Page 16 of Of Heather and Thistle

T he bell above the door jingled softly as Heather stepped into Evergreen Books, but to her dismay, it didn’t feel comforting. The warm scent of paper should have soothed her, and the creak of the wooden floors should have felt familiar—but instead, her nerves buzzed louder than ever.

She spotted Irene Alcott, her boss and owner of the shop, near the front counter, flipping through a hardcover with practiced ease.

Irene looked exactly as a bookstore owner should—soft cardigans, wire-rimmed glasses perched at the tip of her nose, and a collection of cat hairs that clung to every surface of her clothing, no matter how often she brushed them off.

Her silvery hair was always twisted into a loose bun, a few wisps escaping like they had better places to be.

She had the presence of a person who had spent her whole life surrounded by stories—patient, unhurried, as if time worked differently in her little world.

And she was kind, the sort of kind that wasn’t loud or overbearing, but gentle and steady, like a cat curling up beside you just because it knows you need the company.

By the window, Mark stacked new arrivals, his easy posture at odds with the way his gaze snapped to her the second she walked in. Heather inhaled sharply, gripping the strap of her bag. No turning back now. She walked toward Irene, her footsteps almost silent.

Irene glanced up, adjusting her glasses with one finger as she spotted Heather. “Well, look at you, bright and early.” Her voice was warm, laced with that ever-present knowing sort of quality, like she already sensed something was coming.

Heather swallowed past the lump in her throat.

“Morning.”

She could feel Mark’s eyes on her, sharp and unreadable.

“Can we talk for a minute?”

Irene’s smile faded just a touch, curiosity flickering behind her expression.

“Of course, dear.”

She set her book down with careful deliberation, smoothing one hand over the worn cover before motioning toward the tiny office tucked behind the shelves. “Come on, then. Let’s have a chat.”

Heather followed, her pulse pounding. Inside, the office looked the same as always. Stacks of invoices, old catalogs, a chipped ceramic mug that was filled with mismatched pens, and at least one stray cat hair. Cozy. Familiar.

Safe .

And yet, it already felt like something she was leaving behind.

Irene lowered herself into her chair with a soft sigh, folding her hands over the desk. “Sit, darling.”

Heather shook her head, fidgeting with her bag strap.

Just say it , she thought.

“Irene, I… I need to give my notice.”

The words tumbled out before she could overthink them.

Irene blinked, then tilted her head, her sharp eyes scanning Heather’s face with quiet questioning: “…your notice?”

Heather nodded quickly. “It’s just… something came up. Family stuff. I need to go to Scotland for a while, and I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

Irene hummed as she reached for her mug and took a slow sip, like she was weighing her words. “Scotland?” she said softly, then paused before continuing. “…that’s quite the journey.”

Heather hesitated. “It’s complicated.”

And that was the truth! Life really was complicated right now. She told herself she wasn’t running away—just leaving everything behind. But wasn’t that the same thing?

Irene studied her for a long moment, then let out a thoughtful sigh. “You’ve had that far-off look about you for a while now, you know.”

Heather’s stomach tightened, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

Irene set her mug down, the ceramic clinking gently against the desk. “I’ll be sorry to lose you, dear. You’ve been a steady presence here.”

Steady.

She’d spent her whole life being steady. Predictable. Safe. …but not anymore.

Irene smiled then. It was the kind of smile that crinkled at the edges, soft and understanding. “The world’s been pulling at you, hasn’t it? ”

Heather swallowed. “…maybe…?”

Irene nodded, like that answer was enough. She’d already known it before Heather did. “Well…” she said, tapping a finger against the desk, “…you’ll always have a place here when you find your way back.”

Heather’s throat tightened. “Thank you,” she murmured, “… for everything.”

Irene gave her a long, thoughtful look before nodding. “Go on, then. Take care of yourself.”

* * *

Heather barely made it two steps out of the office before Mark appeared in front of her with his arms crossed and an unreadable expression.

“So, you’re quitting.” It wasn’t a question.

Heather sighed, adjusting her bag. “I was going to tell you, I just—”

“—Relax,” he cut in, waving a dismissive hand. “I figured it out the second you started looking all wistful near the travel section.” His voice softened. “It’s okay, Heth.”

She blinked. “Wait. You’re… okay with this?”

Mark leaned against the counter, deceptively casual. “Would I prefer that you stay here forever and keep me entertained while Irene passive-aggressively critiques my shelving? Obviously.” He exhaled. “But if anyone deserves to take a leap, it’s you.”

Heather hesitated. “…I thought you’d be mad.”

Mark let out a dramatic sigh, then shrugged. “Maybe a little. Yeah, His expression softened. “but mostly? I’m proud of you. ”

Something lodged in her throat.

Proud of her.

She’d spent years feeling like she wasn’t enough— like she was just Ivy’s shadow. Or just her father’s afterthought. Or just someone who floated through life, waiting for permission from other people. But now? Now, she was giving permission to herself.

Mark studied her face; his usual smirk had faded into something more thoughtful. “This trip— it’s your chance to figure out who you’re without all the noise. And honestly? I think you’re about to have your ‘ heroine-discovering-herself-in-a-windswept-landscape ’ moment.”

Heather’s eyes stung with the idea of leaving him behind, but she smiled.

He reached out and didn’t just squeeze her shoulder but instead wrapped her into a tight, solid hug that felt like a weighted blanket—strong and steady, knocking the tension right out of her.

Heather stiffened with surprise for a second, caught off guard, but then melted into it. She hadn’t realized how much she needed the hug—or how much she’d missed him after just one day away. When he finally pulled back, he gave her a mock-serious look. “Okay, just promise me one thing.”

She raised a brow. “What?”

His grin turned sly. “Send me a postcard. Or ten. Preferably something ridiculous—like a sheep in a tiny kilt.”

Heather laughed now, wiping at her eyes. “If they don’t sell one, I’ll make one myself.”

She was almost free to go, but then Mark’s voice pulled her back. “Hey… are you going to tell Ivy you’re leaving?”

The question hit like a punch to the gut .

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag again, her pulse spiking with an immediate visceral response. She exhaled through her nose, dropping her gaze to the counter.

“I don’t know.” The words came out flat, but something sharp twisted in her chest. “She hurt me so badly, Mark. I don’t feel like I can.”

He sighed and leaned against the counter again as he crossed his arms. “I get that things are messy between you two right now.”

Heather huffed a bitter laugh. Messy didn’t even begin to cover it.

“But, Heather,” Mark continued, watching her carefully, “you and Ivy have been through a lot together. Maybe leaving without saying anything isn’t how to go about it.”

Her chest tightened—not with guilt, but with something frustrated and raw.

Of course, that was his first thought. Of course, everyone always came back to Ivy.

Heather’s throat ached with the weight of everything she hadn’t said yet. “Did she ever tell you?” she asked.

Mark’s brows knit together. “Tell me what?”

Heather hesitated for half a second, but then thought, “Fuck it.” “Ivy bribed Sam to take me out.”

Mark’s expression froze. Heather pushed forward with her confession, and the words tumbled out before she could choke on them. “She told him that if he went on a date with me, she’d sleep with him after.”

Silence.

Mark’s arms dropped to his sides. His whole posture shifted—the casual ease was gone in an instant. “She, what! ” His voice wasn’t teasing anymore—low, sharp. Angry. Heather’s chest hollowed out at the sound of it.

“Yeah…” she said bitterly, her voice trembling. “That’s how little she thinks of me.”

His jaw ticked.

The weight of it all pressed down on Heather. “How do I even begin to have a conversation with her after that?”

Mark let out a slow, controlled breath— one of those deep, calming exhales that meant he was trying very hard not to explode.

He ran a hand over his face, then rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s… uh, wow.” His voice was tight. “I didn’t know it was that bad.” Heather let out a short, humorless laugh. “Neither did I.”

Mark shook his head. “I’m sorry, Heather. That’s beyond messed up.”

For a second, she thought that was it. That he’d understand now, but then he hesitated, and Heather felt it before he even said it.

“…Even so…”

Heather’s stomach dropped. Here it comes.

He chose his words too carefully: “…maybe saying something will help you. Not her.”

Heather’s fists curled against the strap of her bag. “Mark—”

“—I’m not saying forgive her.” He raised a hand, cutting her off before she could argue. “I’m saying that walking away without saying goodbye could leave more loose ends. And you don’t need more of those.”

Heather’s teeth clenched so tightly that it hurt.

She knew what he meant. But God, it burned.

Because she could feel it—the old instinct pulling at her like a leash—to be the bigger person.

To fix it. To not let the story end like this.

But why was it always on her? Why was she always the one who had to worry about loose ends?

Why was she always the one who had to make it right?

Heather let herself be angry. “She made me a joke, Mark.” Her voice shook, but her resolve didn’t waver.