Page 7 of Safety Net (Mendell Hawks #3)

CELESTE

Once Finn and Naomi left, Finn’s advice about purpose was immediately written onto the Post-it taped to the first page of my journal. I spent a moment writing, hoping it would help me get closer to figuring out my purpose in conversing with Lincoln.

The cloth-bound journal that housed all my boring secrets had entries dating back to middle school. I hadn’t taken writing in it seriously until university. Classes made me realize my problems would be the death of me if I didn’t filter them out somehow.

My therapist suggested brain dumping. Typical, was the first thought I had about the assignment. Therapists always suggested writing things down. I never liked spending extra time in my head. I lived, ate, and slept within the four walls of my mind.

Vital, was the tune I now sang after a year of scribbling down every inconvenience, no matter how minor. Stubbed toes led to musings on life feeling like a sharp edge just waiting for me to trip up. Rainy afternoons breed terrible poetry on nostalgia.

The journal became a collection of my most cringe-worthy thoughts and fears. It was my prized possession. My reason for sanity.

Finn’s suggestion echoed in my head as I tried to work through my lingering fears about connecting. My knuckles strained from how tightly I held the pen. I tried to manage the frustration and impatience coloring every word I wrote down.

Lincoln has this energy I’ll never be able to match. Where does his ability to just share what he feels and thinks out loud, no matter how mundane, come from? I want to learn how to obtain even a fraction of that kind of bravery.

And there it was: a purpose. A north star to guide me when it came to talking to Lincoln. I wanted to learn from him.

I pulled out my phone, looking for the note I’d taken down about his favorite author.

If I hurried, I could make it to the bookstore downtown before it closed.

A quick search showed they had multiple copies on their shelves.

I could order online, but that’d take days, and another test of my social skills wouldn’t kill me.

Besides, bookstores were a low-tier anxiety threat.

I did my version of a light makeup routine: BB cream, brows, pink blush, a sharp wing, and glossy lips. I stamped on a star at the tip of my liner because it made me feel like a magical girl, and Sailor Moon had been my safe place since kindergarten.

“You headed out?” Eli, my older brother, asked as soon as he saw me clear the stairs.

His starter locs stretched toward the shaggy carpet as he balanced on his hands.

Our eldest brother, Luka, held up his phone with a timer on the screen.

This was what a physical therapist and a dentist did on their vacation.

“I have to pick a book up downtown.” I grabbed my keys off the counter.

The TV was on low in the background, playing an old summer movie about neighborhood kids and their undying love of baseball. Our living room looked trapped in the time of the film with our floral-patterned couches, wood-paneled walls, and one too many table lamps equipped with tassels.

“Can I come with?” Eli asked, while Luka said, “I’m making dinner; should I set you a plate?”

“No,” I answered Eli, and to Luka, “Yes, please.”

“Why not?” Eli asked. Despite our two-year age gap, he was the tagalong.

It was nearly impossible to be a tagalong to someone who barely left the house, but Eli loved defying the odds.

It started as his way of looking out for me.

He noticed how harmful my anxiety had gotten before anyone else in our family had.

Much like him, I could read between the lines and understood he hid his protective worry inside the illusion of being an annoying brother who didn’t mind his own business.

“Because I’m working on self-improvement,” I told him as I rummaged through my tote bag, confirming all my going-out essentials were there. “And I won’t be able to improve if you’re there doing all the difficult stuff for me.”

Eli moved out of the house years ago, but every time he came back, he resumed his role. I only recently started pushing back when I realized without my brothers and Naomi around, there was an endless list of things I couldn’t do.

“I promise I won’t do the difficult stuff,” Eli said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Fine.” He sighed. “I promise I won’t do all the difficult stuff. Come on, Celeste. Work with me.”

I stood my ground. “Hard pass.”

Luka laughed, rubbing his hand across his thick, prematurely salt-and-pepper beard. “Good for you, Cel. Before you go, how do you feel about chicken tonight? Grilled.”

“Mom hates chicken,” I reminded him.

“Well, Mom isn't joining, so…” Luka said.

“Neither is the old man. We’re free to get a little wild,” Eli teased, still balancing and talking, voice steady as ever. It was impressive. “Might throw in some mashed potatoes and gravy. Now there’s a real party.”

I scoffed. “What was it this time?”

“A house in Richport?” Eli asked, looking at Luka for confirmation.

“Nah, I think it was that apartment in Lake City,” Luka corrected. “Ground floor. Flooding.”

My parents often ran around town during the weekend to manage what we all knew was a burning legacy. Dad inherited ten real estate properties from his father. His only experience with buildings was being a construction worker on a crew that built beautiful houses for cheap.

Cue Grandpa. A man who hated all three of his children (and six grandchildren) without prejudice. Dad was the least hated, so in the final will, he inherited six houses, three commercial properties, and an old community center.

“Think they’ll come to their senses?” I wondered out loud.

Luka snorted. “You know those two are too prideful to call it quits. They’ll drown in their narcissism together. I’ll be counting the days until they do. Good fucking riddance.”

Eli’s chuckle almost resulted in a dismount. He was at five minutes now.

As soon as my brothers were able to move out, they did.

And whenever they came home, their focus was one hundred percent on me or one another.

I didn’t think they’d bother making the drive down when (or if) I ever got the chance to move out, too.

I didn’t blame them, but I also felt a pang of sadness for a version of our family I’d never experienced.

We didn’t have a mantle littered with childhood photos, plastic trophies, and finger paintings.

The closest thing we had to a tradition was an argument on the eve of any holiday about who was cooking what and when.

Sometimes, when we convinced ourselves to try our hand at lighting the fireplace, it emitted dark clouds of smoke we’d inevitably have to extinguish.

It was almost as if, even when we tried to be a cookie-cutter family from the suburbs, the universe was there to remind us, 'No, you just look like one. '

“You sure you don’t want company?” Eli asked.

I smiled, grateful to have them, to know them, and to have them want to know me. “I’ll make you a deal: you stop asking, and I’ll make my lemon cake.”

“You better shut the hell up,” Luka warned. I could never tell which one of them was more obsessed with the recipe.

“Fine, fine,” Eli conceded. “Will it have the drizzle frosting, though?”

“Duh,” I said.

“Then I promise, my lips are sealed.” He finally dismounted. “Until next time.”

I laughed. “Nice to do business with you.”

Mountain Pine Books was nestled in the heart of Main Street.

According to the plaque above the front door, it was the only building on the block made up of its original bricks from the early 1900s.

Inside, the air smelled of coffee and pinecones, courtesy of the on-site café and the burning candles placed rather boldly throughout the store.

The abundance of windows on the ground floor welcomed in a healthy dose of sunlight.

Heat from the rays meant the AC and fans above worked overtime.

“Welcome to Mountain Pine. Let us know if you need help finding anything,” a worker behind a stack of new hardbacks greeted. She didn’t even look up as she waved in my direction.

I murmured a thank you; my heart drummed as I dipped into the closest aisle. The weathered wood floors groaned underneath my sandals.

My fingers ran over the mix of old and new spines as I took a couple of deep breaths. In for five, hold for three, out for five. Repeat. My lightheadedness subsided. The shaking of my hands was still present, but scrolling through my phone for the list of books would help.

Carter had a vast catalog to choose from. I looked up at the wooden signs hanging from the ceiling, which indicated the location of each genre. The mystery section was on the back wall, filling most of the built-in shelves.

The bookstore was nearly empty. My shoulders relaxed as I browsed without worrying about getting in anyone’s way.

I found Carter easily enough. The first one I laid eyes on was a tattered used paperback with yellowing pages on sale for a dollar.

I read the synopsis and was surprised to find a murder mystery set in the Wild West sounded interesting.

I moved on to Doyle next. It couldn’t hurt to work in a classic, too.

I’m sure Lincoln would appreciate discussions about more than just his favorite author.

As expected, there was a whole section dedicated to Holmes.

“It was brilliant,” someone’s muffled voice could be heard a few shelves over.

“Hardly,” the other person scoffed. “Lazy writing, lazy premise, lazy characters.”

My back stiffened when I realized footsteps were approaching. I did my breathing exercise again and repeated my mantra: No one’s focused on you. You’re a side character in their story.

Monstrous me threw her opinion in the ring: Or you’re a silly joke they’ll share in passing. The girl in the bookstore nearly passed out while trying to browse.

I tried ignoring her, drowning the voice out with thoughts of how the used books felt dry and fragile in my hands, how they smelled of old ink and aging fibers.

I kept my gaze locked on Holmes as the voices neared, hoping to find support in the timeless detective.

The colorful illustration of Sherlock stared back at me, aloof and unfazed by my panic.

Everything I knew about this character I learned through TV.

Despite not knowing his original story, I was confident enough in my knowledge of Sherlock to confirm he wouldn’t be able to stomach my constant bouts of sky-is-falling rhetoric, which put me in an even deeper state of unease.

Not even a fictional character would be able to deal with me.

This wasn’t something to get worked up over, and yet, I found a way.

“That’s what makes it fun,” the original voice insisted.

My throat tightened at the low chuckle that followed the statement.

There was no way it was him. The odds were…

decently high considering this was the only bookstore in town that carried Carter’s books, and he didn’t seem like the type to order online. Lincoln liked being outside.

“Kid, that’s what makes it a dud.” The older Black man Lincoln debated with came into my peripheral vision.

He wore a plaid newsboy cap and a Mountain Pine Books gray tee.

There was a set of thick glasses hanging from a brown neckband that he picked up to place on his nose as he stopped in front of the mystery section.

His arms were full of books. Not only was I in the way of his reshelving, but I was also in Lincoln’s direct line of sight.

My jaw clenched as I wondered if I could escape upstairs and hide out until the coast was clear. But that’d go against every goal I had in mind today. I couldn’t keep putting this off. The universe had given me the perfect second chance.

Yeah, no. You’re not ready for this. You need more time. Please, run. Abort mission and run.

The stairs weren’t far. Four, maybe six steps until I could reach the bottom of them. They’d creak underneath my shoes all the way up, but Lincoln was so deep in conversation he wouldn’t even notice.

My planning cost me valuable time. Before I could take one step, Lincoln said, "You’re just jealous because your stack of Lee novels hasn’t sold, but my tip on stocking Carter paid off. Look, someone’s picked something right now—good choice, my friend. ”

Lincoln gestured to the paperback under my arm. “You’re going to love it. It’s one of my…"

He paused when he met my gaze. I tried to smile. I hoped my mouth responded to orders because I knew my lungs didn’t.

“Favorite,” Lincoln finished in a quieter voice. “Hey.”

The guy with him raised a brow and removed his glasses to get a good look at me.

I swallowed. “Hi.”