Since You Happened by Holly Hall
Chapter 11
I pick up a few different cartons of sushi at a Japanese place farther down the street on Monday before going to surprise Landon at the bookstore, because who doesn’t need a midday pick-me-up at the beginning of the work week? Though it’s midday and the sun is shining, I have to fold my arms across my chest to shield myself from the cool breeze that cuts right through my jacket and let the bag of food swing from the crook of my arm. Winter is coming, as George R.R. Martin would say, and it’s going to be a cold one.
When the little bells chime as I enter, Landon looks up from the counter where he’s stacking books onto a cart. “What a pleasant surprise,” he says sarcastically, but the grin on his face makes it clear that my random appearances are growing on him.
“Well, I was in the mood for sushi, and I only thought it would be fair to share if you’re going to work through your lunches all week again.” I plop the bag down on the counter and pull out my purchases, lining them up. “I wasn’t sure what you liked.”
Landon pops the lids off the containers and takes a ramekin of soy sauce from the bag. “I’m easy to please.”
“When it comes to sushi, maybe.” I roll my eyes.
“Come around, there’s an extra stool back here.” He gestures for me to come back behind the register, and I widen my eyes incredulously.
“I don’t know—behind the counter? That may be pushing some serious boundaries,” I joke, and when he gives me a bored expression, I circle around and sink onto the stool next to him. Sitting in this spot reminds me of the only employee I’ve ever seen working for him but have never officially met. “Who is that younger guy I’ve seen in here before?”
“Brayden? He’s a kid who came into the shop before I even considered hiring anyone. He’s paying his way through community college and wouldn’t leave me alone until I gave in.”
“Kind of like me?” I ask, sucking soy sauce off my thumb.
“Kind of like you,” he says with a smile. “I gave him a few hours at first, and now he works about twenty a week. I get busy sometimes working for the paper, so he helps out a lot.”
“You take photos for the paper?” I assumed, for some reason, that he hadn’t picked up a camera since he lost his fiancé.
“Yeah. It helps pay the bills so the proceeds from this place can go where they need to.”
Landon is someone who doesn’t think what he does is in any way admirable, but I find myself more in awe with each conversation we have.
We focus on eating, both of us taking bites from the three different rolls until the containers are empty and I’m stuffed. Landon begins to gather the empty containers, placing everything back into the sack.
“That hit the spot. Thank you.”
“Like I said, it was my own selfish desire that led me to that place, but you’re welcome.”
While he’s chucking the bag in the trash, my gaze wanders over to the walls over the bookshelves where his photographs are displayed. I get up to look at them closer. Viewing beautiful photographs never gets tiring, so I wonder what it was like to actually be in these awe-inspiring places. I’ve decided that the one of the forest at sunrise or sunset—I’m not sure by looking—with the trees shrouded in fog is my favorite. The entirety of the trees isn’t even visible, but I like that about it. Their beauty isn’t overwhelming or immediately obvious. It’s the mystery that’s so alluring; it’s almost as if they have something to hide.
“The Yanoda Rainforest,” a voice says from my right, but my eyes don’t leave the photo.
“Where is that?”
“China.” Out of all the countries with rainforests, China is not the first that comes to mind. It reminds me that there is so much of this world that I know nothing about.
“It’s my favorite,” I tell him decidedly before moving on to the next one. A wooden boat with peeling, turquoise paint is anchored in what looks to be a tranquil, shallow lagoon. The saturation of color draws the eye, but I still prefer the quiet of the rainforest. “And this one?”
“Thailand. The captain offered to take me out, and I was almost afraid that little boat would sink. He had a bucket in there, so I made sure it stayed within eyesight in case we got into a bind and I had to dish out water.” He chuckles, remembering the memory. I step forward, moving on to the next one.
“I took that one from the boat. The water there might be the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.” The water in the photo is so clear it’s almost indiscernible. The rocks and sand at the bottom almost look like a stony beach or something. This photo makes me want to transport myself there, to float on the surface of water that looks like glass and lose track of everything—time, most of all.
“It seems so peaceful.”
“It is, when you get away from the touristy beaches, of course.”
The next one depicts a view from behind a line of pack mules following a narrow, worn trail. The mules occupy the left side of the frame, and to the right, the ground descends sharply, giving way to a wide vista of green valleys and mountains.
“The trail to Machu Picchu,” he says. It’s breathtaking. The scale of the mountain range compared to the mules makes me feel so, so small. When I tell him so, he replies, “It’s supposed to. Photos like that help you put things into perspective if you let them.”
I nod, absorbing his words. He leaves my side for a minute, returning with the cart of books. When I look down at it, he offers me a book. “The exploration of the world doesn’t come for free, even for you.” I take it, and we continue down the aisle, placing books while he tells me about all his photos. For every one I shelve, he shelves three, without missing a beat in his storytelling.
He tells me of camel riding in the desert of Morocco, and how he barely managed to hang on when his mount went rogue. He informs me of the best, lesser-known mountain trails of New Zealand. He’s been to more islands than I have states. He’s eaten foods that I didn’t even know existed. His tales fill me with excitement and longing. Then I have to shove down the sadness that rises within me. He was doing all that when she was alive. He was trekking up mountains and across sand dunes, diving amongst shipwrecks, snorkeling through coral reefs. He has photos of animals I don’t even know the names of. The way he speaks of these places with such reverence makes it hard to believe he’s even standing here in front of me in this bookstore instead of out somewhere remote with just his camera and a backpack.
I look around at all the photos lining the walls, knowing there must be thousands more without frames. How broken is he to have quit all this?
I look down at my watch so he can’t see my morose expression. “I should probably get going. I have to get ready for work,” I say, setting down the last book.
Landon shakes his head, as if he’s snapping out of a trance. “I didn’t realize what day it was. I feel bad that you came all the way over here now.”
I shrug like it’s no big deal. I don’t mind bringing him food while he’s lost in the world of his bookstore. The world of his past. If it were me, I would get lost, too. “I was craving it. It’s no big deal.”
He looks at me and blinks a few times, the little V forming between his brows that he gets when he’s thinking too hard. “You know—for a genuine person, you’re pretty good at pretending,” he says.
I’m thrown off by his sudden earnestness. “Pretending what?”
“That you don’t care.” My pulse drums underneath my skin, but I wipe my expression blank. He sighs, making circles with his finger in the air between us. “We hang out every chance we get, you make me dinner, bring me lunch sometimes, I’ve invited you over to my apartment, we have a lot of sex—all without any commitment. You act like it suits you just fine, but I can’t help but feel like this isn’t what you really want.”
I’m taken aback by the conviction in his tone. In a flash of color, I see everything coming to an end in my mind. The scary part is how sad I feel imagining it. I eye him in what I hope is a playful manner. “Because you know so much about me.”
“I know enough to tell that I’m getting to you, because you do care.”
I roll my head around on my neck. “If I wanted something different, I would go and get it.” I don’t elaborate. I think we both know what I’m talking about. “My life suits me just fine at the moment.”
He lifts his eyebrows just slightly, a silent promise that the conversation will come up again, but for now, he drops it. I won’t let it go so easily, though. How can he really believe that it’s fair for him to ask me these intrusive questions when I can’t do the same?
I cross my arms over my chest. “Do you really think Grace would have wanted you to open a bookstore?” I may be unfairly turning this around on him, but I don’t care. It’s a question that’s arisen in my mind multiple times, but that I’ve refrained from asking in order to spare him from discussing his deceased fiancé. He opens his mouth, with that expression on his face that I know too well, and I hold up a finger to halt the bitter retort I know is about to come out. “It’s an innocent question.”
His teeth clamp shut, and his jaw flexes a few times before he answers. “She loved to read. Novels were her favorite form of art,” he says, leaning back against the bookshelf.
I nod, my eyes following the trail of framed photos around the room as I think. “She did. But do you really think the girl who knew you better than anyone would’ve wanted you to spend your life trying to honor her with a business that she would be interested in?” His forehead creases as he scowls at the line of books behind me. I can see the wheels turning in his head. “She agreed to marry you. To stick by you through sickness and health, for better or worse. What she would love is for you to follow your passion.”
“You didn’t know her,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction. It’s like it’s ingrained in him to protest whatever I say, even if his heart isn’t really into it.
“I know enough,” I say, mimicking him. “You two lived a full life, traveling the world together. Do you think she’d want you to drop all that the second she was gone and confine that big life in a dark little bookstore?”
He closes his eyes for a moment before shaking his head, focused on the ceiling. “No.” The word is withdrawn.
“No,” I add with more emphasis. “But you’re a determined—albeit stubborn—grown man. You do what you think is best, and don’t get me wrong, it’s a great thing you’re doing here.”
He studies me for a second. “I’m not stubborn.”
I tilt my head, fighting the smile that threatens to cross my face. “Yeah, you are. And you know it. But most of the time it transforms into this drive that I think is pretty enviable.”
“The fact that you think I have one enviable quality is a miracle in itself.” He squints at me, almost daring me to take it back.
“Oh, come on, did you miss it when I said you were determined? No—don’t answer that. I don’t want your ego to run away with itself.”
“If I could read your thoughts, I would guess that I’m beginning to impress you.”
“That’s where you have it wrong, Farrar.” I slide the book I’ve been holding into place. “You impressed me the second I met you.”
I thought I put an end to Landon’s questioning when I brushed him off at the shop. But only a week passes before he brings it up again, this time in the kitchen as we cook dinner. It’s the first time he’s ever lent a hand in the kitchen, and I can’t lie, the sight of him carefully butterflying chicken breasts and making himself at home, fetching ingredients from my fridge, is a welcome one. I briefly think about how great of an idea it would be to release a cookbook featuring photos of shirtless men cooking the recipes. I would buy it.
After we’ve stuffed the chicken breasts with spinach and placed them into a skillet, Landon washes his hands in the sink, drying them on a towel before resting his backside against the counter. I pretend to dust my hands off on my pajama shorts before meeting his satisfied smirk.
“What?” I ask, steeling myself against whatever is dying to come out of his mouth.
He acts out zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key, shaking his head to make it clear he’s not about to say anything.
“I know that look—you’re dying to say something. And I’m sure it’ll come out sooner or later.”
He crosses his arms and shrugs, pursing his lips. “I just have no idea what you’re doing with me.”
“We’re making dinner. What do you mean?” I deflect. I turn back toward the stovetop, nudging the chicken breasts around that are sizzling in the skillet. I feel his gaze on the side of my face from where he’s standing a few feet away. “Do you mind slicing those tomatoes for the salad?” I add, pointing the spatula toward the cutting board.
Landon selects a knife from the block and grabs a tomato. “You know what I mean. Where do you envision this going?”
“Nowhere,” I answer in a bored voice, reiterating what he’s told me several times before. “We’ve talked about this already. I’m a big girl, remember? I can make my own decisions.”
“I know.” I see him nod and reach for a head of lettuce out of my peripheral vision, tearing it to shreds. “I just can’t help but wonder what made a girl like you settle.”
My stomach turns. If he’s anything like me, he has to have caught on that something’s happened in the past that I’m resistant, if not terrified, to disclose. I’m nowhere near ready to broach that subject, even after the devastating things he’s told me. I know it’s unfair of me, after the way he’s opened up, but I don’t want to see the look on his face that that kind of admission evokes. I don’t want to see the pity, nor the judgement.
After a long pause, he says, “You aren’t that type of girl.”
I keep my eyes on the stovetop, because if he sees them, he’ll have a transparent view into my thoughts, and once he sees those, there will be no getting back to the place we’re at now. “Well, you seem to be the expert at knowing what’s best for everyone. What do you think I should be doing differently, Landon?” I can’t help the bitterness that edges into my voice.
He shrugs, but his expression makes it clear there’s a multitude of things I should be doing. “Everything. What about Paul?” I look at him to gauge his expression. Is he really suggesting men to pawn me off on now? He looks like he’s serious.
“I told you about Paul.”
“Yeah, ‘he was too perfect.’ Since when has that ever been a flaw?”
I take my time flipping each chicken breast to think. “Paul will have no problem finding someone great. It’s just not me.”
His silence makes me look up to meet his imploring gaze. “Is this about you thinking you don’t deserve him or something?”
“No.” The answer comes out as a rasp, and I clear my throat. “Paul . . . we’re just not compatible. He’ll find someone who fits into his cookie-cutter lifestyle and helps him keep believing that nothing bad happens to good people.”
“Maybe that’s not the most terrible thing to believe.” He pauses, and his next response is low and soft. “You could easily find a nice guy if you wanted to.”
I wipe off my hands and plant one on my hip. “Do I look like I want a nice guy?”
His eyes rove over my features. “Eventually.”
“Maybe I just want a bad guy who asks fewer questions.”
At that comment, his hands pause above the salad bowl, and he pegs me with his intense gaze. “I don’t think so.”
“And why is that?” I sidle over and reach past him, selecting a slice of tomato from the bowl and popping it into my mouth.
“Because there’s no room for another mean guy in your life. No one else knows you like I do.”
“You barely know me,” I point out, resting my lower back against the counter.
“I know you better than you think.” He places his feet outside of mine and cages me in, his hands resting on the countertop on either side of me. He looks like he could eat me alive. Right now, I want him to. “Find another mean guy and I’ll be very disappointed.”
When his mouth finally meets mine, his kiss is slow without being soft. Sensual without being sweet. When he withdraws, he takes my lower lip with him between his teeth. Once he releases it, I look over at the chicken. Good enough. I lean over and switch off the burners.
We communicate without talking, his hands already acting out my thoughts. They slide beneath the band of my underwear, peeling the lace down my legs. Then he lifts me up and sets me on the cool laminate, running his hands up my thighs in a way that makes me shiver. He stands in the space between them, and his mouth presses to mine while he shifts me closer to the edge. I hear his zipper lower, feel him as he closes the distance between us and fills me. He didn’t pause to grab a condom, and I didn’t ask. It’s not my wisest of thoughts, though I’m on birth control, but right now, I am all feeling and no thought.
And right now, the feel of his skin on mine invades every part of me until nothing else but him exists.