Page 85 of Booked on You
After setting it aside, I open another box that’s filled with books she cherished.
I pull one out and read the title first.Until You. The author’s name is written in the same font that’s on all her covers—Scarlett Collins. This feels like a sign that my mother sent my way.
“Well played,” I whisper, holding it tight, noticing how worn it is, like she reread it several times over the years.
A smile tugs at my lips, picturing my mother curled up on the couch, lost in Scarlett’s world just as I was. I flip open the cover, and my breath catches when I see Scarlett’s handwriting.
For Ellie?—
Thank you for reminding me why I write. Your kindness is a breath of fresh air. And I hope your son finds someone just like me too. :) Anything is possible!
Forever,
Scarlett
I stare at the page, my heart hammering in disbelief. Scarlett met my mother long before our paths crossed. The coincidence feels too powerful, almost impossible. It’s obvious to me that Mom loved Scarlett, just by this inscription.
Maybe our meeting wasn’t by chance at all. Perhaps it was something more, something meant to be.
Fate.
“Thanks, Mom,” I whisper, knowing this was somehow her divine doing. “Funny how you and Millie are somehowstillplaying matchmaker. This time, I agree, though.”
I carefully place Scarlett’s book aside, heart still racing with the lingering feeling of my mother’s presence. When I glance around, the space no longer feels overwhelming. It’s inviting, and full of memories I’m finally ready to welcome back.
The next box contains photographs I haven’t seen in years. On top is a framed photo of my mother in her cottage studio, sunlight washing over her as she works at the pottery wheel. Her eyes are sparkling with passion. A wave of nostalgia washes over me. It’s bittersweet and filled with gratitude.
“Miss you,” I say, my thumb brushing over her image.
I finish sorting through the box of photographs, carefully setting aside the ones I’ll frame later. As I reach for another box, my phone vibrates.
I pull it from my pocket, lips twitching at the sight of Scarlett’s name and her sleepy-faced photo.
Scarlett
Good morning. I’m alive. Barely.
I chuckle,typing out a reply.
Ezra
Morning. Need coffee?
Her response is almost instant.
Scarlett
YES PLEASE. Extra strong!
Laughing under my breath, I slide my phone back into my pocket and glance once more around the room. I’ll tackle the rest later.
Before I leave, I grabUntil Youand carry it with me downstairs.
I immediately set to work making a fresh pot of coffee and starting on breakfast.
I fry bacon in my favorite cast-iron skillet. I slide bread into the toaster. I crack fresh eggs into a bowl, whisking them with practiced ease. Morning sunlight filters through the window, and everything feels like a dream, too soft around the edges. As I cook, my mind drifts to the book sitting on the countertop behind me, the one Scarlett signed for my mother a decade ago.
A big smile fills my face, still awed by the strange beauty of that discovery. It’s a sign. First, the bird. Then the book.
