Chapter 2 — Nostalgia on the Bookshelf

Lydia

The bell above the bookstore door chimed softly as I stepped inside, the sound setting off a cascade of memories I wasn’t entirely prepared to confront. The air was thick with the scent of aged paper and coffee, a combination that wrapped around me like a familiar, albeit slightly stifling, embrace. Charlie’s family bookstore had always been a second home, a sanctuary where I could lose myself in stories far removed from my own reality. And yet, standing here now, I felt more like an intruder than a returning guest.

“Lydia! Over here!” Charlie’s voice rang out from behind the counter, cheerful and welcoming. She was perched on a stool, her blonde curls bouncing as she waved me over. The sight of her, radiant and full of life, eased some of the tension in my chest.

I hesitated for the briefest moment before walking toward her, my footsteps muffled by the worn wooden floorboards. “This place hasn’t changed a bit,” I said softly, my gaze sweeping over the rows of shelving, each one overflowing with books in varying states of wear. The reading nook near the window still had the same faded cushions, and the corkboard behind the counter was cluttered with flyers, handwritten notes, and photographs—layers of life pressed into the space like a scrapbook.

Charlie beamed at me, her eyes sparkling with pride. “Of course it hasn’t. Why mess with perfection?” She hopped off the stool and rounded the counter to pull me into a quick hug. Her arms were warm and grounding, though I caught a flicker of concern in her eyes as she pulled back. “I’ve got a shipment to sort, and since you’re here, you’re officially my unpaid assistant for the day. Congratulations.”

I laughed despite myself, the sound breaking up the fog of nostalgia that had settled around me. “I didn’t realize manual labor was part of the bridesmaid gig.”

“Only for the special ones,” she quipped, grabbing a box cutter and gesturing toward a stack of cardboard boxes near the back room. “Come on. It’ll be just like old times.”

I smiled and followed her, though the weight of unease lingered beneath the surface of my amusement. Together, we began unpacking books, the rustle of packing paper and the occasional thud of a hardback hitting the counter filling the space between bursts of conversation. Charlie was a master of multitasking, her hands deftly breaking down boxes while she peppered me with updates about the wedding, Marcus, and every trivial detail in between.

“And then,” she said, her voice rising in mock outrage, “he had the nerve to suggest a barbecue buffet for the reception. Can you even imagine? I love the man, but his taste in wedding food is questionable at best.”

I smiled, shaking my head as I pulled another book from the box in front of me. “Maybe he’s just trying to keep things casual. You know, rustic charm.”

“Rustic charm is string lights and wildflowers, not ribs and coleslaw.” She paused, her eyes narrowing playfully. “I hope you’re not taking his side.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, holding up my hands in mock surrender. My smile faltered slightly as my gaze wandered to the corkboard behind the counter. Among the layers of notes, photos, and faded Polaroids, something caught my eye—a flash of familiarity that sent a jolt through my chest.

It was a photograph. A Polaroid, to be exact. The edges were slightly yellowed with age, but the image itself was unmistakable. Two people stood side by side, laughing, their faces illuminated by the golden glow of late afternoon sunlight. The woman—me—was mid-laugh, her head tilted toward the man next to her. Silas. His arm rested lightly on my shoulder, his smile unguarded and genuine in a way I hadn’t seen in years.

My breath caught, and the book in my hand slipped from my grasp, landing on the counter with a dull thud. My fingers tingled, the shock of recognition spreading like static through my body.

Charlie glanced up, her expression shifting from amusement to concern. “Lydia? You okay?”

“I—” I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

But I wasn’t. The photo might as well have been a punch to the gut, a reminder of a time when things had felt easy, unburdened by the weight of everything that came after. My chest tightened as my fingers trembled slightly, a sense of longing and loss crashing over me in equal measure. I bent to pick up the book, avoiding Charlie’s gaze.

She followed my line of sight to the corkboard, her face softening when she spotted the photo. “Oh. That. I didn’t realize it was still up there.” Her tone was tentative, almost apologetic. “I can take it down if you want.”

“No,” I said quickly, though the word felt like sandpaper in my throat. I straightened, clutching the book to my chest like a shield. “It’s fine. Really.”

Charlie hesitated, studying me as though weighing whether to push further. Instead, she nodded, her voice gentle. “It’s a nice picture, though. You both look... happy.”

Happy. The word landed with the weight of a stone, sinking deeper into the ache in my chest. I nodded stiffly, unable to trust my voice. The bookstore, which had felt so comforting just moments ago, now felt suffocating, its walls closing in around me.

“I think I need some air,” I said abruptly, setting the book down and stepping away from the counter. Charlie reached for my arm, her concern flickering openly now, but I shook my head. “I’m fine. I just... need a minute.”

The bell above the door chimed again as I pushed it open and stepped onto the sidewalk. The summer air wrapped around me, warm and heavy, but it did little to ease the tightness in my chest. I walked a few paces before pausing, gripping the strap of my bag with trembling fingers. The Polaroid felt like more than a photograph—it was a key to a locked room I wasn’t ready to enter.

I found myself wandering aimlessly, my feet carrying me down the familiar streets without any real direction. The image from the photo was burned into my mind, a bittersweet snapshot of a moment that felt like a lifetime ago.

Eventually, I arrived at the edge of the park, the quiet hum of cicadas filling the air as the late afternoon sun filtered through the trees. A bench sat beneath a towering oak, its surface worn smooth by years of use. I sank onto it, my hands gripping the edge as I tried to steady my breathing.

The memory behind the photo resurfaced, unbidden and vivid. It had been taken during a summer fair, the kind of small-town event where everyone turned out for funnel cakes and fireworks. Silas had won me a stuffed bear at one of the ring toss booths, and Charlie, ever the shutterbug, had insisted on capturing the moment. I could still hear his voice, low and teasing, as he leaned toward me. “Smile, Lyd. For posterity.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the memory to fade. But it clung stubbornly, refusing to be pushed aside. The person in that photo—carefree, laughing, trusting—felt like a stranger. Who had I been then? And who had I become now, weighed down by guilt and the echoes of choices I couldn’t take back?

The sound of laughter floated toward me from a nearby playground, the carefree joy of children at play a sharp contrast to the storm brewing inside me. I reached into my bag and pulled out my camera, the weight of it grounding me in the present. My fingers brushed over the worn leather strap, a tactile reminder of the person I used to be.

For a moment, I considered lifting it to my eye, capturing the scene in front of me—the golden sunlight filtering through the leaves, the soft sway of the oak’s branches, the shadows stretching like memories across the grass. But my fingers hesitated, lingering on the cool metal. I wasn’t ready.

Instead, I let the camera rest in my lap, its presence both comforting and daunting. Around me, the world carried on—birds flitted between branches, the distant hum of cars blended with the rustle of leaves. But all I could feel was the ache of memories I wasn’t sure I wanted to face.

For now, I told myself. Just for now.

And then, maybe, a step forward.