Page 40 of Between the Lines

I run my palms over my face.

Nice going, Caden.

16

Fia

Ifrown at the sight of the ugly dumpster.

Caden had assured me the home repairs were going as planned, but this was Daisy’s and my home, I needed to lay eyes on it myself.

“Jeez, has it always looked this . . . sad?” I ask aloud as Daisy gnaws a teething ring in her car seat. We sit, idling in the car on the street, staring at our house.

It’s Saturday, so the crew isn’t here, but that doesn’t mean I can just enter freely. All the drywall upstairs has been removed, and I’m sure it’s a war zone inside.

Just as I shift the car into drive, ready to pull away, my eyes catch on the half-dead, scraggly rosebushes that look like something out of a horror movie lining the front porch. The contrast to the bright blue hydrangeas in front of Caden’s house is stark, to say the least.

“Sorry, Nan . . .”

My mind wanders off, chest tight with guilt over letting the property fall into this. It was always messy growing up, but Nan had at least kept up with the garden. It was her pride and joy. And despite her long shifts at the hospital, on the days she was off, there were always homemade baked goods on the kitchen island. Now all it sees are empty Tupperware containers and junk mail.

Maybe my siblings were right. Maybe I can’t handle this much house.

Daisy babbles from the backseat, and I quickly down some iced coffee, clearing my throat. “Let’s get going, girl. We can’t be late for our very exciting appointment with the mechanic.”

Before I reverse, I send a text in the family group chat.

Fia: I’m getting new tires today so I never want to hear another word about it from you all.

The wheels of the stroller roll along the sidewalk, crunching lightly as Daisy leans back, her fist closed tightly around her giraffe stuffie. We have two hours to kill before I can pick up my car—so I walk the short distance into town.

My phone buzzes with a text from Halle when I stop to adjust the sun visor for Daisy.

Halle: Please tell me you’re swimming right now while Caden tries to resist you.

I roll my eyes and laugh. Farthest thing from it.

Fia: Your theory was wrong. He pretty much kicked me out of the pool last night so he could swim ALONE. And for the record, I was wearing my lavender bikini . . . and I looked GOOD.

Halle: Well screw him then!

I drop my phone into the stroller’s cupholder and keep walking.

It’s almost laughable, right? I can’t believe that for a split second I let myself even entertain the idea of Caden Brooks seeing me as someone more than an employee. Or more than a burden, if we’re being brutally honest.

I push all thoughts from my head when my favorite used bookstore comes into view. It’s in a two-story pink Victorian house. The bookstore is whimsical and quirky, and has been a staple in my life since I was old enough to read.

My entire nervous system settles as I enter Banksy Books.

A tiny smile tugs on my lips as the soft instrumental music plays through the speaker. It smells like a library and home all at the same time, and I meander through the stacks of books that line the floors. I scan the floor-to-ceiling walnut bookcases brimming with books from every decade until I enter my favorite room—the old saloon. It has a stunning tiled fireplace with two pink velvet wingback chairs flanking it.

A tiny slice of heaven on earth.

When my older siblings moved out and I was still home—the result of being younger by seven years—Nan used to bring me here. She’d hand me three dollars, affording me a whole stack of twenty-five-cent books.

I loved getting lost in books—books where my older siblings didn’t go to college or prison. Books where my parents didn’t leave us. And as I browse today, my daughter mercifully occupied in her stroller with a baggie of Goldfish, I can pretend that everything else is okay too.

I can pick up a book from any shelf and become that character. A brave queen saving her people. A detective solving an ancient mystery. Or my favorite . . . a heroine in a strangers-to-lovers situation where he sweeps her off her feet. In that story, I didn’t get left by Daisy’s dad when I was pregnant. In those stories, I don’t have to raise Daisy alone.