Page 17 of Only and Forever
His smile deepens. “One of many.”
As Charlie and Gigi grow closer, Viggo takes a step back and says, just loud enough for me to hear, “Remember, the shop’s a secret for now. So don’t tell anyone.”
“My lips are sealed.” I mime zipping my mouth shut.
A laugh jumps out of him. “It’s just studs and old windows right now, but the shop is in Culver City. Come by sometime. I’ll make you a cup of coffee; you can poke fun at my romance novel inventory and glare at me some more.”
Don’t ask. Don’t ask.
My damn mouth moves before I can stop myself. “What’s it called?”
He smiles wide. “Originally, I was going to call it Happily EverAfter, but I settled on Bergman’s Romance Books & More—Bergman’s Books, for short. Well, itwillbe called that. Right now it’s still Joe’s Sandwich Shop, according to Google Maps. Anyway, between now and the wedding,” he says, “if you ever need a little pep talk from the cheering stands, you’ll know where to find me.”
Before I can say anything else, not that I’m sure what I’d even say, Charlie throws her arms around me, breaking the moment. And then Gigi throws herself in my arms, too. I hug them both and tell them I’m happy for them.
My sister and her fiancée drag me inside, where every Bergman seems to be up now, the kitchen bustling with cheery chaos. Champagne is popped, toasts given, and the day blurs into an overwhelming stretch of hours of celebration. Viggo’s there the whole time, but he keeps his distance. Stays busy. He cooks in the kitchen with his siblings and his mother. He takes his niece and nephew outside, tumbling across the grass, tickling their feet, making them laugh as they sway in tiny swings hanging from a tree deep in the yard.
I try so hard not to watch him. Or dwell on what he said.
I try not to think about him while I quietly pack my bag that night. While I sit in my rental car early the next morning, so early the sun isn’t even a hint on the horizon, and text my sister an apology for being gone when she wakes up, along with a promise, the same promise I always make her, that I’m here, whenever she needs me.
I try so hard not to think about that promiseIwas given by that aggravating man with those paradoxically warm-cool eyes—a promise that he’d be there if I needed him, the thought of someone cheering me on, nudging me down the road.
I fail miserably.
FIVE
Viggo
Playlist: “Brass Band,” Jukebox The Ghost
One year later
I haven’t heard from or seen Tallulah since the day of our early morning coffee conversation. And I’ve made it a point not to think about her, either.
Well, not too much.
Of course I thought about her when Charlie wrapped her arms around me, one Sunday family dinner the following month, so sure that Tallulah’s turn for the better was thanks to me. She’d gotten her own place, Charlie said. Pushed back her book deadline. She’d told Charlie she was going to take some solo trips and try to prioritize some self-care.
That made me happy to hear, but after twelve months of hearing nothing, I’ve long since given up the idea that Tallulah’s one-eighty had anything to do with me. I pushed away thoughts of her and focused on pouring myself into the life right in front of me, making this bookstore happen.
I’m only thinking about Tallulah now because I’ve got a small section in the bookstore devoted to non-romance, including thrillers—carefully selected titles that vibe with my store’s motto: happy endings. Before that trip up to the A-frame and my run-in with Tallulah, I hadn’t read a thriller in years, after thoroughlynotenjoying the few I tried, but since seeing her last year, I made a point to poke around the library, ask the staff for some recs, and give thrillers another chance. More than a little to my surprise, I found a few that I loved and that fit the bill, their bittersweet endings imbued with hope. So, on to my store’s non-romance shelf they went.
While a lot of bookstores boast row after row of every kind of genre, romance is often tucked into a little corner, if it’s included at all. My bookstore is the opposite. There’s a small, curated floor-to-ceiling set of bookshelves containing non-romance, all of which I’ve read, all of which end on a note of hopeful possibility. I want to take care of my patrons when they come to my store. This place is all about happily ever afters, and I’m not about to mislead them.
I know romance isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and I respect that—so long as people don’t bad-mouth the genre—but this place is for the people for whom romance reading is their joy. Somewhere they can walk into and scour aisle after aisle of feel-good stories, lost in happy endings to their hearts’ content.
That said, I recognize sometimes readers need a genre switch, or maybe their partner or friend or family member isn’t big on romance novels, and they want to bring them along, buy them a book, too. So that’s what this corner of the store is for.
It makes me smile as I adjust my favorite thriller so far,Isochron, and face it out. The cover is beautiful, a watercolor tapestry of orange and red, a dramatic sunrise that fits the story’s ending perfectly. I’m sure its design alone has made plenty of people lift it from a shelf, turn it over, then read its intriguing back-cover copy. That’s what hooked me.
One chapter in, and I knew—Iknew—it was Tallulah’s. Her elegant, streamlined prose—never too much exposition or description; balanced, well-paced dialogue. Painfully beautiful observations on human weakness and brokenness.
I adjust the remaining copies ofIsochronon the shelf and let mymind wander Tallulah’s way. I wonder how her second book is going, if she finished it, if she took the time she needed to make it something she was proud of. I hope so. I’m standing in my own expression of that—taking the time I needed to finally get it right, at least I hope.
“That better not be adult content you’re reading in front of my daughter.” Ren steps up beside me and gives me a faux-censorious look.
I grin, leaving Tallulah’s book on the shelf proudly facing out. Lucia, Ren and Frankie’s eleven-month-old daughter, shrieks with delight as I turn with her safely tucked in the baby-wearing harness strapped to my chest and she spots her dad. Ren’s face melts from feigned seriousness to a soft, lovesick smile. He strokes a finger down Lucia’s cheek and wipes away the drool that’s pooled on her chin.