John tilted his face toward the ceiling, as if searching his memories. “Joy. He was joyful. Loved helping people. His eyes sparkled like yours do when you talk about books. I felt welcome.” He stepped closer and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear.
“He was a welcoming sort of guy. That apple fell rather far,” I said, staring down at my crossed legs, focusing on the fray of my jeans. The room felt foggy, out of focus. Mom would call this sentimental nonsense. But it was nice to hear those words, nonetheless. To talk about Dad without pretending nothing had changed. Totalkabout him, period. Because yes, there was grief, but there were also happy memories. Otis mostly respected the "we don’t talk about Dad" rule, but I realized it might not have been my choice. “He was great. Lew Elliot’s biggest fan.”
“That’s why you didn’t tell your mom about the competition. Because of him.”
I nodded. “And because Mom’s oblivious to the fact that I need the money to keep this place afloat. I can’t...” I cleared my throat. “I can’t imagine losing this part of him too.”
John pushed his fingers through his curls. “It’s personal.”
I leaned my head back and blinked away the tears. “Second shelf to the right.”
“What?”
I pointed vaguely in that direction. “There’s a bottle of whiskey hidden behind the Lord of the Rings movie cover books.”
He raised a brow.
I shrugged. “No one in a sane state of mind buys those.”
After some shuffling, he found the bottle, nodding at the label in approval. He opened it and held it out to me. I took a swig, relishing the burn on my tongue.
“This is new.” John nodded toward a shelf behind the counter, hidden by a fake ficus Otis had bought, thinking I wouldn’t notice he’d killed the real one. I never pointed it out.
I handed John the bottle, and he took a healthy swig as well. The rain outside intensified.
“It’s a fan fiction shelf,” I said. “I bind my favorites and read them on slow days.” I shrugged. “It’s my little secret.”
“So, what’s in the drawer?” John leaned against the counter, both hands placed on either side of me. Not touching, but so...so close.
I sighed, hoping he’d forgotten. I leaned back, very aware that by doing so, the sides of my thighs brushed against his inner forearms. I unlocked the top drawer of the old counter with a key from my keyring. “Knock yourself out,” I said, waving at it.
John stepped around the counter. I didn’t turn, but I heard the stiff wood groan and a shuffle of paper.
I waited, my breath held. I was nervous. Why was I nervous?
“Nora, this is...”
When he decided to torture me by not finishing the sentence, I reluctantly turned.
He was standing there, eyes fixed on the drawer in front of him—on the papers, sketches, rolls, and sticky notes. “This is...” He looked up at me, and I swear I saw a new emotion wash over his features. Awe.
“You can say it,” I waved my hand in a nonchalant way that was the exact opposite of how I felt. “I’m brilliant. The next Gauguin. Kahlo has nothing on me.”
He shook his head.
“Can I?” He asked for permission to take some of the drawings out. I gave it.
Placing a few of my sketches on the counter, John drank them in. The studies of people—customers mostly—who came to the store. There was a coal sketch of the older lady who boughtPride and Prejudice and Zombies. There was Otis flirting with the delivery boy. There was a tattooed mom with her toddler on her lap, trying to get him interested in his very first book. There were two lanky teens talking D&D, slouching with their school bags over the velvet sofa. There were girls swooning over the Winchester brothers while Otis gave them recommendations based on their favorite show. This drawer wasn’t just mesketching random people. It was the heart and soul of Skye’s. A place for the weirdos with too much imagination.
“Nora. These are fucking brilliant,” John finally said, studying them and then me. He took out a large piece from the bottom of the drawer, and I nearly stopped him.
His eyes were transfixed on the portrait of my parents. “I can feel their love for each other.”
The photograph I’d based the sketch on had slipped out of one of Dad’s planners. It showed the two of them before I was born. He was sitting in the front seat of a sky-blue Vespa, and she wore a heart-patterned scarf in her honey-blonde locks and a smile I hadn’t seen in ages.
“It would make a great book cover,” he said.
I tilted my head, not sure if he was mocking me. I wasn’t used to all this...praise. My skin felt too tight.
