She rewarded me with a smile, genuine and sweet, and I prayed if we ever found ourselves in bed together—if ever she was ready—it would count.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SALVATION & REDEMPTION
“So, on a scale from one to ten, how much do you like it here?” Ray asked as we walked down Main Street after dinner.
My belly was stuffed, my heart was full, and my hand held tight to hers. Our difference in height, shown in the reflection of the shop and restaurant windows, was almost comical, and I had to stop myself from laughing a couple of times. And as funny as it was to see her—so small—next to a giant like me, it also felt good. To know I could be the power she’d been missing for so long. Her protector and strength.
“Oh, I’d give it a solid eleven.”
I glanced toward Patrick’s brother, Ryan Kinney, the local pet groomer and tattoo artist, walking across the street with his wife and their kids. The group of them could give the Addams Family a run for their money, yet nobody in town seemed to bat a lash.
I could relate.
The locals had been skeptical of my presence initially, and I couldn’t say I was friends with everyone—especially Mrs. Montgomery, the cranky old lady who liked to bust my balls at work whenever she tottered in. But now, I could walk around town without a single one of them staring warily, and I knew that came down to me and the solid reputation I had been building for myself.
It was a good feeling.
“Wow, an eleven, huh? That’s impressive.”
“Why? What about you?”
“Oh”—Ray wrapped her other arm around mine—“I wouldn’t wanna live anywhere else—that’s for sure. And I love being at the library. Being surrounded by books is my happy place.”
I glanced at her with curiosity. “You know, I’ve never thought to ask what books you like to read. I’ve seen you read those mushy romance novels”—she poked at my side for teasing her, and I laughed, brushing her hand away—“but what else do you like?”
“Oh God, everything,” she answered, laughing easily and pulsing her hand around mine. “There’s nothing I don’t enjoy; I just have to be in the mood. Like, sometimes, I go on a crime thriller kick, and other times, I can’t get enough of horror. A few years ago, I couldn’t stop reading memoirs and travel journals. Like …” She laughed again, shaking her head. “I don’t even know why. I just couldn’t get enough of reading about places I’d never been to.”
“Well, that’s the cool thing about books, right? Like, you don’t have to leave the house to be transported somewhere else.” I smiled down at her, and although it felt a little sad, I hoped she couldn’t tell. “I mean, that’s why I started reading anyway.”
My mind traveled back to my life after the loss of both my grandparents. Poverty had been new and unfamiliar, a terrifying adventure I had never thought I’d ever have to embark on. On one horrible day, when Mom had forgotten to give me a few bucks for lunch, I’d sat in the cafeteria, hungry and angry and too ashamed to say anything to one of the teachers or lunch aids. I glanced at a kid I barely knew, saw him reading a book with a boy wizard wearing round glasses on the cover, and asked if it was any good. He insisted it was the greatest shit he’d ever read in his life, and I made the split decision to ditch the rest of my pointless lunch period to check out Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone from the school library.
My tumble down the Hogwarts rabbit hole was swift and welcome, and a love for reading had been born. And believe me, the healthy escape was far more embraced than the hole in my belly, and it was one that I’d taken with me, clinging to every book I got my hands on like a poor man held tight to his last penny.
I couldn’t begin to imagine what my life would be like without books. Where would I be now had I not had those fictional friends to hold my hand and imagination captive? What would I have done differently if I’d always been fully submerged in the tumultuous, awful reality of my life?
“Why did I start reading?” Ray contemplated with a thoughtful hum, then sucked in a deep breath as we turned down the street leading to our community of tiny houses. “I think, at first, it was just the thrill of doing it. My sister is older—”
“I didn’t know you had a sister,” I interrupted, startled to learn something new about this woman I was certain I could no longer live without.
I’d always wanted a sibling. I had always wanted that sibling to be Billy if I could have my way. How different would my life have been if that had been the case? Would his mother have hated me so much, so effortlessly, now if she had been my mother too?
God, it was silly how easily the thought of Billy’s mom could make me want to cry.
I cleared my throat and blinked my eyes, focusing my attention on the pretty lady beside me.
“Yep. Just one. Stormy. She lives up in—”
Oh God. I couldn’t stop myself from huffing out a laugh. “Wow.”
I hoped I hadn’t offended her, and I was glad when she laughed along with me.
“Oh, I know. Thanks, Mom and Dad, right? And to answer the question about my name, the one you wrote in your letter—”
I sucked in a deep breath at the reminder that she had read them at all.
“My parents thought they were super cool, naming their kids after their favorite type of weather”—she laughed and rolled her eyes at her parents’ expense—“and coincidentally, we were both born when it was raining. They said it was good luck or something—I don’t know. Personally, I’ve always thought it was dumb. But anyway, Stormy lives up in Salem now, so I don’t see her as often as I’d like. She’s three years older than me, and back when she started reading, I was so jealous and made her teach me. I would read everything I could get my hands on; it didn’t matter what it was.
“But then I guess it turned into this fascination with the idea that these people—you know, authors, writers—they could take the same twenty-six letters and turn them into something completely different from what was already out there. Like, at this point, I don’t believe anything is one hundred percent original, but even still, no two books will be exactly the same. That’s just amazing to me. It’s like magic.”
There was a sense of childlike wonder in her tone as she talked. It was adorable and endearing, and I thought I could listen to her talk forever.
“You should write a book,” I suggested, smiling down at her.
“Me?” Her voice was shrill and amused as her hand squeezed affectionately around mine. “Oh God, I can’t. I don’t have that kind of talent or creativity. But I do love to read what others write, and I love to do my part in getting their work into other people’s hands.”
I pressed the hand she wasn’t holding to my chest. “Well, I, for one, am eternally grateful for your service.”
A comfortable quiet encircled us as we walked down the narrow road through our little neighborhood of small houses and smaller yards toward our respective homes. The night was pleasant—warm enough to be without heavier clothes, cool enough to enjoy it. It was my second favorite kind of weather—first being the rain—and to be sharing it with Ray made the night that much sweeter.