“I love her.”
He stared at me.
“You love her?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Long enough to know this isn’t a joke.”
He laughed bitterly.
“You’re twenty-eight. You could date anyone.”
“I don’t want anyone.”
“You don’t even hear how selfish that sounds.”
I had no defense.
He walked toward the door.
“If you care about me at all, stay away from her until I can figure out what I’m supposed to do with this.” No pretending the situation was simple.
For the next three months, we barely spoke.
And I learned that doing the right thing could hurt almost as much as doing the wrong thing.
Karen Mercer Stops Asking Permission
While I stayed away, Karen built her bookstore.
She called it Second Chapter.
The name was printed above the red door in elegant white letters.
She painted the reading corner herself, hired two part-time employees, and arranged the shelves by hand. She contacted local authors, negotiated with suppliers, and learned more about bookkeeping in six weeks than Michael had learned about their household finances in twenty-two years.
