Page 20 of The Enemy Plot
I close my eyes. “Eighty.”
“She had a long and full life, I’m sure.”
“But it shouldn’t have ended that way. It’s my fault,” I say, running a hand through my hair, wanting to pull it all out. “My grandmother was all I had, and I didn’t take care of her. She always wanted to be independent and refusedto move in with me. I should have forced her. If I’d have been firmer, maybe she’d still be here today.”
“I understand that you feel responsible, Deacon. But you’re not. Some circumstances are out of our control.”
“All the people I care about are dead, Dr. Stewart.” I fall onto the couch, my head in my hands. “That’s no coincidence. All these people have one person in common, and that’s me. I couldn’t even save Amelia. And now, I probably won’t be able to save Lola.”
“Amelia died of an illness. No one could have predicted that, and it was not hereditary. Lola told me as much.”
“But I should have at least been there for her,” I mumble, not lifting my head. I feel tears streaming down my face and trickling between my fingers. “Maybe if I’d made the effort of visiting her more often, I would have noticed something wrong with her, and she could have gotten help in time.” My tears have transformed into sobs, and I’m not even sure he understands a word I’m saying. “Lola might not be sick now, but I know I’ll do something to mess this up. Because that’s what I do.”
“Good,” he says. I feel the couch shift as he sits next to me. “Let it out.”
He places a hand on my back. And taking comfort in the gesture, I do just that. I let out years and years ofresentment toward myself, all the guilt and the fears that eat me alive day after day.
I never thought I would say it, but this therapy thing might not be so bad. I don’t magically feel good about myself, and my worries and guilt haven’t vanished, but it’s a step in the right direction. Maybe I can make this parenting thing work too, and not always think of the worst-case scenario. It’s the least I can do to honor my sister’s memory. And since it’s Lola’s birthday tomorrow, I know I need to do something for her.
As always, when I enter the No Shelf Control bookstore, I feel like a bull in a china shop. And as always, when I lay eyes on Alice Beaumont, I forget everything else.
She’s standing behind the counter, her forehead wrinkled as she peers at her computer screen. I’ll be damned, but even with that frown of concentration, she still looks absolutely breathtaking. Her brown locks frame her perfect face—I swear this girl has no imperfections. It’s like her skin is made of velvet. Her yellow plaid skirt and green top would make anyone else look like a pumpkin, but she looks exquisite.
The little bell on the door announces my presence, and Alice’s gaze meets mine. Her expression instantly changes, shifting from relaxed to tense, and a little bit of something else. For a second, I wish I was another person. Someone to whom she would flash her perfect and sincere smile. Someone she’d truly be happy to see.
“Um, hi,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’d like to buy some books.”
Her mouth opens slightly, and her arms fall to her sides. She stares at me for what feels like an eternity, and just when I’m about to break the silence, she musters a smile and says, “Hi. Sure, what kind of books?”
“Well, you tell me, Frenchie,” I say, trying to seem perfectly at ease. “You know Lola’s tastes better than I do.”
“Oh, it’s for Lola!” Her smile widens. “Absolutely. Follow me.”
We stop in front of one of the displays, the one that says, “Bookstagram made me buy it,” and she picks out a book with a pink cover. “This one is super cute, and I know she—”
“Wait, can you tell me about this Bookstagram situation first?”
Her gaze follows mine, and she puffs out a laugh. “Relax. It’s just a part of Instagram. You know, the social media app?”
I grimace. “Do I look like a guy who uses social media?”
This time, she laughs for real, and the corners of my lips twitch in response.
“Well,” she says, straightening the pile of books into a perfect block. “To put it simply, Bookstagram is a place where people share photos and graphics about the books they read. They also share their reviews, wish lists. Things like that.”
“Do you use real names? Can people find out where you live?”
She shakes her head, and her flowery perfume envelops my senses. “No, you just create a handle. It can be anything you want. And your location isn’t shared.”
“Fine,” I say. I don’t really understand the point of it, but it does sound fairly harmless. For adults. There’s still no way I’m letting Lola create an account. “So, this one is good?” I glance at the book she’s holding.
“Oh, yes. I’m sure she’ll enjoy it. The guy is prime book-boyfriend quality, and the ending is incredibly swoony.”
My jaw clenches, just like it does every time I picture Alice with another man. Or Lola, for that matter. “Book boyfriend?”
“It’s what we call the fictional men in romance books.”
Good grief. Just when I thought she wasn’t that weird. But then again, her brooch today does say,“I prefer my men made of ink and paper.”I don’t know what bothers me more that I kind of like her little quirks, or that she prefers fictional men. “Is that why you’re wearing that brooch?”