I turn the book toward her, holding it up so that she can see the initials on the inside.
“What do the initials stand for?”
“Bryce Cole. We all called him Papa.”
Izzy places one hand on my forearm and the other over her heart while she listens to me intently. I almost shrug her touch off at first. There was a zap of electricity when she laid her hand on me, even through the sleeve of my hoodie.
“And now you display them on this beautiful shelf. And still read them? That’s—incredibly sweet. I bet he would be so happy about that.”
“When I was young and he read them out loud to me, he’d use different voices for each character.” I pause for a light laugh, remembering. “It’s a good memory.”
I don’t know what came over me, sharing that. I’m typically a private person, even with people I know well. Izzy is easy to talk to, especially for someone I know little to nothing about, but it still comes as a surprise to me that I felt like she’d want to hear what I had to say in that moment.
“He was a fan of westerns, I see,” she says with a smile.
“That’s an understatement.”
Among the small mass-market paperbacks are all the heavy hitters, of course—Lonesome Dove, Hondo, and True Grit, to name a few. But some of the most loved and worn-in ones are more rare. There’s a first edition of Fighting Caravans on the top left that I haven’t touched out of fear I’d damage it. He was real proud of owning that one. Never cared about keeping it in good condition, though. He’d read it once a month, it seemed like.
“Which one should I read?”
I place the book I took from her back in its rightful spot, then lean an arm on the shelf, turning to face her.
“You want to read one?”
“I don’t know you well enough to have a pillow fight, so a reading marathon is the next best pajama party activity, don’t you think?”
I laugh. It makes my chest feel light, which isn’t common when I talk to people. Ihatetalking to people. And I most certainly don’t laugh while doing it.
“What about this one?” She pulls out a particularly thin one with forest green edges. Stranger With A Gun.
“It’s a good one,” I admit, but tilt my head the more I remember about it. “The cattle drive to Montana is cool. Love triangle, not so much.”
“It’s romance?” she nearly shrieks, now thumbing through the pages like she’ll find something there that will instantly convince her to pick this one.
“Not a romance.” I chuckle. “Not really. But a lot of them have a little love story mixed in, I guess.”
“What do you have against love triangles?” she questions while putting the book back and scanning the shelf once again.
I lean toward her a few inches. “Not a fan of sharing.”
Her eyes widen and her lips purse ever so slightly, but she doesn’t turn her head to look at me.
“Alright, then. Which one isyourfavorite?”
“Top right.” I point without hesitation. “Conagher.”
The fireplace casts a shadow of her silhouette across the books as she rises to her tiptoes and extends her arm as far as it’ll go. It’s clear she won’t be able to reach it without help. I step closer to her side and reach for it myself.
Purposely avoiding her hand so I don’t make her uncomfortable, I hook my index finger over the top of the spine and slide the book out. Not touching hands turned out to be pointless, though. Because the moment she realizes what I’m doing, she drops her weight on the heels of her feet and backs up.
Her back meets my front, she gasps, and I do what I can to shuffle out of the way quickly.
“Sorry,” I mumble while holding out the book in front of me for her to take.
She looks down and pulls at the right sleeve of her sweater. “Thanks.”
A beat passes where neither of us move a muscle, making the air between us feel tense. I concentrate with my brows drawn together, trying to make sense of it.
