Page 23 of Fate, Interrupted

“Nice shop,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You been here long?”

“Three years.”

He nods, taking in the shelves, the handwritten signage, the small step stools and stacks of books on the floor, waiting to be shelved. “My mother would lose her mind in here,” he says. “She’s got a thing for bookshops. Says they smell like possibility.” He pauses. “Her words, not mine.”

“She’s not wrong,” I say.

He grins at that, warm and genuine. “I’ll tell her you said so.”

I almost ask where Silas is. I don’t. If I ask, I have to admit I expected him.

His grin fades a little. Apparently, I’m not as hard to read as I thought.

I almost ask. I get close enough to feel the shape of the question and then I don’t ask it, because asking makes it expected, and because I already know the answer, and I’d rather not hear it out loud.

He reads all of that without me saying any of it. The grin eases back.

“Almost done up there,” he says, and disappears again.

They finish at eight-twenty.

“All done. You want to test it?”

I test it. The fan runs smooth, no rattle, no grinding. The remote might as well be the newest modern wonder. Done right.

“Perfect,” I say.

They pack up. Tools back in boxes, work order signed, the older one already heading for the door. The broad-shouldered one lingers a beat, then looks toward the door instead of at me.

He says it.

“He got held up,” he says. “At the warehouse.”

There it is.

Not quite looking at me. Delivering the words without making it more than it is.

“Thanks for coming out,” I say.

He nods. They go.

I lock the door and look at the new fan turning overhead. He got held up at the warehouse is the kind of thing you say when the real reason is something you’ve been told not to explain. I know this. He knows I know this. The broad-shouldered one with the grin definitely knows this, He said it to the doorframe instead of to my face.

I stand there for a moment longer than I need to.

I sigh again. Only the umpteenth time I’ve done that since the men arrived. Then I go behind the counter and start on the shelf signs for the new releases, three new titles that came in Tuesday that I’ve been meaning to get up all week. I write the first one. Read it back. It’s good. I write the second.

The fan turns overhead, smooth and even, moving the air the way I need it to.

I write the third shelf sign, also good, and put the marker down. This work can wait until morning. I have a new book on my nightstand I’m dying to start, and there is no good reason for me to still be here at eight-thirty.

Still, I don’t go home.

I find the box of new releases that need pricing and sit on the stool behind the counter. The stickers go on fast. But there are only fifteen books, and I can only stretch that out so long.