by Olivia Hayle
I want to laugh, but all I can manage is a smile. “No energy,” I say. “It’s a strategic retreat.”
“A truce,” he corrects.
“Yes. It’s nice,” I murmur, turning over again. Sleep is already trying to reclaim me and there is no point in fighting it. I don’t have the power to.
The last thing I hear is a cell phone ringing and Cole’s faint curse before he answers it. His footsteps retreat in the apartment, but one sentence reaches me. Cancel my meetings.
And then I’m lost again.
I’m disgusting.
It’s the first thing I feel when I wake up again. The clock on my night table reads eleven a.m. My eyes feel like they’ve been glued together, my hair a mess, and my mouth tastes like copper.
The bedsheets, my own T-shirt… I’ve sweated all night long.
I need a shower.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and sit for a while, catching my breath. I’m in panties and a T-shirt, and that’s all.
Cole.
He must have helped me off with my pants, and my shoes, and… he’d stayed. Called a doctor. Cancelled his meetings. The ground shifts beneath my feet. No, Skye, I tell myself, and compartmentalize that somewhere far away. I can’t process that right now. One thing at a time. Shower first. Contemplate enemy’s kindness second.
My bedroom door is open and there’s a voice from the living room. Cole’s talking to someone on the phone.
“No,” I hear him say. “Absolutely not. I know it’s your life—don’t go there, Blair—but if you’re asking for my permission, it’s no.”
I’m too intrigued to stop listening, so I inch closer to the open door. Whoever is on the line talks for a very long time.
Cole sighs. “Of course I want you to be happy. What kind of question is that?”
I’m eavesdropping. Snooping, really. And yet I can’t find it in myself to move away.
“Yes,” he says finally. “I’ll see you on Sunday. We can talk more then.”
His voice drifts closer and I scoot back in bed just in time. Cole’s eyebrows rise when he sees I’m awake. He leans against the door post, still in the same clothes as last night.
“You’re up.”
“Yes.”
He flashes his phone. “Did I wake you?”
“No, no. Not at all.”
“Good.”
I nod as well, but I have no idea what to say. He stayed. It’s nearly midday, and he’s still here, postponing world domination.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better. Thirsty. In desperate need of a shower.”
He gives me a crooked smile. “Hungry?”
“A bit, yeah.”
“Go have a shower. I’ll fix you something to eat.”
I’m too stunned to protest. “All right.” I head to the bathroom and hear him grab my keys from my hall side table, my front door clicking closed behind him.
Wow.
I feel weak as a lamb as I strip off my soaked T-shirt and slide my underwear off. The shower is marvelously uncomplicated. I shower with cold water, enough to cool my hot skin, before turning it back to hot and soothing my aching muscles.
I stare at my nice, expensive shampoo and conditioner, and they stare back at me. Do I have the energy?
It feels like it takes all the willpower I possess, but I squeeze out a dollop of shampoo and start to massage my painful scalp. Everything hurts, but the smell of my products helps. Caramel and florals.
I emerge from the shower five years younger and about a hundred times fresher. Looking into the mirror, my cheeks are flushed and my eyes are shiny.
“Damn.” I look as sick as I feel. I think of all the things I probably said to Cole last night. Of the fact that he showed up to the book reading, answering the invitation we’d sent to his office in person. It was meant to be a victory statement. Look at us doing well! And instead, he’d gotten another night in bed with me, but without any of the benefits. Had he stayed out of kindness? Out of pity? Out of interest? I don’t know which option scares me the most.
I wrap myself in the largest towel I own and crack open the bathroom door. The coast seems clear, and I hurry across the living room.
My couch looks slept on. There’s a coffee cup on the table. Guilt and embarrassment knot together in my stomach. “Save Between the Pages,” I murmur to myself. “That’s all that matters.”
I’m half-dressed when I hear the front door opening. Hurriedly, I pull on an oversized T-shirt and grab a sweater from a drawer. There’s nothing sexy about me right now. The woman he met at the hotel bar—the woman who knew what she wanted and didn’t hesitate in going after it—feels a million miles away.
“I’m back!” he calls.
I push the bedroom door open. He’s unpacking a massive bag of groceries on my kitchen table. A carton of orange juice. A loaf of bread. Peanut butter. Jam. Apples.
“Woah.”
“Your fridge is practically empty. I got you a bit of everything from the convenience store next door.” He runs a hand through his thick hair, now a mess. “It’s been a while since I went food shopping.”
He means it, too.
I step closer. He got a packet of cookies and a chocolate bar. A large bottle of lemonade. A box of Advil. It’s the ultimate stay-at-home-sick day package.
“Thank you.”
He takes a step back and nods at me. “Sure, sure.”
I pick up the packet of cookies, mostly to have something to do. “White chocolate chip?”
“Ate them a lot growing up.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.”
I clear my throat. “I’m sorry you had to miss work for this. I didn’t mean… you didn’t have to, you know.”
His lip curls into a half-smile. “I know. But then, you told me you didn’t have anyone to call.”
I turn away from him to hide the embarrassment on my face. Awesome, Skye. What other painful things did I tell him?
He glances down at his watch. He must be itching to get away, and here I am, pitiable and keeping him from his work. “Well,” I say. “Thanks for making sure your opponent remained in good shape.”
“My pleasure,” he murmurs. “Does this mean the truce is over?”
“I’m considering it. I have a meeting scheduled with my advisors later today.”
He smiles at my lame joke, but I think it’s more out of pity than humor. “You have the day off,” he says. “We spoke about that this morning. Do you remember?”
“Yeah, I do.”
He takes a step toward the front door, like he’s already itching to get away. “Good.”
Courage, Skye.
“Look,” I start. “I’m really sorry about last night. About… this. Thanks for staying. I didn’t mean to put that on you.”
He cocks his head to the side, and despite the lack of sleep, the lack of a shower, he still looks like something out of a catalogue. It’s not fair. “I didn’t mind,” he says.
“I know your time is valuable. Anyway, I just wanted to say that. And that I’d appreciate it if this didn’t affect our professional relationship.”
“Our professional relationship,” he repeats, all trace of humor gone from his face.
“Yeah. Between the Pages. The two-month deal.” I swallow down the lump that seems to form when I think about the bookstore closing.
“It won’t.”
“Good.” I’m nodding like a deranged person, wrapping my arms tighter around my chest.
“Like you said, I had to ensure my opponent was in good shape.”
I nod again. He’s said several times that he enjoys winning against someone who puts up a fight. I can oblige with putting up a fight, that’s for sure, but not with letting him win. “And you did. You could become a nurse. If your empire fails, I mean. Something to fall back on.”
He grabs his phone from the hallway table and slips it roughly into one of his pockets. That’s all he had with him, I realize. “Ex
cellent advice.”
I rub my neck. “Yeah. Well...”
“See you around, Skye.”
“Bye,” I whisper, but he’s already out the door.
I sink onto the couch and cover my face. Damn. I got what I wanted, and still, I feel like we’ve just had an argument. And we hardly even know each other.
Through my splayed fingers, I peek out at my apartment. He was here. He saw the mobile of crystals that my eccentric mother made me a few years ago and insists I keep hung for good vibes. He saw my overflowing laundry hamper. The bodice ripper I’m currently reading, very incriminatingly lying on my bedside table.
It was nice of him to stay. At the same time, he’s trying to destroy the store. So why do I feel like I was rude in sending him away?
I bury myself under blankets, munching on a white chocolate chip cookie that I fear will now always remind me of Cole Porter, when my phone vibrates.
It’s him.
Cole Porter: These are Dr. Johnson’s contact details. He’s been informed that you’re better, but if you take a turn for the worse, contact him immediately.
The doctor, whom Cole arranged to make a late home visit. Something twists inside me, and this time it’s not pain or sore muscles or even embarrassment. It’s guilt at my rudeness.
And beneath it, something far more dangerous.
Feelings.
10
Skye
It takes me two days to rest and get better. Two whole days of being weak, of climbing on the walls, of sleeping fourteen hours a night. It’s a pause in work that neither Karli nor I can afford, not when we’re working against the clock.
She only laughs on the phone when I point this out, on my second day of sick leave. “Skye, you’re sick. Take the time for yourself.”
“But—”
“No buts!” Her voice softens. “Look, I know what this place means to you. It’s the same for me. But we’re not going to run ourselves so ragged that we get sick in trying to keep it afloat. Eleanor wouldn’t have wanted that.”
I slump on the couch at her admonition. Eleanor, who had been Karli’s grandmother, but had never wanted to be called anything but her name. It’ll age me, honey, I’d heard her say more than once.
Eleanor, who had always cheered on my dream of being a writer, even when my own family didn’t understand it. I missed her so much it ached, sometimes.
“You’re right.”
“Besides, we’re still on a high from the book reading. Thirty-four individual purchases in one evening. Can you believe it?”
“Hardly.” I stretch my legs out on the couch. “Did you get a call back from Chloe?”
“Yes, she agreed to be our new accountant! I’ve sent her all the reports on our finances today. So far it’s looking fairly good, I think. We’re not profitable yet, not… not in the way Porter Development wants. But we’re getting there.”
Something in me squeezes painfully tight at the words Porter Development. It’s confusion, and anger, and something else I can’t quite name. “Awesome,” I say. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I already feel a lot better. I’m creating an Instagram profile now, for Between the Pages.”
“Skye! You should be resting!”
I smile at her concern. “I will be. Soon. I promise.”
Karli is a good friend. I lie back on the couch, my head spinning faintly, and stare at the cracked plaster that runs through my ceiling. She’s been with me through thick and thin. A sister, even if she isn’t one by blood.
The contrast with my sister Isla is too clear. When she’d called yesterday and asked me to babysit Timmy, and I told her I was sick, she harrumphed and told me to get better soon. We all need you, she had told me sweetly, the subtext all too clear.
Karli isn’t like that. Nor, it seems, is Cole.
The CEO and owner of Porter Development had been here, earlier this week, putting cold compresses on my feverish forehead all night. Cancel my meetings, he’d said on the phone. He’d seen me at my weakest. And, my vain heart is quick to point out, at my decidedly most unattractive. I’m not sure what to make of that.
One thing is clear, at least. He might be trying to tear down the bookstore, but I can no longer conveniently pretend that he’s a bad person to boot. I stare up at the ceiling and let the realization flood through me.
It doesn’t change much, in the end. We’re still at odds, firmly in opposite camps on an issue, and we haven’t spoken since he left my apartment a few days ago. Don’t overthink it, I tell myself, and open our text conversation. The last thing I sent was a plain thank-you after he gave me the doctor’s details.
Skye Holland: Here’s Between the Pages’ new Instagram page, in case you want to follow our rise to the top more closely.
Silly.
I regret it almost immediately after I send it, despite the rush of adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I want him, and I want him to not be who he is—the developer trying to destroy my job and my friend’s store—and I can’t reconcile those two things.
An hour passes without a response. I take a shower. Open the manuscript I’m trying, and failing, to write.
When I get a text, it’s from Mom, who wonders if I’ll come by for dinner on Saturday and to please bring Isla and Timmy along. I want to sigh. Rare are the times she wants to have dinner just to hang out, but I type an obliging of course and forward the details to Isla.
My phone finally buzzes with the response I want.
Cole Porter: Glad to see you’ve finally hired a PR consultant. Those twenty-seven followers will really help you.
I roll my eyes at the response.
Skye Holland: You forgot your thermometer at mine. I was going to return it, but now I think I’ll keep it.
Cole Porter: Oh no. That was my favorite one.
Skye Holland: Really? It’s not even gold-plated.
Cole Porter: The horror. Do you feel better?
I blink at my screen for a few seconds. Before I can type a response, another message from him pops up.
Cole Porter: I’d hate for my main opponent to be benched. Makes winning less special.
Skye Holland: Restored to perfect health, thank you. Maybe I was just allergic to you?
Cole Porter: We both know that’s not true.
Yes, I think. We both do.
Something uneasy rolls through me. It’s not guilt, exactly, but it’s close. He’d gone out of his way at the book reading, showing up initially to check on our progress, but staying and helping.
Three things I remember clearly.
1) The way his body felt against mine.
2) The reason I went to the hotel bar in the first place, all those weeks ago. It had been to live. To push boundaries. To be reckless.
3) The kiss we shared in the bookstore a week ago.
He’d admitted that he wanted to sleep with me again. That he wanted a repeat of the night at the hotel, when we’d spent the entire night doing… well. My cheeks flush at the memory. It had been more animalistic and honest and open than any sex I’d had with previous boyfriends. No limits, full communication, and Cole’s sly smile put to good use.
Maybe it’s time to be reckless again. I glance over at where my laptop sits, innocent-looking, on my coffee table. When I’d told my sister I’d started writing a novel, months ago, she’d chuckled. What do you have to write about, Skye? she’d asked, before seeing the look on my face. Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it like that.
But she had.
And the worst part is, she was right. I’m twenty-six. I’ve lived my whole life—including my college years—in the same city. My group of friends are scattered, my job limited to stacking books. A major in English Literature and a minor in Creative Writing isn’t necessary for that.
It’s not a comfortable thought. I turn over on the couch, seeking another of the blissful naps I’ve been taking all day, but this time it takes a long time for sleep to claim me.
>
I feel a lot better the next day. So much better, in fact, that I’m back at the bookstore fifteen minutes before my shift starts. Karli laughs at me.
“So eager, huh?”
I shoot her a blinding smile and get right to work. Customers filter in and out, and I give them all my new, invigorated smile. Four weeks are gone, and we have four weeks left before the deadline is up.
A quick glance around the bookstore reveals all the changes that have happened. The plants, the bookheart window embedded in the wall. The sale signs. It’s true that we’re going through parts of our inventory quicker than before.
Karli leaves two hours before closing, and I’m left with my thoughts, the radio, and the book I’m currently stacking.
It’s a classic. We sell a ton of these every start of the new school year. The author is male, famous for his cross attitude and sparse writing. He smoked cigars and whiskey. He fought in several wars and travelled across Europe, from city to city, for years. He made mistakes and friends and foes and lived to tell the tale.
It’s an author who lived.
I look down at the picture of him on the jacket of the book, the thick mustache and beard. Maybe it’s time to be reckless, too. After all, the authors I admire don’t live tame lives.
Maybe it’s time to stop making excuses for not writing that book. To give in to the bad ideas and the good ones alike. To give in to someone who might be a bad choice, but who will inevitably make for a memorable experience. Live a little, Skye. Don’t be so scared.
My bravery trip lasts all through the end of my shift, even as I close up the bookstore with more hope than I’ve had in weeks. It sends my fingers flying across the screen to send Cole a text.
Skye Holland: Let me drop off the thermometer before you file a police report against me.
