Page 22 of Healing Hearts
His eyes go round, and he races back to his friends, shouting, “It’s a surprise!”
I chuckle, standing and smoothing my skirt once more before stepping into the library. Plush pillows, a rainbow of colors and textures, cover the floor, inviting the kids to sink in and get lost in a story. The scent of old books mingles with the faint sweetness of crayons and glue. It’s my favorite scent, and it wraps around me like a hug, pushing the embarrassing memories to the back of my mind.
The children settle in quickly, their excited whispers dying down as I take my seat at the front. My gaze sweeps the back of the room, where a handful of parents have gathered, some standing, others sitting with younger siblings. My breath catches for a moment—is that dark hair Trevor’s? No, just Mr. Henderson, the father of twins.
I exhale, a little disappointed but shaking it off. Why would Trevor even be here anyway? He doesn’t have kids.
“Once upon a time,” I begin, slipping into the lilting cadence of a storyteller, “in a land not so different from our own...”
The children lean in, their eyes wide with anticipation, and I fall into the rhythm of the story. The room fades away as I bring the characters to life with voices and gestures, painting a world for them where magic and bravery reign supreme. Their expressions are full of awe, and I feel a familiar swell of happiness. Here, in this moment, I’m more than just Brooke, the awkward woman nursing a crush on a doctor—I’m the guide to their adventure.
“And they all lived happily ever after,” I finish,closing the book with a flourish. A chorus of “Again! Again!” fills the room.
“Maybe next time,” I say, laughing as the children groan in disappointment but begin to gather their things.
As I start to tidy up, I catch snippets of conversation from two mothers chatting nearby.
“Wasn’t that wonderful?” one gushes, her eyes bright. “She has such a way with words.”
My cheeks warm at the unexpected praise. I turn slightly, pretending to straighten a stack of books, but leaning just close enough to hear. Who doesn’t want to hear how wonderful you are, right?
“Oh, absolutely,” the second mother replies. “Hey, have you read that new Sophie Quinn novel? I just finished it and absolutely loved every word. The way she describes emotions... it’s like I’m living every moment with the characters.”
My pulse quickens, a mix of pride and anxiety churning in my stomach.
“I know exactly what you mean,” the first mother says with a dreamy sigh. “There’s something so raw and honest about her writing. I wonder what she’s like in real life. I bet she’s amazing. I’m sure we’d be instant best friends if we ever met.”
I bite my lip, resisting the urge to step forward and say,Actually, you already know her.Instead, I clear my throat and move into their view.
“Ladies, I hate to interrupt, but we’re closing up now.”
Both women turn to me, their smiles warm and genuine. “Thank you, Miss Edwards,” one says, gathering her purse and gesturing for her child to come over. “Your storytimes are the highlight of our week.”
“Yes, thank you so much,” the other mother chimes in. “And if you ever decide to write a children’s book yourself, I’d be first in line tobuy it.”
My heart stutters, and I muster a smile that I hope doesn’t betray the storm of emotions swirling inside me. “That’s very kind of you,” I manage, my voice steady even as a flush rises to my cheeks. I write books, but they’redefinitelynot children’s books.
They smile at me, genuine and warm. “Thank you, Miss Edwards,” one of them says as they go to leave.
“You’re welcome,” I reply, trying not to let my voice waver.
I lean against the nearest shelf, my heart still racing. Pride swells in my chest, warring with the constant fear of being discovered. The thrill of being appreciated as Sophie Quinn wars with the constant fear of being found out. It can be exhausting.
“Get it together, Brooke,” I whisper, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
I finish tidying up, the library now silent and peaceful. By the time I step out into the parking lot, the sun is setting, casting the evening sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink. The sight calms me until I notice something unusual on my windshield — a bouquet of hibiscus flowers, their many colors vibrant even in the fading light.
“What on earth?” I murmur, approaching cautiously.
Tucked between the stems is a small note. My breath catches as I unfold it, my eyes scanning the unfamiliar handwriting:
Coffee raincheck? – Trevor
Below is his phone number, even though I already have it saved in my phone. A smile tugs at my lips, warmthspreading through my chest. Maybe he finds klutzes attractive after all.
I take a deep breath and dial his number, my fingers trembling ever so slightly. The line rings twice before his voice, warm and familiar, comes through.
“Hello?”
