“Thanks… for letting us use the space,” I said quietly. “It means more than you know.”
That stopped her. Just a flicker—a hesitation, a glance in my direction. The barest crack in the armor.
She didn’t answer. Just busied herself with a crooked holiday display like she hadn’t heard me. But I saw her fingers twitch, just a little, like she had.
It wasn’t gratitude I was hoping for. Just recognition. That despite everything between us, maybe there was still a sliver of mutual understanding left.
The silence stretched, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt like standing on the edge of something we both weren’t ready to face.
Then she looked up, brows pinched, voice softer than before. “You think they’ll be okay?” she asked. “Your group?”
I nodded. “They’ll show up. They always do. Showing up is the easy part.”
Her eyes searched mine, like she was trying to figure out if I meant more than just the group. Maybe I did.
But I didn’t say anything else.
And neither did she.
Callie gave a small nod, slow, uncertain. Like she wanted to believe me but wasn’t quite ready to commit to that belief.
“They’ll appreciate this place,” I added, my voice steady even as something twisted low in my chest. “Somewhere quiet. Familiar. It makes a difference.”
She didn’t respond right away, and the silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just weighted, like everything else between us. Her presence wrapped around me the same way the smell of old books did—faintly nostalgic, and dangerously easy to fall into again.
Then, after a moment, she spoke.
“If you ever need anything else… just ask.” The words were careful. Too careful. Like she wasn’t sure whether they’d come out as an offer or a warning.
I met her eyes and nodded once. “Will do.”
It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Not a promise, not forgiveness—just a thread stretched across a ravine we hadn’t figured out how to cross yet.
Her shoulders eased, barely noticeable unless you were watching for it—and I was.
But we both knew we were still standing in the wreckage of something that had never been fully built to begin with. Whatever ease passed between us now wasn’t peace. It was truce.
“I guess we should start prepping then,” she said, breaking the stillness.
“Right,” I murmured, pushing off the shelf.
But I didn’t move right away. Neither did she. The air inside the shop had grown warmer, thicker somehow. As if the walls themselves remembered what we used to be. What we never really had the courage to name.
Outside, the light had begun to fade—casting long shadows across the hardwood floor, catching on her hair, her profile. For a second, I let myself look. Just long enough to feel it.
Then I turned away—before I could say something I’d regret.
Before the past clawed its way into the present and made a mess of everything all over again.
Snow drifted in lazy spirals as I climbed into the van, the cold biting at my knuckles even through my gloves. The engine rumbled low beneath me, a steady hum in the otherwise quiet morning. A moment later, the passenger door creaked open and Callie slipped inside, bundled in a wool coat and knit hat, her breath fogging the windshield.
We didn’t speak right away.
She adjusted her seatbelt, then tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I, uh… I think I know the best route,” she offered, her voice light but careful. “We’ll avoid the hills—take the backroads past the old post office.”
I glanced at her. “I’ve got the GPS pulled up.”
“I know. I just thought—” She broke off with a small shrug, folding her hands in her lap. “Never mind.”
