Chapter 13 - THE BOOKSTORE HE NEVER OPENED
Two years after the night Vincent kissed me at Bellini's, he bought a bookstore.
Not a luxury property.
Not an investment opportunity.
A small, struggling bookstore in Brooklyn.
It had crooked shelves, creaking wooden floors, and a faded green awning.
When he showed it to me, I laughed.
"You're serious?"
He nodded.
"Completely."
I walked between the shelves.
The place smelled of paper and dust.
There were handwritten recommendations beneath the novels.
A children's reading corner near the window.
And a little bell above the door.
"It's perfect," I whispered.
Vincent smiled.
"My mother would have loved it."
He renovated the store carefully.
He kept the old shelves.
Repaired the windows.
And created a reading program for children from low-income families.
He hired experienced booksellers to manage it.
For once, he didn't try to turn everything into an empire.
The store opened on a Saturday morning.
Children crowded around the reading corner.
Parents browsed the shelves.
And Vincent stood near the counter looking more nervous than I'd ever seen him.
I approached.
"What's wrong?"
He looked around.
"What if nobody comes back?"
I laughed.
"Vincent DeLuca, are you worried about a bookstore?"
He nodded.
"Very."
I smiled.
"Good."
He frowned.
"Good?"
"Now you know what it feels like to care about something you can't control."
He laughed.
Then pulled me gently into his arms.
That afternoon, a little girl approached him holding a picture book.
"Are you the owner?"
Vincent crouched.
"Yes."
She studied him.
"Do you read stories?"
He hesitated.
Then smiled.
"Sometimes."
"Can you read this one?"
He looked toward me.
I grinned.
"Go on."
Vincent sat in the reading corner.
The little girl climbed onto a cushion.
Three more children joined her.
Then five.
Then ten.
And the man who had once terrified half the city began reading a story about a lost dog finding its way home.
I stood near the doorway watching him.
My eyes filled.
Not because he had become perfect.
He hadn't.
But because he had become willing to change.
That evening, after the store closed, Vincent handed me a small box.
I stared.
"Vincent."
He smiled nervously.
"Open it."
Inside was a simple gold necklace.
A tiny book charm hung from the chain.
On the back were engraved three words.
Choose your story.
I looked up.
"It's beautiful."
He took my hand.
"Emily, for years I thought my life had already been written."
I swallowed.
"And now?"
He smiled.
"Now I think I get to write the next chapter."
May you like
I leaned into him.
"So do I."
