenty years. I signed for it, realized the signature was now legally binding, and felt a little sick.
I spent my lunch hour in the basement, the place where Mr. Porter had always kept the books “too sad for public display.” There was a chair down there, battered and threadbare, and I sat in it with my sandwich and the letter he’d left me. I read it three more times, trying to figure out what he meant about names, about legacy, about deserving things I’d never asked for.
When I went back upstairs, the lunch rush was in full swing. I rang up textbooks, made four lattes, recommended a mystery novel to a man who’d clearly never read one before. Every time I glanced up, the portrait was there, his eyes following me, daring me to screw it all up.
I stayed late, after everyone else had gone. I tidied the children’s section, wiped the counters, and restocked the bookmarks. I locked up, then stood outside the door for a full minute, looking at the name on the window: Timeless Treasures—Est. 1987.
It wasn’t my name, but it was mine now.
I walked home in the dark, exhausted and oddly light. For the first time in forever, I belonged to something that would remember me.
∞∞∞
Cam
Olivia cooked dinner that night, which should have been a warning sign. Not because she was bad at it—she never was—but because she only bothered lately when she needed to think, to turn her brain off and let her hands do the remembering. The kitchen was full of steam and garlic and the sound of a wooden spoon tapping against the side of a pan. I leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her move.
She wore a sweatshirt so old the cuffs had gone threadbare, and she’d tied her hair up with one of those elastic bands you’re not supposed to see in public. Her face was clean, free of the makeup she wore to the store, and I realized how long it had been since I’d seen her like this—unguarded, a little wild, entirely herself.
She didn’t notice me at first. I liked that. For so long, I’d craved her attention, demanded it, tried to bend it to my will. Now, I just wanted to be in the same room, breathing the same air, maybe catching some of the light that hovered around her when she let herself forget the rest of the world.
The pasta boiled over. She swore under her breath, snatched the pot off the burner, and shot me a look. “You could help, you know.”
“I could,” I said, “but you seem like you’re working through something.”
She stuck her tongue out, just for a second, and I knew she was letting me off the hook. “Set the table. Please.”
I did, but not before sneaking a taste of the sauce—a habit I’d never broken, and never wanted to. She pretended not to notice, but I saw the corner of her mouth twitch, and that felt like a win.
Dinner was a replica of the first real meal she’d ever cooked for me: spaghetti with slow-cooked tomato sauce, a salad heavy on the croutons, and a store-bought garlic bread she always claimed to make from scratch. She’d never admit it, but I knew the difference. I’d eaten my way through three years of her “experiments,” most of which had ended in disaster or takeout.
Tonight, the food was perfect.
We ate in the dining room, which we almost never used. The table was too big for two people, but she’d laid out candles and a folded napkin for each of us, like she wanted the evening to matter. For a while, we just ate. No small talk, no big talk, just the scrape of forks and the clink of glasses.
When she finally spoke, it was quiet. “I got a call from the supplier today. They said the next shipment is behind schedule, but they’re sending an extra box of cookbooks to make up for it.” She glanced at me, testing for interest.
I smiled. “Guess you’ll need more shelf space.”
“I already cleared a spot,” she said. “Richard always told me the best way to get people to buy cookbooks was to let them spill flour on them first. Makes it feel less like a crime when you mark the page.”
I laughed, and she looked surprised, like she hadn’t meant to be funny. Then she smiled, and the tension in her shoulders loosened a little.
We finished the meal, and I made coffee—real coffee, from the beans she’d bought special, which I ground too fine every time. We drank it black, the way we used to when we were poor and didn’t know better.
I wanted to tell her a hundred things. I wanted to say that I loved her, that I’d never stopped, that watching her rebuild herlife was the most beautiful, painful thing I’d ever witnessed. I wanted to beg her to stay, to put off the paperwork, to let me try again.
Instead, I watched her swirl the coffee in her mug, her fingers tracing the rim, and I waited.
“You okay?” I asked, finally.
She nodded. “I think so. Maybe? I don’t know. It’s a lot.”
