Page 2 of Befriending the Bear (Forestville Silver Foxes #6)

The library was quiet this time of day, that particular hush that came from old buildings and older books.

Eleanor sat behind the circulation desk, her silver hair pinned up in an elegant twist that belonged in a different era.

She looked up when I entered, and her face softened. “Calloway, I was hoping you’d stop by.”

I raised an eyebrow, a question without words.

“Book club tomorrow night. We’re starting with poetry, and you know how Gladys gets. I could use someone who actually understands metaphor.” She stamped a return with more force than necessary. “Seven o’clock. I’ll save you a seat in the back corner.”

I shook my head, already backing toward the door. Book club meant people, meant discussion, meant the inevitable moment when someone would turn to me and ask what I thought, and I’d have to watch their face shift from interest to discomfort as I struggled through a response.

“Just think about it,” Eleanor called after me. “We miss you.”

I continued down the sidewalk, Eleanor’s words echoing in my head. We miss you. As if I’d gone somewhere instead of retreating into myself, layer by layer, until I was more ghost than man haunting my own life.

The evening ritual began at six: dinner—soup from a can, crackers arranged on a plate because Marcus had always insisted on proper plating—dishes washed and dried immediately, counters wiped down twice.

By seven, I was in my reading chair again with a glass of wine and my laptop, ready for the one social interaction I could still manage.

The book club forum loaded slowly—I’d been having issues with my Wi-Fi lately—but soon the familiar usernames appeared. ForestReader, that was me, hiding behind anonymity and the safety of text.

TolkienGirl77

Anyone else completely destroyed by Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous?

ForestReader

The way he writes about the silence between lovers hits particularly hard. When he points out that in Vietnamese, the word for missing someone and remembering them is the same, that gutted me.

BookishBen

@ForestReader, you always catch the details that wreck me most. Have you read his poetry too?

My fingers flew across the keyboard, no stutter here, no watching people’s patience wear thin as I struggled with consonants. Here, I was articulate, witty even. Here I could be the person I’d been with Marcus—someone worth knowing, worth hearing.

The discussion flowed for an hour, ranging from Vuong to James Baldwin to whether romance novels deserved more literary respect—yes, I argued, they absolutely did. When someone mentioned they were forty-five and feeling too old for love stories , I typed before I could stop.

ForestReader

You’re never too old for love stories. They may become different stories. Quieter, maybe, but no less vital.

MidlifeMuse

@ForestReader, that’s beautiful. Speaking from experience?

I stared at the cursor, then closed the laptop without responding. Some truths were too heavy for even anonymous forums.

The wine had made me restless, and I wandered into the spare room I’d converted to a library.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined three walls, organized by a system only I understood.

Not alphabetical or by genre, but by feeling, by the mood each book evoked.

The books I’d shared with Marcus had their own section, though I rarely visited it.

Tonight, though, I pulled down a volume of Frank O’Hara. Marcus had loved him, loved the conversational immediacy of the poems. I could still hear his voice reading “Having a Coke with You,” the way he’d look up at me when it—absurdly—mentioned a love for yogurt.

I’d been eating yogurt the day we met at the faculty mixer I’d been dragged to. He’d made some terrible joke about culture, and I’d laughed so hard I’d forgotten to be self-conscious about my speech. Later, he told me he’d fallen a little in love with me in that moment, seeing me unguarded.

The margins were full of his notes. His handwriting had been a terrible, doctor-scrawl I’d learned to decipher like a secret code. Read this aloud to C, one note read. What does this mean to C? another read. Evidence of a life lived together, of someone who’d wanted to share everything with me.

I shelved the book carefully and retreated to my bedroom.

It was only nine, but exhaustion pulled at me, that particular tiredness that came from holding yourself apart from the world all day.

Tomorrow, I’d have to go to Collins for groceries.

Tomorrow, I’d have to navigate more interactions, more moments of being seen but not known.

But tonight, I could close my eyes and pretend the empty space beside me was temporary, that any moment I’d hear Marcus’s key in the lock, his voice calling out “Honey, I’m home” in that ironic way that had made it sincere.

The house settled around me with familiar creaks and sighs. Somewhere in the walls, a mouse scratched out its own quiet life. Maybe we were all trying to find our way through the dark. Some of us were just more lost than others.

This is enough, I whispered to the darkness, practicing the lie until I almost believed it. This has to be enough.