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“Oh, no, he’s right,” I protest. “It’s the least I can do.”
He half smiles and gives a nod.
“He might’ve saved Emmy, but that doesn’t make up for everything else he’s done over the years.” Marco walks away.
Owen’s face falls, but only slightly.
“Ah, don’t listen to him,” Ernie says, patting Owen on the shoulder. “You did good, kid.”
“And nobody should be judged by their past,” Mr. Ridgemont adds, “despite what you hear.” He calls over to Marco, saying loudly, “People can change.”
“Can I get you gentlemen anything else before you start up your game?” Scrabble, high stakes—if by “high stakes” one means who pays for coffee.
I’m hoping they take the hint and leave me alone with the firefighter and my borderline impure thoughts.
The four of them set up their custom board at the table near the window every single day. I told them they could leave everything there overnight, but they don’t. Even if they’re not finished with a game, they pack the tile racks on a special shelf behind my counter (Marco: “That way John won’t cheat”), put a towel over the board, and vote who gets to take the bag of letters home.
And then, every day, they bring the bag back and start the ritual over again.
They eat a lot of scones and drink a lot of coffee, so I never mind too much. This is exactly how I hoped people would spend time at the bookshop when I opened it.
Books, after all, bring people together.
“We’re fine, Emmy,” Mr. Ridgemont tells me. He’s wearing his gray cardigan with leather patches on the sleeves. Scholarly and grandfatherly all at the same time.
Unlike Owen, I never disliked the man. To me, he was always kind and encouraging. To Owen, his encouragement usually came alongside some form of discipline.
Owen got into a lot of trouble back then.
I wish I could get into trouble with Owen right now.
The thought distracts me enough that I accidentally knock over a bottle of Torani Classic Hazelnut Syrup, then apologize profusely to no one in particular.
The men return to their table, and once again, I’m left standing in front of Owen, wishing we were back at the dock.
That’s where talking to him always came easy. What was it about that spot that made us equals?
Out there, in the space where the yards of our childhood homes met, we weren’t “rotten apple” and “bookworm.” We were just two people with big feelings, trying to figure out who we were going to be.
But now, here, in the real world, under watchful eyes and opinionated people, talking to Owen isn’t coming that easily. Especially with the memory of our last, eight-year-old conversation echoing in my mind.
“So,” I say dumbly. “You’re back.”
He nods.
And. . .that’s it.
As much as he’s changed, he’s still the same Owen.
There’s still a quiet intensity behind his eyes that is uniquely him. I wonder if he’s still the same misunderstood deep thinker that he was all those years ago.
And then, I casually wonder who he’s sharing his deep thoughts with nowadays. . .does he miss our talks as much as I do?
He takes a drink of the coffee.
“Did you want that in a to-go cup?” I ask. “I just realized I gave you a mug and maybe—”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
