Chapter 1
Anna
Hemingway doesn’t care that it’s snowing outside. He sits by the front door, waiting for me. I’ve tried ignoring him for ten minutes, but even when I don’t see him, I can still sort of see him. That sad, disappointed face with the dramatically droopy eyes, which he only ever puts on when I don’t snap on his leash at 10 a.m. sharp.
But the mid-January cold seems to have seeped into my bones and the prospect of going outside fills me with more dread than usual.
“Remind me again why I got you?” I ask Hemingway.
He turns his face toward me and turns up the drama in his eyes, his snout pointing wistfully toward the door.
As soon as I grab my coat, Hemingway perks up. He wags his tail in anticipation.
“You and I,” I mumble, “we’re not the same. I wonder how we can even live together.” I’m reminded of a podcast I listened to the other week, in which someone claimed that dogs used to walk themselves. But walking Hemingway is one of the reasons I got him in the first place. If I didn’t have to take him out twice daily, I’d never leave my house most days. He’s my connection to the outside world.
Hemingway gives an excited bark as I put on his leash. I find my warmest hat and gloves, and head into the snow.
The cold hits me hard in the face, but Hemingway is pulling on his leash, and I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself. He tugs me forward along our usual route. I half-walk half-jog behind him, keeping my face down. Because Donovan Grove is the kind of town where people keep their driveways clear, it’s not that hard to make my way along the sidewalk, but I do have to ask Hemingway to moderate his tempo for fear of slipping on the snow. It wouldn’t be the first time. When I got him two years ago, in the middle of winter, I let his enthusiasm get the best of me a few times and paid for it by ending up face-down in the snow.
What I like most about Hemingway is that he’s so utterly predictable. Every single day, he does his business on the same street corner—and I dispose of it in the doggy waste bin that was put there especially for Hemingway’s needs by the Donovan Grove council. I would never have requested a waste bin myself, but for some reason my mother felt it necessary. So, there it is.
“Good boy, Hem.” I give him a scratch behind the ear and, in return, he gives me a look filled with such love it almost makes me forget about the cold.
We continue our walk. The streets are quiet, even Main Street where usually a few shoppers dwell. I follow Hemingway’s paw prints on the thin layer of snow that has fallen since the sidewalk was last shoveled. Then I slowly get used to the cold and I lift my head up a little higher. This is how it goes every single day in winter. Getting out of the house is the hardest part, but once I’m out, I try to enjoy the walk as much as Hemingway does.
The familiarity of my surroundings soothes me. The window displays in the stores change as we cycle through every season, but that’s about it. When we reach the end of Main Street, I do notice something different. Bookends, the bookstore that’s been empty for months, has a light on inside.
And not just that, but a big heart’s been spray-painted onto the window.
“Oh no,” I mumble, making Hemingway stop in his tracks. “Don’t tell me the old bookstore will be turning into some cheesy gift shop.”
I peer through the window and I can hardly believe my eyes. Granted, it’s been a while since I actually looked through the window, since the place has been boarded up for months, but still, the transformation from derelict bookstore to whatever this is, is impressive.
The old, dark bookshelves have been painted with bright colors and stacks of books are waiting to find their place. My heart does a little jump at the prospect of the bookstore reopening, but then my gaze is drawn to the big heart on the window again. Inside it, also spray-painted, someone—presumably the new owner—has written: Valentine’s Day is coming!
I only got rid of my Christmas tree last week—always a bit of a sad event. Not only because I love the coziness of Christmas, but also because soon enough, and the evidence is already glaring straight at me, I’ll be reminded of how society believes it’s awful and pitiful that I’m single. It’s bad enough already that my mother thinks so, although she has gotten a bit better at hiding her dismay.
“Can you believe this?” I mutter under my breath, my words visible in the small cloud that emanates from my mouth. But Hemingway doesn’t care. He just wants to get on with his walk.
“We’ll go in a second,” I reassure him, not that he understands. I look past the ridiculous drawing and words on the window and try to see more of the store inside. Mrs. Fincher, who ran the bookstore until she retired last summer, always had a recommendation for me whenever I came in—and I did often. The closing of the old Bookends left a gaping hole in my schedule for a long time. But Mrs. Fincher, especially after Mr. Fincher passed away, hated Valentine’s Day as much as I do, and she would never have disgraced her store window with a ludicrous drawing of a heart. In fact, I’d wager, if she were to walk past right now and notice it, she might have a heart attack, just like her husband did.
“This is basically a health hazard,” I say, but Hemingway still doesn’t care. He has calmed down now and sits quietly by my side, glancing around.
I see some movement in the shop. A young woman—she can’t be older than Jaden, my nephew—is hauling a big box.
The sight of another human is enough to make me back away from the window and continue my walk swiftly.
