Page 111 of Book and Ladder
“Are you just going to give up?” My question isn’t a challenge, but I’m appealing to the stubborn fighter in her. She’s not a quitter.
“What do you care?” Her head snaps up.
I’m so close to blurting out that I’m the podcast host—the one who cares deeply and is always there for her. But she doesn’t need to process that truth bomb right now.
I will tell her when the timing is right. I’ve resolved that much. If she rejects me after she finds out, at least I’ll know I tried.
I stand in front of her, my shoulder holding the screen door, her hand bracing the other.
“Daisy. I care.”
She looks at me as if she could never believe any word that comes out of my mouth. What I wouldn’t give to go back to high school and show up for her—to change the outcome of that day.
Daisy is defeated. The usual fire in her eyes and her tone? Gone. She’s not feisty. And I can’t bear to see this fragile, beaten down version of her.
As risky as it is, I step toward her. She flinches, but steps aside as I stride past her into her living room. I take a seat on the armrest of a chair. She watches me, her eyes narrowed, arms folded over her chest. But she doesn’t kick me out.
“You might hate me,” I start, not exactly sure where this is going. I just know I can’t leave her here, alone, to face losing everything that matters to her.
“That’s not exactly breaking news,” she mutters, a dry laugh slipping out despite herself. The sound is brief, a sharp contrast to her downcast expression.
“That day?” I stare at her until her calendar aligns with mine. Then my words rush out like a flood, a dam held too long, weak from years of pressure. “You think I ditched you for fun? Do you think I didn’t care? That somehow I wanted to see you fail? See all your dreams washed away? I had prepared for our presentation as much as you did. I wanted that win—for myself, yes. But also for you.”
Her face is etched with even more pain. But I’m not finished. This has stood between us for too long. I should have addressed it sooner. She should have let me.
“My dad told me if I didn’t show up to his event, I could forget about his support forever. He took my phone, sat me in the back seat of the car between Declan and Maeve—as if I’d duck and roll out onto the street if I had access to ahandle. My tie was too tight, the whole car felt claustrophobic. I kept tugging at the knot, staring out the window, watching Waterford pass by outside the tinted windows, knowing you were standing there with your notes, waiting. I needed him, Daisy. He was paying my tuition and expenses. I couldn’t even afford car insurance back then.”
My eyes plead with her. I feel my brow raise and my whole face contort with the memories of how it felt knowing she’d be standing there, waiting, disqualified because of me.
Her arms drop to her side. She turns her face away, blinking hard. For a heartbeat she seems about to speak, but only a shaky exhale comes out. Then she moves to the couch, practically collapsing onto a cushion as far away from me as possible.
When she looks over at me, she says, “All I knew was you left me—alone, humiliated in front of everyone. I needed that scholarship and the status of having won it to get into Vanderbilt.”
The name of her favorite university hangs in the air.
I cost her a dream.
Yes. I chose my family. I obeyed my father instead of standing up for her. She had every right to be disappointed and angry—to shut me out and lose faith in me. But she never knew the whole situation until today. I never forced myself on her. I asked for opportunities and she dodged them at every turn. And I let her—because deep down, I knew. Given the chance, I’d make the same choice over and over again.
Only now, I’m not so sure.
Now, her happiness and her dreams matter more than they ever did—more than pleasing my dad, more than loyalty to his goals and empire.
Now, I think I could sacrifice everything, risk rejection, pay the ultimate price, just to see her reach her dreams.
We’re both silent. It’s not awkward, but it’s not exactly comfortable either.
Daisy takes a deep breath. I can feel her reconstructing the wall between us. I want to grab her wrist and take the bricks away.
“You can’t bring back what you robbed me of that day. I’ll never get to attend Vanderbilt.” Her tone is brittle, the old fierceness flickering to life before she resigns herself.
She goes from sitting up and pointing at me to slouching and picking at a cuticle, her head down and her voice frail.
“It’s okay. It has to be,” she says quietly. “I finished my degree online while working at the bookshop. I ended up loving Moss and Maple as much as an owner as I did as a child.”
Her breath shudders.
Is the bookshop really a thing of the past?
