6. Indelible Mark

6

Indelible Mark

Alice

Today is a rainy day—AKA, perfect reading weather—and the three of us are making the most of it. Emz is in the reading nook, Hayley is in her room, and I'm in mine. The store opens at eleven on Sundays, which means we get to catch up on some precious reading time. I'm starting Regency Love by Rachel Droke, an advanced copy I scored, and I'm eager to get into the story. Grabbing my reading planner, I start setting the page for this new book. I love my planner. It has a bunch of lists like "Quote Collections," "To Be Read," and "Favorite Authors," but also a monthly reading log, book review pages, challenges, and series trackers. The best thing is that, since the base file is digital, I can print out however many pages I want and keep adding to it. Once everything is ready, I hit play and start coloring my new book.

The narrative starts with a prologue from the male POV, and Deacon's face immediately appears in front of my eyes. No, no, no . That's not going to work. I'm a very visual reader. Settings and characters come to me as I read, helping to immerse me in the story. Usually, the characters are embodied by celebrities, not my grouchy neighbor. This is not happening. I've never even been a fan of that trope. Why would anyone like a person who's grumpy? Everyone prefers happy people. Well, Emma falls into that category, and she's one of my best friends, but that's different. She's a friendly grump—likable. Deacon is just . . . mean .

Unfortunately, I have absolutely no control over my brain, and the more the character speaks in his husky voice, the more clearly I picture Deacon. Only it's a nicer version of him that would fit this cinnamon-roll character. Far from the reality of Captain Cranky next door.

Easing off my headphones, I attentively listen for noise from the wall we share, but there's nothing. I wonder if he's out, or if he finally learned a thing or two about acceptable neighborly conduct.

Shaking my head into focus, I put my headphones back on and concentrate on the story, trying to chase Deacon out of my head. The only problem is, the book starts with a fade-to-black scene, and the flirty one-liners this character is throwing at me are landing like a slap in the face.

After recovering from the first few chapters of my new book, I prepare my Instagram posts for the week. The process takes me a solid hour because I can't get the perfect lighting and the perfect shot of my Friday flat-lay stack. Before long, it's already time to open. Emma and I are on duty this afternoon while Hayley heads to my brother's apartment, where she'll stay until tomorrow.

As soon as I flip the sign out front from " Sorry, we're reading! " to " Come in, let's read! " the bell jingles, and Lola enters the store.

"Hi," she says with a big grin. "I finished Crown of Roses and Always . I loved them both. Thank you for the recs."

My heart swells, as it does every time someone enjoys a book I recommend. "I'm so glad you liked them!"

"I still have the other three to read, but I was going crazy, stuck at home with my uncle. He said it was okay for me to come here this morning, if you don't mind."

"Your uncle?" I ask, my brow furrowing.

She twirls the back of her mocha-brown hair. "Yeah, Deacon. You've met him."

"Oh, right. I assumed he was your dad."

"Hi, there," Emz says with a wave. She makes a beeline from the back room to Mr. Darcy's corner, picking him up.

"Hi." Lola waves back, then shifts her focus back to me. "No, just my uncle."

I bite my lip. "Okay." I really, really want to pry. But how insensitive would it be to ask this young girl what happened to her parents that she's now living with her uncle? "Well, you're welcome here anytime."

Her face lights up. "Thank you."

Another customer walks in, and I go assist her while Lola browses the different books on the shelves. Emma sidles up to her, and they start chatting.

A few other customers come in and, unfortunately, we're soon swamped with no time for Lola. But she doesn't seem to mind. She's reading the back covers of books, checking out trope cards, and petting Mr. Darcy .

Finally, there's only one person left to help out, and Emma is on it, so I walk over to Lola.

"Oh, that one is cute," I say, glancing at the book she's holding. "The French MMC is particularly swoony."

"You're French, right?"

"I am," I say with a smile. "I moved here a year ago."

"Wow. I wish I could speak French as well as you speak English. I'm failing it at school."

"Ah, French is a hard language." I sigh. "You know, I was actually born here. My mom was American, but I lived in France most of my life."

"That's so cool. I'd love to visit France one day. Even live there!" She puts the book back on the shelf. "That'd help with learning the language."

"Oh, definitely. I've always had a decent level of English, but moving here really sped things up. I hope you get a chance to go."

"Deacon will keep me locked up for the rest of my life, so that'll probably never happen," she says, rolling her eyes.

I chuckle softly. "That bad, huh?"

"That's an understatement. It took endless pleading and a nudge from my therapist just for him to let me come here by myself."

"Well, you can't really blame him for being protective of you." It's weird, and kind of nice at the same time, to hear about Deacon's protectiveness with his niece. He can't be that bad if he cares so much.

"I guess." She lowers her eyes. "I just wish my mom was still here."

I cock my head to the side. "I'm sorry. I miss my mom too."

She glances up at me, a questioning look in her eyes.

"My mom passed away when I was young." The words still burn my throat every time I say them. No matter how much time passes, losing a parent leaves an indelible mark on your heart.

"I'm sorry. Mine died three months ago. She got sick really fast, and the doctors couldn't do anything."

I hold my hand out, and she takes it. "I'm sorry, Lola. I'm always here if you need someone to talk to."

She swallows hard, then forces a nod. "Thank you."

Just then, Mr. Darcy comes trotting toward us, and she squats down to pet him. My heart breaks for Lola. I wish I knew exactly what to tell her to ease her pain, but the truth is, there is nothing to say. Here I am fourteen years later, and I still haven't figured out how to live without my mom. She's in every romcom I read, every Hallmark movie I watch, and every scrapbook I put together. All the things my mom and I used to do together. All the things that remind me of her .

I smile to myself as my eyes rove the bookstore. Everything I do—everything I am—is because of my mom, and I know she'd be proud of me. She was the best person I ever knew, and I strive to be worthy of calling myself her daughter every single day. I always try to find the best in any situation and in people, infuse as much positive energy as I can into my life, and remind myself how lucky I am to be alive and in good health.

Maybe that's the key. Allowing her to be part of my life, to influence it, even if she's not physically here anymore. That way, it's like she never really left. But then, why does it still hurt so much sometimes?

"Lola," Emma says, coming over. "Aren't you tired of all these cheerful romcoms? Can I tempt you to join the dark side?" A grin flashes on her face, Cheshire-Cat style.

That draws a laugh out of Lola and pulls me out of my reverie. Lola's laugh is beautiful. Suddenly, I wonder what Deacon's laugh sounds like. But just as quickly as the thought comes, it dissipates. What am I thinking? He probably doesn't even have one.

"Mm, I'm good," Lola says, still chuckling.

"Really? Because I have some gripping dark romances that would change your life."

"Emz!" I scold. "She's a teenager." The dark romances we sell might be closed door, but they're not always PG-13 .

Emma's blue eyes widen slightly. "Right. Romantic suspense, then? I know one that is pretty tame."

Lola grimaces. "I don't know."

"Leave the poor girl alone," I tell Emma, wrapping a protective arm around Lola's shoulders. "She's a romcom and YA girl." And I don't blame her. When you've been through a lot, you tend to gravitate toward stories that make you smile and feel safe. Although, Emma's past is worse than mine, and she still finds comfort in darker reads. I guess everyone deals with their wounds in their own ways. That's the beauty of reading—you can find healing in the pages of any book.

Emma rolls her eyes. "Fine. I'll let you two revel in all that fluff ."

Lola and I chuckle. Turning to Lola, I ask, "So, you're coming on Wednesday for the book club, right?"

"Yes, absolutely. Deacon said it's okay, and I'm not letting him backtrack on that."

"Fantastic. Well, I guess I'll see you Wednesday," I say with a grin. "Although you're welcome to swing by anytime. And if you ever need help with girl stuff or homework, don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you." She waves and turns to leave before spinning back to face me. "Actually," she says, twisting her mouth to the side. "Would you mind helping me with my French essay? It's already written and everything, but I really need to bump up my grade if I want to pass. Maybe you could take just a quick look?"

I offer a reassuring smile. "Of course. I'd be happy to help. When is it due?"

She winces. "Tomorrow."

"Oh, dear. Okay. Well, I'm going to a hockey game tonight." I glance at my watch. "Let me see if Emma can handle the store on her own until closing."

As I expected, Emma doesn't mind a bit, and I follow Lola back to her apartment. I've taken this route many times before, but never in such a leisurely way. Usually, my blood is boiling, my heart rate is through the roof, and I'm mulling over what nasty words I'm going to throw at Deacon. Though my current walk isn't that different, at least when it comes to my racing pulse.

I step into the now-familiar corridor, and once again, I'm surprised by how sparsely furnished this place is. The apartment itself looks similar to our interior since it used to be a single building—hence the thin walls—but at the same time, it couldn't be more different. While ours is decked out with cozy carpets, drapes on the windows, and plenty of comfortable furniture, this apartment is devoid of any decorations, and furniture-wise, there's only the minimum. A gray couch is facing a TV stand, and a coffee table rests in the middle with a remote control. No paintings or decorative elements hang on any of the walls. The open kitchen is empty, and there's a round table with four chairs. Not exactly a welcoming home.

"Let me grab my backpack," Lola says, hurrying to what I assume is her bedroom.

"Lola?" Deacon's gruff voice calls from the room at the end of the corridor. The door opens, and he sticks his head out. "Alice?" he asks, unable to hide the surprise in his tone.

The way he says my name—my real name, not that annoying nickname—is sending chills down my spine. Why does he have to possess that stupid, sexy voice? Couldn't he have a squeaky, high-pitched one with nasal undertones?

"What did I do this time?" he grumbles, ambling closer with a frustrated sigh. "Was I painting too loudly?" His black shirt is torn and stained with white paint.

Crossing my arms, I roll my eyes. "Relax. I'm just here to help your niece with her homework."

He frowns, seemingly taken aback. "Really? Why?"

"Uh, because she asked me to?"

"You don't have to do that," he says, leaning against the corridor wall. " It's—"

"I know you can't understand the concept of kindness," I cut in, "but it's really no big deal. I'll take a look at her French homework and be out of here before you know it."

He cocks his head to the side slightly. Just when he's about to open his mouth, Lola steps out of her room with a large blue backpack.

Deacon returns to his painting while Lola and I sit down at the kitchen table. I try to focus on her essay, but I have to reread it numerous times before the words actually sink in. I keep replaying that exchange with Deacon, our first one-on-one conversation where we weren't throwing snide remarks at each other. Finally, I get my act together and help Lola with a few corrections on her work. I explain some key grammar rules the best I can, then help her rewrite a few sentences.

"Thank you so much," she says once we're done. "You're the best." She wraps her arms around me and hugs me tight for a few seconds.

"Of course." I can't hold back my smile. "It's my pleasure. I hope you get a good grade."

"I know I will! Mrs. Dubois will be so pleased."

"All done?" Deacon says, walking into the kitchen. He grabs a glass from the cupboard and pours himself some water .

"Yes," Lola says, slipping her copybook into her backpack.

"Either of you want something to drink?" Deacon asks, taking a gulp of water before leaning against the counter. My eyes trail down his muscular body. The way his black shirt molds to his fit chest, how his biceps bulge when he brings the glass to his lips. That body, coupled with that voice, has probably left a lot of broken hearts in its wake. And suddenly, it feels a little too warm in here.

I stumble up from the table. "Well, I'm going to go," I say, looking at Lola. "But let me know if you need any more help."

A slight frown clouds her features. "Okay. Thanks again." She stands up and walks me to the door. Once we reach it, I escape the apartment as fast as I can.