Page 55 of Forever Then

Gene tracks my gaze. “My dad was a military man. Korea wasn’t his first rodeo, but even he came back different.

He had to fight hard for his recovery. PTSD turned into alcoholism and the alcohol triggered the trauma.

He fought like hell to break the cycle and these books were a part of what helped him.

It was decades of ups and downs, but the prayers, the AA mantras, the survival stories, the promise of an eternity in glory—these books saw him through all of it. ”

Moisture wells behind my eyes and I’m not even sure why. “Thank you for showing these to me. I can understand why they mean so much to you.”

“A book is only as valuable as the heart that carries it. Even if I wanted to sell them, they wouldn’t make me any money, but they’re worth more to me than anything else in here.”

His words resonate, echoing off something deep within me.

I’ve never been able to articulate why I’ve held on to some of the books I’ve acquired over the years, but Gene made it all make sense so easily.

It’s more than sentimentality or the need to hold on to the memories a book might possess.

It’s the way a book, and the people or events you associate with it, somehow forms you—makes you who you are.

The logical side of your brain tells you that this tangible object can’t really have an effect on the person you become, but the feelings side can’t quite separate the book from the person. It’s all so beautifully intertwined.

“Do you have a book that your heart carries with it?” Gene’s soft, kind voice rings into the dusty air between us. The affection in his smile says everybody has one. Including me.

“ Little Women ,” I say, the squeeze of Connor’s hand over mine the ever-present reminder that I’ll never be able to separate the book from him, nor him from the person that I’ve become.

“Lovely,” Gene whispers. He looks to the man at my side for a moment and I wonder if he remembers selling Connor that copy all those years ago.

Pointing us in the direction of the wall behind us, he leaves us to explore by ourselves.

We round one of the free-standing shelves running the length of the shop and find a shelf of Louisa May Alcott.

Like the natural pull of gravity, I immediately seek out whatever copies of Little Women he might have tucked away in this unsuspecting establishment.

He only has three copies, but they are magnificent.

A first edition dated 1868. An early French edition. And a very rare copy in braille.

“Kind of puts that one I got in Arizona to shame, doesn’t it?” Connor says sheepishly .

“No. That one is incredible. Any collector would kill for it. But these…” My words die in my throat as I delicately pull the French copy off the shelf, careful to remove it from the protective plastic in the meticulous way Gene taught us earlier.

“I know. I think he makes decent money off walk-ins, but most of his sales are to wealthy collectors all around the world. Think foreign leaders, celebrities, European royalty, you name it. He’s got a whole shipping operation in the back.”

“It’s amazing,” I say, unable to stop my eyes from roaming in every direction. I want to see everything Gene has in here.

Connor’s phone buzzes in his pocket. “Come on. Our table’s ready.”

“Okay, so, tell me everything you know about Gene Mullins,” I say through a mouth full of steaming hot deep dish pepperoni pizza. Connor was right; of all the pizza I’ve had in Chicago, this is by far the best.

He laughs. “It’s not all that exciting, I’m afraid.”

“Not exciting? You are closet besties with an eighty-year-old man who deals books to the King of England.”

“Eighty-one,” he quips, before tipping back his beer.

“King of England, Connor.”

“My mom met his daughter, Victoria, in college. She and my dad started double-dating with Victoria and Tom, and they became fast friends. Victoria’s family became my mom’s family.”

He pauses to take a bite as I sip from my Diet Coke.

“Gene built a house on Carova and he’s let my family stay there over the years.

My parents have been visiting since before my brothers and I were born, though.

It’s how they fell in love with the area.

They really wanted to build a house on Carova like Gene did, but it’s way too expensive.

That’s why they settled in Avon about two hours south of there. ”

“What’s so special about Carova?”

“Carova Beach. It’s on the northernmost end of the Outer Banks.

It’s this long stretch of beach, like fifteen miles or something, that’s only accessible with a four-wheel drive vehicle.

No paved roads, no streetlights. Not even a restaurant or gas station.

But people have built these houses out there and it’s this protected reserve for wild horses. ”

Excitement brims in my expression that he doesn’t miss.

“It’s like no place I’ve ever been, Gretch. At night it’s so dark and so quiet, it’s just stars for miles and the sound of waves crashing on the shore. You can be on the beach during the day, lying in the sun and, out of nowhere a family of wild horses will wander into the surf twenty feet away.”

“Wait!” I declare as dots connect in my brain. “Like in N ights in Rodanthe ?”

“The movie with Richard Gere and Diane Lane?”

I roll my eyes. Typical. “No. The book by Nicholas Sparks.”

“That was made into a movie,” he deadpans.

My face falls flat.

“Yes, like Nights in Rodanthe , Fish.”

“The horses are real? They just run wild along the beach?”

“Well, I imagine there were some cinematic liberties taken with the dramatic music and all, but yes. Not in Rodanthe, though. That’s too far south. The horses are all in Carova up north.”

“But you’ve seen them?”

“Yes.”

“Wow,” I breathe. “New bucket list item unlocked.”

“I’ll remember that,” he says, winking as he wraps his ankle around mine under the table.

After dinner, we stroll through the city, weaving back and forth through the main thoroughfares and quaint back streets until we end up on the Riverwalk.

The sun sets on the horizon, peeking through the slots of towering skyscrapers as the Navy Pier ferris wheel rotates slowly in the distance.

I know this night will end soon because Connor goes back to work tomorrow.

It’ll be like every other night for the past several days when we get back to his apartment, full of kisses and…

other things. Yet, he still manages to surprise me.

Mid-stride, he pu lls us to a stop and gently nudges my back against the railing.

The sound of the river drifts beneath us as he takes my face in his hands and kisses me into oblivion.

“I’m sorry it took me so long.” His lips glisten from our kiss, thumbs stroking my cheekbones.

“What do you mean?”

“Tonight. Tonight should have happened three years ago.” He kisses me. “I’m sorry.”

“Do me a favor.” I clasp my hands behind his back.

“Anything.”

“Stop apologizing.”

On our way back to his place, we stop for ice cream, which I enhance by adding the peanut butter M&Ms I had stashed in my purse, despite his huffs of disapproval.

He said earlier that M&Ms were the way to my heart, and he wasn’t wrong. But there’s another way and I’m not sure he realizes it entirely yet.

Him.