Epilogue

CYAN

On the twelfth day of Christmas, three years later

Three Christmases ago, I spent the big day backstage at the Heat the Frost concert, clutching a VIP badge and staring out at Inked Pages with eyes like chocolate coins with gold foil. Sweet and shiny. This year, I look at them the same way, even if they’re not playing instruments.

“Bigger or smaller swags?” Aspen asks, helping to arrange a paper chain made from the pages of damaged books. It’s a good use of the ones that can’t be sold. We used colored paper for every other link, so there’s red, green, and black-and-white print all in one strand.

“I was just thrilled that I didn’t have to decorate by myself this year,” I admit, adjusting a string of lights near the ceiling with the broom in my hand. Sometimes in December, I find myself thinking that I’m basically Kathleen Kelly in You’ve Got Mail, decorating my little bookshop all cute. If only the poor woman had held out a few more years, she might’ve had a thriving bookstore again.

Print is back—especially if you serve coffee.

Vale is making me a latte with our new machine while Crispin climbs down from a ladder after straightening the wreath. I put Frost in charge of wrapping some blind date books and slipping them into stockings. These ones are for my family. We sold out of all the rest in the past few weeks.

“We shouldn’t have gone last year,” Crispin warns the others, swiping pine needles from his pants and looking up at the big wreath above the front door. It fills the space nicely, adds a warm glow onto the sidewalk outside the front window. It’s been hanging there for weeks, but with the constant opening and closing of the door, it became crooked. He fixed it for me because he knows how important it is to me that the store looks perfect for tonight. “To the concert, that is. Shoulda been here with you.”

“It was a week. I survived.” I’m acting nonchalant now, but I regretted telling them to go as soon as they left. This year, skipping the Heat the Frost concert was their idea. I would never ask them to do that, but I’m happy we get to spend all of December together.

“You were texting us every fifteen minutes.” Frost is smiling as he says that, either because he finds my behavior funny or he’s just turned over the book in his hand to read the blurb. It’s mine, that book. I wrote it. Doesn’t sell very many copies, but I don’t care.

I’m here in my bookstore with the people I love most in the world. It’s festive. We have a gargantuan tree in the corner that we special-ordered, and I have finally, finally seen some effort from my family.

I put a rule in place: treat me like shit and I ghost you for a month, no exceptions. I started blocking them anytime they sent something inappropriate. Dad got the memo first, but he had to text me in secret because I made my mother angry. It took her over a year to speak with me at all.

“What time are they supposed to be here?” Vale asks, handing over my drink. He catches my fingers with his and lifts them to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. I grin as I take a sip, closing my eyes in bliss. He added peppermint to this, crushed some candy cane and sprinkled the bits over the milk foam on the top. It’s beyond good.

“In eleven minutes,” I declare with confidence. My dad has made his location known to me every minute for the last thirty minutes, sitting in the rental car while my mother drives. I did not offer to pick them up from the airport. I’ve learned that you shouldn’t treat people better than they treat you and let resentment fester. You should drop to their level and only respond if they put forth effort first.

It’s been working for me. Even Tina flew down with her kids to be here this week. Dad finally convinced Mom to take a break from work to come see me, but only for a day. They flew in on Christmas, and they’ll leave tomorrow.

Fine by me. I will match their effort. They get stockings filled with my books as gifts. We’ll chat and sip champagne, eat finger foods in here for a few hours and then Marisol will complain she wants to go back to the hotel. Dad will take her, and Tina will drag his grandkids along for the ride.

After they leave, that’ll be the best part.

The men and I will draw the curtains. We’ll set up a makeshift bed on the floor of the bookshop, and we’ll drink champagne and read Christmas porn until we become Christmas porn.

I’ve never loved being alive as much as I do today.

“One wrong word, and I’m kickin’ some ass.” Crispin makes sure I’m looking at him when he says that.

“No complaints on my end.” I hold up a hand in surrender and then look to Aspen. “But please, no knives this time.”

“Your dad literally tried to stab me two years ago,” he retorts, which is almost true. Dad stabbed the table after Aspen told him off, leaving the knife sitting there with its tip buried in the wood for almost two days as a threat.

Didn’t work because we left immediately.

The bells at the front of the shop ring, and I turn to see who it is, assuming family or a customer who missed the gold and red Closed sign in the window.

It’s the cafe guys, the ones I originally had a threesome with. I haven’t seen them in years, but I guess they still own the coffee shop, so I’m not surprised that they’re around. Just curious as to why they’re here today, of all days.

“Hey, sorry,” one of them says, looking at the other before they turn to me again. “We’re back in town for the holidays, and we wondered if you’d be alone again like you were that one Christmas—”

“Get the fuck out before I strangle you with a stocking.” Frost is there, wielding the crimson fabric like a weapon. Aspen is fretting over him like he didn’t pick up a plastic knife from the refreshments table and slip it into his pocket, just in case.

“Our mistake,” the other guy says, and they’re gone before I can even give them one of my books as a keepsake. They were my friends for a long time before they moved. It was honestly nice to see them.

I give Aspen and Frost nasty looks.

“If it’d been me, they’d have been on the ground.” Crispin picks me up, and I let out a surprised little scream, throwing my arms around his neck and laughing.

“Not true. You love letting them do the dirty work for you.” I bury my face in the crook of Crispin’s neck and he sighs, both of us looking up as Vale steps close beside us. He puts one hand on my knee, bare and smooth beneath the plaid skirts of my dress.

“They’re here,” he says, walking to the front of the store with a pen in hand, uncapping it and scrawling in silver across the inside of the shop window. Merry Christmas is what I believe he’s writing. The shop bells tinkle, and the marker squeaks with each syllable.

“Mom, Dad,” is how Frost greets them when my parents step into the shop (because he knows they hate that), holding umbrellas and looking around like they’re not impressed.

Well … maybe Dad does look impressed, smiling at me once before frowning and glaring at the men. He isn’t a fanboy anymore. He spends some of his free time now running an anti-fan platform from his phone. Maybe that means he cares about me, at least a little bit.

“Cyan.” Marisol stands there, staring at me in Crispin’s arms. My dad accepts a book stuffed in a stocking from Frost, and then Tina and her kids are pouring through the door and it’s time for Aspen to uncork the champagne.

Everyone in my family knows now that they can’t treat me poorly in front of the band. If they do, the guys will have zero problem kicking them out. Or trussing them up in holiday garland, gagging their mean words with a big soft ginger cookie.

There’s no need for any of that today. Our evening is pleasant, comfortable, and festive.

Our night is better.

Pouring rain on San Francisco sidewalks, perpetual fog, and a room that smells like books and boys. We cuddle together on our impromptu bed, do less cute things on our impromptu bed, and fall asleep to the glow of lights, the shush of soft sleeping breaths, and the promise of a New Year brimming with anticipation.

On the window, Vale’s silver pen glistens.

Merry Christmas, Stalker. Sincerely, Inked Pages.

P.S. We love you. Your kiss is a gift of starlight (and your thighs, they’re the moon).