Chapter 4

Dell blew out a breath,trying to calm his bouncing knee. Told himself, one more time, that it made sense to meet Mae here, at this brewery in Pacific City, instead of in Greyfin Bay. One, because he had to get lumber up in Tillamook today anyway, so it was on the way. Mostly. Two, because he liked this brewery. The view of the cape from its windows made him feel calm, and he normally felt okay, having a beer here, and—whatever. He could make whatever damn choices he wanted.

Mae Kellerman had already made far too many decisions without his consent over the last month. It was time he started pulling in the reins.

He still couldn't quite discern how exactly he'd gotten himself in this situation in the first place. Sitting in Pacific City, stabbing into his Ahi poke bowl, lease paperwork sitting on the seat next to him.

She had just been so persistent. Emailing a copy of her credit report. Her registration for a small business course, not in Portland, but at Oregon Coast Community College down in Newport, set to start three days from now. Fucking PowerPoints with her plans for the shop. Each email always finishing with, I'll be back in town by the first of September.

And Dell had always looked forward to the first of September, too. When the kids went back to school. When the air turned cooler. When the crowds started to go away, at least during the weekdays, and he could breathe easier.

"Mr. McCleary."

Mae swept into the booth across from him.

No, this September, he wasn't breathing easier at all.

"Just Dell, please." He had always hated mister; something about it itched at the inside of his brain in the most irritating way possible. And the last thing Dell needed at this moment was further irritation.

She looked better, somehow, than he remembered, and he had been telling himself over the last several weeks that his memory had been overblowing it. But the Mae Kellerman across from him had well-rested eyes, giving a sharpness to her stare that felt even more lethal than the looks she'd leveled him with a month ago. Her pink hair seemed freshly touched up, a Valentine's Day concoction from the roots to the tips, pulled into a neat yet elegantly tousled bun. Flyaways were pinned away from her face with tiny pastel barrettes adorned with glittery stars.

She wore a faded Decemberists T-shirt and a thick, copper-colored cardigan. The cozy fall aesthetic of her body shouldn't have worked with the rainbow unicorn flavor of her hair, but somehow…it did.

She nestled her fingers together, resting them atop the table.

An awkward beat of silence transpired that only made Dell respect her more for not making a move to break it.

He shoved a menu her way.

"The beer here's good, if you're interested."

"Yes," she said, voice clipped. "I've been here before. But I'm good."

All right, then. After another sip of his pale ale, he slid the folder with the contract across the table. She promptly opened it and started reading, even though nothing in it had changed from their last email.

He laid a key next to his beer as she read.

"You're angry at me," he couldn't help but note. He didn't know why it mattered, why he said it out loud. He was pissed at her, too. She'd been a real pain in his ass, a pain that he knew, with every click of the pen she'd taken out of her bag, was only going to get worse.

Mae's nostrils flared.

"This is a business transaction," she said, voice even. "My emotions do not matter here."

Dell kept looking at her. At the freckles visible on her nose as she bent over the paperwork, her long eyelashes against her pale cheeks, how they started dark and ended light, almost translucent, at the tips. Her blunt, unadorned fingernails, the thin gold necklace that swung underneath the ripped collar of her T-shirt, hiding its pendant against her skin.

He broke the stare when she flipped to the third page, forcing his gaze instead to the surf outside the window.

"It's not personal," he said. Mae snorted. Something curled in his gut at the sound, at the fire of the person he'd met four weeks ago breaking through the ice wall she'd shown up with today.

"I think you should look up the meaning of that word, McCleary. Considering you are literally not selling me this property because of who I am."

"That's not—" Dell cut himself off with a slight shake of his head. "A year," he said, confirming the conciliatory nature of his deal out loud. Most commercial leases required much longer terms than a single year. "This lease is good for a year. If you're still here, if your business is up and running in a year and you still have the means to buy, the property will be yours."

Mae exhaled slowly through her nose.

"Six months," she said.

Jesus Christ. "The lease"—he shoved his poke bowl to the side, tapped the paperwork between them—"is for a year. I maintain my position that this isn't personal, Kellerman, but I'm not changing this paperwork for you."

Her lips thinned.

Six months. God, they'd gone over this a hundred times.

"We're still going 50/50 on all TMI?" she asked after a lengthy pause.

Dell didn't hold back his sigh. He knew Mae's lawyer had already double checked all of the details last week. Because he'd received approximately twenty emails from Mae and Mae's lawyer, checking all the details, last week.

And the 50/50 deal on all taxes, maintenance, and insurance was still a point he wasn't fully certain on, so he didn't appreciate being pushed on it. Most landlords made business tenants responsible for TMI on their own, but he'd decided, in a fit of foolishness, that helping Mae out with the technicalities and the repairs—and there would be a lot of repairs—was both an olive branch for not selling her the building outright and his own penance to the town for letting the Main Street property languish for so long.

It was possible the reason he was doing this entire venture at all was because that comment Mae had made—marring the downtown of the place you purport to care about—had stuck in his craw.

Still, the reminder of the fact that he was willingly tying himself further to this thing—and that Mae refused to be grateful for it—grated his already inflamed nerves.

"And I have first right of refusal?"

He let another sigh fly.

"I wouldn't sell the place out from under you."

"I don't know you." Finally, Mae lifted her eyes to his. Those blue-gray irises were a winter storm. "I don't know anything about what you would do."

He fisted his hands on his thighs beneath the table and stared back out the window.

"You have first right of refusal and you know you do. You know what's in that contract. I don't know why you're prolonging this."

"You're right."

And while Dell refused to look at her again, he could hear how she pressed her fancy pen into the paper with extra vengeance, how she flipped through the final pages and moved on to the second copy with sudden efficiency. Could feel her fire, burning across the table between them, punching further into his stomach.

When she reached the final signature, she pushed his copy of the contract across the table and stood from the booth before he could double check it.

She folded the key neatly into her fist.

"I'll be seeing you in six months," she said, and walked out of the restaurant.

* * *

Mae stood in front of 12 Main Street and hugged Vik's pilea peperomioides to her side.

"Would you look at that, Becks," she whispered to herself.

And felt, immediately, conflicted. As she had every time her mind had drifted to Becks over the last month. That old, familiar ghost of guilt haunting her shoulders once more.

Mae Kellerman and Becks Holloway had dreamed of opening a bookstore together when they were young and in love. But Mae hadn't talked to Becks in over twenty years. Or, more accurately, Becks hadn't talked to Mae. Maybe Becks wouldn't care for the fact that Mae was, of all things, pursuing their old dream, without her.

Or, again, more accurately—Becks most likely wouldn't care at all.

But there were other people who would.

Mae shook her head. Attempted to calm the fluttering in her chest.

"Would you look at that, Jesus," she tried.

And just as immediately, she felt him. His smile, that day in the hospital. The shake of his head back at her.

It was possible Greyfin Bay—something in the ocean air—made Mae a suddenly spiritual person.

Try again, he said. That wasn't what I told you.

She took a deep, shaky breath.

"Would you look at that, Mae Kellerman," she whispered.

Jesus thumped her on the back.

She stepped up to the porch, removed the key from her pocket, and stepped inside.

She walked to the center of the room. Placed the Chinese money plant in its pretty teal planter next to her feet. Let the overpacked tote bags on her shoulders slide to the floorboards.

There was a lot to do.

Her car was packed to the very brim with things to unload, including cleaning supplies and a new air mattress. She needed to go grocery shopping. She needed to double check that her website and social media, which Vik had helped her design but which she'd felt cautious about launching before actually acquiring the keys, were ready to go. She needed to do…so many things.

But first…

Mae closed her eyes. Made herself forget Dell McCleary: his assessing brown eyes, his thick, tanned forearms full of sandy hair.

His ownership of this building.

Mae let herself sink into the bubble of hope Jesus Herrera-Baptiste had spent his whole life living in. She turned, and she looked, and she let herself believe this was hers.

It would never be Powell's, but the room was big, large enough for bookshelves and tables and a reading area in the corner. She walked toward the door, feeling along the wall until she located the light switch. Even though she wasn't certain Dell had called the electric company yet, another reason why she wanted to be solely in charge of?—

The light flicked on, and Mae twirled back toward the room.

A gorgeous, dusty light fixture of dangling glass filled the room with a golden glow. The walls were painted a shade of mauve that Mae couldn't tell, at first glance in proper lighting, whether she hated or weirdly loved.

But it was the floor Mae took in now, the slightly uneven planks of hardwood that shone faintly in the light. Like the walls, Mae could see the ghosts of the storefront's former occupants: where rugs must have been; the criss-crossing scratches of dogs' nails where they hadn't. Mae slipped off her sneakers, ran her socked toes along every abandoned inch.

She'd learned about 12 Main Street's former life as a pet store through her texting with Liv. And what a delightful thing to learn. A place where animals had felt at home felt like a place books would be at home, too.

She decided she rather liked the scratches in the wood. They added character. And sure, the floor did seem to sort of swoop downward here, but Mae found herself enjoying that, too: a fun little surprise for her feet.

And then there was the best thing of all, the thing she had only glimpsed through the window last time: a massive, elegant counter built into the back of the room. Mae ran a finger along the dust. Stepped behind it, picturing the extra merchandise that could fit in all its drawers and cubby holes. She'd read up on all the farmers' markets that existed within a hundred mile radius, made a list of local vendors who might want to sell their wares in the shop. There was one in Lincoln City that ran through September. Maybe she'd stop by tomorrow, pick up some fresh flowers to put on this counter. She'd be the only one to see them, for now, but as one of her personal heroes, Miley Cyrus, had taught her, she could buy herself flowers.

She peeked into the tiny bathroom, the office, both a tangle of abandoned shelving; she inspected the main room from each corner.

It was only slowly filling in, what it would end up actually looking like. She knew it would be hard. Not only because of whatever harsh realities the inspectors she'd scheduled would tell her this week; not just because she still had a world of knowledge to learn about running a small business. But because it would be hers, and Jesus's, and Steve's, and it would be loudly queer in this sleepy small town on the coast where people might not want her—her fat queer body or her fat queer ideas.

I want you to trust the world again.

Mae closed her eyes and opened them, over and over again.

And what she truly knew, more than anything, was that somepeople in this sleepy small town, some people that might only be passing through, one day—those unknown friends would want a space like this. Might not just want it, but need it.

She hauled in more things from her car. Her small toolbox, for a hammer and some nails. The things she'd need for tonight. Moved around the bags in her trunk until she got to the collapsed foot ladder. Back inside 12 Main Street, she emptied one of the tote bags until she found the flags.

Leaving it all on the ground for now, she picked up a flashlight and some cleaning supplies first. She'd made a pact with herself, weeks ago, that she'd take her time with all of this. Every single step. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it right.

Thirty minutes later, the front picture window was wiped clean, the casing and the sills dusted. And Mae, for now, would continue on in privacy, protected from the eyes of Main Street through colorful sashes both soft and bold.

She stepped outside to snap a picture for Vik.

And then she locked the door and dug her phone out of her bag. Ignoring her notifications, she opened Jesus Herrera-Baptiste's final playlist one more time.

She turned the volume all the way up. Placed the phone on the floor and pressed Play.

And as at Jesus's death party, the first track made her laugh out loud.

She supposed she should have introduced herself to her neighbors before blasting Ricky Martin's "La Copa de la Vida," the official song of the 1998 World Cup. But really, if they were going to have to get to know Mae and Jesus anyway, this was the way to do it.

Mae contemplated getting more things from her car, or figuring out how to get upstairs, where she planned to sleep. But you couldn't listen to 1998 Ricky Martin without shimmying at least a little.

And so Mae danced around the room she intended to make hers, to Ricky and then "Jumpin' Jumpin'" by Destiny's Child, which, naturally, followed as the second track, laughing softly to herself and feeling Jesus in the room with her all the while. Even if she didn't truly believe in spirits lingering. Even if she knew he was gone.

Jesus's death party playlist had been perfectly him, a mix of tracks from both his favorite queens like Bey and Taylor and his Latine kings: Don Omar, Marc Anthony, Manuel Turizo. And here and there, his favorite showtunes.

Jesus had shared the playlist at the same time he'd transferred his powers of attorney to Mae, after Steve's heart attack. Like he knew. That he would tell his own body to let go, soon. To be with his corazón again.

She might not have truly believed in an afterlife herself, but Mae was somehow able to hold onto the hope of it, for them.

The playlist was exactly one hour long. "One hour of talking about how great I was! Make sure there's lots of candy. Maybe some sparklers. And then you can all go get drunk or do whatever you want. Although it would mean a lot if you drank some pi?a coladas at Tropicale for me, if the mood struck you. Stick some googly eyes on the pineapples and pretend it's my spirit."

And they had, later. Stuck googly eyes on the pineapples.

And by god, they did feel like his spirit.

Until Alexei had eventually peeled the silly eyes from his, hiding them away inside his palm before he'd said in his quietly commanding way: "Okay. Go find Steve, now."

And the patio of Tropicale had gone quiet, filled with that almost happy, reverent version of deeply sad.

Mae felt close to the same now. She had felt the distance, with every mile she'd rolled further from Portland earlier today. How far away she was now from her people. How truly alone she was, here in this empty storefront. But the music helped her inch closer to almost-happy. The music helped her be almost fully there.

And just as at the death party, it was when Judy appeared that things really got swinging.

All of their friends had been busy hugging, eating all of Jesus's favorite snacks, laughing as they tried not to cry during the first twenty minutes of the party, held in the auditorium at the center. But when Judy Garland came in with "The Trolley Song," somehow everyone started moving at once. As if they were all in St. Louis, Jesus at the front of the line, urging them to hop onboard.

They didn't dance, exactly, as much as they escaped their grief for a moment to jump inside a musical instead, as Jesus would have wanted them to: arms outstretched, swinging each other by the elbows, dramatically singing along, swooning with hands held over hearts.

Mae was just as into it here, alone in Greyfin Bay. She fisted her hands in front of her neck, leaned her head back and closed her eyes as she spun. She threw off her sweater, shimmied out of her skirt. She always felt most comfortable when she was as close to naked as possible. She sang out loud to the ceiling of her future bookshop about how grand it was for Judy just then, holding his hand ‘til the end of the line, feeling every clang clang clang and zip zip zip and?—

A throat cleared, and Mae twirled toward the door.