“Then let me walk you home,” he said.
“No, no, please. I’m fine on my own. Contrary to many people’s beliefs, I’m actually fine with my own company. You must understand that with all the solo traveling you do.”
A look of respect came over his face. “Actually, yes. I do. I also understand that sometimes you need to balance out the alone time with a little human contact.”
Gently but firmly, I released myself from his grip. “I guess it’s about knowing exactly when you want company… and when you don’t.”
He nodded. “I get it.”
I turned and started to make my way toward the door, but was barely three steps away before he said, “Don’t worry, I’ll figure you out, Brooks Beresford.”
“Good luck,” I said, turning back. “I’m a hard book to read.”
He shook his head. “No book is too hard, Brooks. You just have to open the cover.”
CODY
The bar was still buzzingafter Brooks bolted. Bea was flouncing, and Bo Harlow was nursing his latest bruise in the corner, but my night felt suddenly quieter. The stool next to me was empty and I felt… alone… which is something I rarely experienced, even if I was by myself on a mountaintop in Peru or snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef with nothing but the occasional curious sea turtle for company.
While Bea was busy hauling a drunken Bo off to some undisclosed location to the soundtrack of The Supremes singing “Where Did Our Love Go,” I exited quietly and made my way along the forest path back into town.
At the BnB, Benji and Bastian were already tucked away, the place hushed except for the sound of the river outside my window. I flicked open my battered notebook, ready to jot down a few lines about Mulligan’s Mill for the article. At first, I wasn’t quite sure how to describe this place, until eventually I wrote—
“A town that feels like it could fit inside a snow globe. Neat as a pressed shirt, pretty as a bow tie.”
Then I stalled. I tapped my pen against the page. Somehow, every line that wanted to come out had less to do with the townand more to do with the man who refused to tell me his favorite book.
Instead of working on my article, I found myself making notes to try and figure out what Brooks’s favorite book might be.
Perhaps it wasDon Quixote. Brooks had that same heroic stubbornness about him——tilting at windmills only he could see. Except in his case, the giants weren’t windmills at all, but dog-eared pages and customers who pulled out a book to read the back cover then put it back in the wrong place. He’d march into battle with nothing but a bow tie for armor and a death stare for a lance, convinced he was saving civilization one orderly shelf at a time.
Maybe it wasThe Picture of Dorian Gray. Dark, dramatic, secretly yearning for beauty that never fades, like a book that never ages.
Or perhaps it wasMiddlemarchby George Eliot. The tale of a small town just like Mulligan’s Mill, with every tiny interaction catalogued like specimens in a glass case. I could practically see him nodding along approvingly.
Suddenly I scribbled the notes out.
Idiot, I thought to myself. I was a traveler. I wasn’t built to stay. My whole life fit in a backpack, and I liked it that way. You could vanish at any moment, jump on a plane, skip to the next story. No roots, no ties, no chance to get stuck.
And yet… there was something about the way Brooks fussed with his bow tie, something about how he blushed with annoyance when Bea teased him, something about the way he’d smiled at the bar—really smiled, not his usual grimace-in-disguise—that made me wonder what it would feel like to belong to a place. To a person.
The thought unsettled me so much I shut the notebook hard, like that might stop my brain from replaying every little look, every word he’d said that night.
I lay back on the creaky BnB mattress, hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow I’d write about the town.
Tomorrow I’d explore the woods beyond Mulligan’s Mill, see what else I could uncover for the article.
Tomorrow I’d remember who I was—the guy who never stayed anywhere too long.
But tonight? Tonight I couldn’t stop thinking about a bookstore with a steeple… and a pair of nervous hands straightening a bow tie… and a face I didn’t want to forget.
The dining room at the BnB looked like a magazine spread styled by three different art directors who could never agree on anything… yet somehow it still turned out perfect.
The walls were covered in vintage floral wallpaper curled at the edges in places, but instead of looking shabby, it just made the place feel lived in. The mismatched chairs—some spindle-backed, some upholstered with faded stripes, and one that looked like it had been borrowed from a church hall—surrounded a long mahogany table polished to a gentle glow. Lace doilies sat under vases filled with fresh-cut blooms from the garden, while sunlight streamed through sheer curtains illuminating every sherry glass and mismatched teacup inside an antique curio cabinet against the wall.
I jotted a note in my pad:The dining room is filled with vintage details paired so carefully they feel timeless—every detail chosen with care, every flower and chair in perfect harmony. I’m not sure whether I’m in a centuries-old home or a trendsetting studio. Either way, it’s flawless.
