I forward the link to Wes with no message. Just the photos.
Let him explain that. Should be fun.
My phone rings almost immediately. His name flashing on the screen.
Well shit, that was fast. Almost like he's been expecting this conversation.
I let it ring.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Then silence as it goes to voicemail.
He calls again.
Persistent. I'll give him that. Probably one of the qualities I found attractive initially.
I drop the phone on the counter and walk away from it, mychest tight with something that isn't quite anger and isn't quite hurt.
More like relief?
I need to get out of here.
I change into running clothes, lace up my shoes, and hit the door before I can talk myself out of it.
My feet find a rhythm on the gravel path that leads away from the studio property, toward town, and I let the physical exertion quiet my mind for a few blessed minutes.
But it doesn't last.
By the time I reach Main Street, the thoughts are back, circling like vultures.
Wes is cheating.
After two years of relationship that I convinced myself was mature and stable and exactly what I needed—he's been sleeping with someone else.
Probably for months, judging by how comfortable they looked together.
I slow to a walk as I pass familiar storefronts—some updated, some exactly as I remember.
And then I see it: Gracie's bookstore.
Alfie's bookstore, really, even though Gracie ran it after he retired.
Dust covers the windows, but the shelves inside are visible, books perfectly arranged, frozen in time like a museum exhibit of a life that used to exist here.
My heart twists painfully.
Alfie.
God, I miss him.
Miss his gentle wisdom, his terrible jokes, his way of making you feel like everything would eventually make sense even when nothing did.
He would know what to say right now. He would probablyhand me some obscure book about finding yourself and tell me to read it with an open heart.
I stand there too long, staring at the empty store, at my own reflection ghosted in the dusty window.
The girl looking back at me seems like a stranger—hair pulled back hastily, running clothes that have seen better days, eyes that look lost in a way I don't recognize. Behind my reflection, the shelves of books sit untouched, gathering dust, waiting for someone to breathe life back into them.
