Chapter 25: Fully Out
The daisy box sat on her dresser, a small, solid piece of happiness. But today, the world seemed determined to prove it was an outlier.
It began with the morning rain, a cold drizzle that seeped into her bones as she fumbled with her keys at the bookshop door. Her tights itched. The tag on her sweater scratched the nape of her neck no matter how she adjusted it. The world was physically off-kilter.
Shelving the new arrivals was a disaster. Slippery fingers let a heavy art book thump to the floor, the sound echoing through the quiet shop like a gunshot. Then a whole stack of paperbacks slid from her arms in a cascade of fluttering pages. As she knelt, gathering them, she felt the familiar, fuzzy pressure at the edges of her mind—a longing for softness, for quiet, for a simpler world. It was the worst possible time for that feeling to surface.
Her boss, Mr. Henderson, a man shaped like a comma and just as patient, simply nodded from his desk. “Heavy fog in the fingers today, Lily-Anne. It happens.”
She nodded, her throat tight.
The customer arrived just past three. A woman in a razor-sharp blazer, smelling of acidic perfume and impatience. She wanted a first edition of a specific Fitzgerald, and she wanted it now, and she was certain a “quaint little hovel” like this must have it tucked away.
“I’m sorry, we sold our last copy last month,” Lily-Anne explained, keeping her voice low and even.
“Check in the back.”
“I’m certain, ma’am. Our inventory is digital. I can see we don’t have it.”
The woman’s eyes, the color of slate, swept over Lily-Anne as if inspecting a disappointing insect. “Digital. Of course. And I suppose you can’t suggest an alternative?”
Lily-Anne suggested two other nearby shops, her words growing softer as the woman’s scowl deepened. Each suggestion was met with a dismissive flick of a manicured hand.
“Useless,” the woman muttered, not quietly, turning to examine a shelf she’d already scrutinized. “Absolutely useless.”
The words landed with physical weight. Lily-Anne felt her chin begin to quiver. She blinked rapidly, staring at the scratched wood of the counter. Don’t. Not here. She focused on her breathing, but the fuzzy feeling was back, amplified, a desperate child’s urge to hide under a blanket.
The woman returned to the counter, slapping a different book down. “This. I suppose you can manage to ring this up?”
Her tone was the final nudge. As Lily-Anne reached for the book, a single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek and splashing onto the cover.
The woman froze. Then she let out a short, disgusted sigh. “Oh, for God’s sake. Emotional children shouldn’t be in customer service.”
It wasn’t the insult that broke her. It was the word. Children. A word that held her secret shame and her deepest need, thrown at her like a weapon. A soft, helpless sob broke from Lily-Anne’s lips before she could choke it back. More tears followed, silent and relentless.
Mr. Henderson was suddenly there, a calm, curved presence beside her. He took the book from her trembling hands. “I’ll handle this, Lily-Anne. Why don’t you take your things and head out early today. The rain’s letting up.”
The woman began to protest, but Mr. Henderson fixed her with a look he usually reserved for people who dog-eared pages. “The transaction is complete,” he said, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. “Have a good day.”
Lily-Anne didn’t remember collecting her satchel or putting on her coat. She moved through a blur, the bunny sock a lump of fabric beneath her fingers as she clutched the bag’s strap. She pushed out into the alley, the cool, damp air hitting her wet face. She held the sobs in, a painful pressure in her chest, until she reached her beat-up sedan.
The door closed, sealing her in a dim, silent capsule. Then it erupted.
All the frustration, the itchy discomfort, the sharp words, the profound loneliness of feeling so fundamentally wrong in the world—it poured out of her in great, heaving waves. She cried until her ribs ached, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, the horn giving a muted, pathetic squeak. She was small, lost, and utterly ashamed of needing to be small.
Through the torrent, one clear, desperate want emerged. Not a vague wish for comfort. For him. For the solid silence of his workshop, for the way he examined a painted daisy with serious eyes, for the safety of his quiet presence that asked for nothing, that simply saw her.
Her hands shook violently as she fumbled her phone from her satchel. Her vision swam, the screen a blur of icons. She found his name. She pressed call.
It rang twice.
“Lily-Anne?” His voice was calm, tinged with mild surprise. Workshop sounds, the gentle scrape of wood, were a comforting backdrop.
The sound of his voice undid the last of her control. All the words she’d planned—I had a bad day, can I come over, I’m sorry—evaporated. What came out was a raw, fractured wail, a single word torn from the deepest, most vulnerable part of her soul.
“Daddy!”
The word hung in the damp, close air of the car, amplified by her shock. She froze, breath catching in a ragged hiccup. She hadn’t meant to say it. She’d never said it to anyone, not like that. The line was silent, save for the distant sound of a tool being carefully set down.
Then, his voice again, low, immediate, and stripped of all surprise. It was pure, focused containment.
“Where are you?”