Page 149 of Fault Lines
He brushed it off with faux dignity. “It’s fuel for the mind. I’ll need all my faculties for the noon rush.”
The day passed in soft fits and starts, as most days did. Between customers, Nate found me shelving the cookbooks and slid up beside me, hands behind his back.
“What,” I said, not looking up.
He waited a beat, then slid Cooking For One (And How To Enjoy It) onto the shelf beside my hip, the little cartoon chicken dancing at me. “Found your copy,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m living with you. The irony is palpable.”
He leaned in, voice low. “Just wanted to make sure you don’t forget how to fend for yourself. In case I drop dead of espresso poisoning.”
“Noted,” I said. But I smiled, and he saw it, and that was the entire point.
Around two, Mr. Porter, no Richard, came in. He always timed it so that the store was empty or close to it, which I’d long ago realized was so he could avoid the “old man” jokes from Nate. He wore the usual: tweed jacket, a battered bowtie, and thefaintest air of exhaustion. I noticed, not for the first time, how much older he’d started to look. The bags under his eyes had gone from gray to a heavy, almost purplish bruise, and his hands shook a little when he poured himself a cup from the pot behind the counter.
Nate saw him too, and for a second he got quiet, a seriousness settling over his features that I only saw in rare moments. He approached his grandfather, gently, and I could see the way he hovered, wanting to help but knowing not to insult the man’s pride.
Mr. Porter cleared his throat. “Olivia, Nathaniel. When you have a moment, could you both join me in the office?”
Nate nodded. “Sure thing, Pops. Just let me ring up this last guy.” He shot me a look—equal parts worried and resigned—and I followed Mr. Porter to the little back room.
The office had always been a controlled chaos of paper and ink. Mr. Porter liked his ledgers, liked to keep things in order even when he couldn’t. There were more books in here than in some small-town libraries, and at least three framed photos of the original store, all of them sun-faded and slightly crooked.
He sat at his desk, hands folded, and waited until Nate and I were seated before he spoke. The silence was heavy, not tense, but not casual either.
“I suppose you’re both wondering why I called you back here,” he started, like he was leading a lecture. “I’m not the type to be coy, so I’ll be blunt.” He paused, sipped his coffee, then set it down with a deliberate slowness. “I’ve been given a timeline. I have cancer. The doctors are optimistic, of course, but you can hear it in their voices. It’s a matter of months. Maybe less.”
It was so direct I didn’t process it for a second. Nate didn’t either. He just stared, lips parted, waiting for the real point to emerge. But Mr. Porter was always a straight-shooter.
He continued: “I’ve known for a while. I’d hoped it would move more slowly. But it seems my body’s in a hurry to catch up to my mind.” He managed a smile, thin and sad, but he looked at us both in the eyes. “I wanted to tell you together. Because you, Olivia, are family, whether you like it or not. And you, Nathaniel, are all the family I have left.”
Nate spoke first, voice barely above a whisper. “Pops…”
Mr. Porter waved him off, gentle but firm. “None of that now. I don’t want this to become an after-school special. I only brought it up because there are things to be decided about the store, and I thought you both deserved to be in the loop.” He looked at me. “I know you’ve only worked here a short time, but this place is as much yours as it is mine. And I want you to know that I plan to leave it in good hands.”
My chest was tight, every breath a struggle. I wanted to say something comforting, but there was nothing to be said.
“I’m not asking you to do anything,” Mr. Porter said, as if he could sense my panic. “I just want you to keep doing what you’re doing. Run the store. Keep the coffee hot, the books alphabetized, and the weirdos entertained. That’s all I want.”
Nate was silent, jaw clenched tight. He looked at the shelves, at the desk, anywhere but at his grandfather.
“I’d like to talk about arrangements, of course, but not today.” Mr. Porter’s eyes crinkled at the corners, genuine. “Today, I want to enjoy the company of two people I love, and then go home and watch Jeopardy in peace. Is that too much to ask?”
Nate shook his head. “No, Pops. Not at all.”
I managed to find my voice. “Is there anything you need? Anything we can do?”
He smiled, softer now. “Just be yourselves. That’s more than enough.”
The rest of the afternoon passed in a daze. Mr. Porter stayed at the front, chatting with customers, recommending books, writing notes on little slips of paper for the regulars. He looked, for all the world, like nothing was wrong. But every now and then I caught him at the window, staring out at the street, lost in thought.
Nate and I worked side by side, our banter softer now, each joke edged with an unspoken “what next?” I didn’t know how to comfort him, so I just made sure to be there, to make the coffee a little stronger, to stand close when he needed it.
When we closed up at six, Nate locked the door and stood with his forehead pressed to the glass for a long time. I waited, gave him space, then slipped my hand into his when he turned back to me.
“You okay?” I said, knowing it was a stupid question.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Ask me tomorrow.”
