Stand By Me: A Sweet Lesbian Romance

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  From the Author

  Stand By Me

  by Natalie Brunwick

  © 2019 Natalie Brunwick

  This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any way, including information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  Keep up to date on Natalie’s new and upcoming releases by joining her newsletter.

  Chapter One

  Between the Pages has been in my family for over forty years. Built from the ground up, my father put his heart and soul into the used bookstore that now sits between a perfume outlet and a very small thrift store. It had lasted the test of time while he was alive but was slowly starting to sink to the ground. The store was where I spent most of my life and the one thing my sister and I always argued about.

  Today was no different.

  “You could install one of those reading stations,” my sister suggested.

  “If people want to read a book without buying it, they can go to the library,” I said, cradling the phone against my ear so I could unpack a box of books someone had dropped off the night before.

  “You own a used bookstore, Evie. It needs an upgrade.”

  “Ebooks aren’t used,” I reminded her, placing a stack of dark books on the counter in front of me. “You can’t trade them in.”

  “But you can share them,” she quipped, bringing up the same point she always did. Ebooks could do everything physical books could do, but better.

  I didn’t agree. Used books have always had a magical aura about them. You never know what you’ll find. It’s the thrill of the hunt and finding that one book you could never do without that keeps me going. I could never upgrade the shop. If I did, it’d lose all its charm.

  “Don’t you want this place to do well?” I asked, already knowing the answer. Bridget gave up on the shop years ago, shortly after our folks passed away.

  “Of course, I do,” she said without a bit of hesitation. “I know you don’t trust the new tech, but if you just added a few of them—”

  “No,” I said, cutting her off. “If I do that, they’ll want me to add a cafe. You know how delicate these books are.” The last thing I needed was for someone to walk in and run their sticky fingers over all the books. “And I’m not a daycare center, either,” I added, referring to the handful of parents that used to drop by just so their kids could run all over the place.

  “You know, as much as you claim to love the shop, you aren’t much of a people person,” my sister said with a touch of amusement in her voice.

  “I’m not the problem,” I said, releasing a long breath.

  “It’s everyone else, I know.” Her voice was softer now, almost on the verge of tears. “I have memories too, of the shop and Dad, but there comes a time when you have to decide between paying the electric bill and keeping yourself fed.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, opening one of the books that had been dropped off to see what the title was. Odd. “Looks like someone accidentally dropped off a bunch of journals,” I said to Bridget as well as myself.

  Flipping the book over, I frowned. The stamp from the manufacturer I hoped to find wasn’t there. The book lacked identifying marks of any kind, which meant it was either custom made or the journal was so old that the mark simply wore off over time.

  “Are they any good?” Bridget asked in a hopeful voice. No doubt she expected me to read someone else’s personal thoughts.

  “No,” I scoffed, turning the book over again once I realized it wasn’t something I could sell. I’d have to try and locate the owner later. The journals clearly weren’t meant to be packed away with the used books, of which there were three. “Why does it matter to you anyway?” I asked when she huffed on the other side of the line. “You just want me to sell the shop so you can buy another car.”

  She did the same thing with her last inheritance.

  Meanwhile, I put whatever I could into the shop to make it more presentable. The beautiful golden lettering on the front

  window had cost a large chunk of what I spent, followed by the new carpeting and the sofas I’d added in the lounge up front. I poured everything I had into the place, and no one seemed to notice.

  “Like I said,” my sister began, using the firmest voice she could, “upgrading will breathe new life into it. That’s all. I want the shop to do well, Evie, I really do.”

  “But?” I urged, knowing she wasn’t about to drop the subject.

  “I just want you to be realistic. Ebooks are here to stay.”

  “They aren’t physical,” I said, repeating the same thing I’d told her a million times before. “Physical books still have a place.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, “in a library.”

  Rolling my eyes, I set the box of books to the side, then went to see if anything else had been left behind. If I could find the owner, then I could return the journals. Throwing them away wasn’t an option. The thought of putting something so personal in the trash made me sick to the stomach.

  “I can tell you’re busy, so I’m gonna go,” my sister said, her voice sounding terribly far away. “Just think about it, okay?”

  Sure, I’d think about it, just like I’d thought about it the last time she brought it up. It was one subject we’d never see eye-to-eye. Even before ebooks were a thing, she insisted on adding a cafe to the front of the shop or bringing in some other, unrelated merchandise. I’d seen enough stores fall victim to the same exact thing. My shop was still around, but just barely.

  “I’ll call you later,” I said, an uncomfortable silence lingering between us. “Love you.”

  “You too.” She disconnected the call before I could say anything else, leaving me alone in an empty shop with all of my books.

  Up front, sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the pair of sofas just inside the front doors. They

  were tucked in a cozy corner off to the right, straight across from the registers. They were also easy to see from the sidewalk outside, but folks rarely stopped in.

  Maybe my sister was right. Maybe I really was holding on to an impossible dream.

  Those who dropped by my shop did so because they needed directions, they were hiding away from the cold, or because they wanted to browse. As much as my sister insisted on selling ebooks, I honestly couldn’t understand why folks walked into the shop to browse when they could do the same thing at home.

  Those weren’t my customers. I wanted the people who enjoyed leafing through the pages and remembered when books were the best thing around. I was after the customers who walked into a bookstore as though it was a portal to another world, thousands of worlds. Those were my customers.

  The customers looking for a place to read the paper with their morning coffee weren’t for me. I also wasn’t interested in folks who only wan
ted to read a handful of pages before walking out again. No. I was after the dreamers, the believers, and time travelers. People like me.

  Less than a third of the people who happened to stop by left with something they didn’t have when they first walked in.

  The amount of savings I’d put into the shop just to stay open was unimaginable, but it wasn’t something I cared to tell my sister.

  Times were tough, for sure, but I wasn’t about to give up on my dream or the one my father had worked so hard to keep while he was still alive.

  With my sister’s daily phone call out of the way and the guilt weighing heavily on my shoulders, I went back to the front of the shop to unload the books I could actually place in the store. Hopefully, by the end of the afternoon, someone would realize their mistake and come back for the journals. If not, I’d have to come up with something else.

  All morning, those journals clung to the edge of my thoughts. I loved new books. I loved to open them, read the first chapter, and escape my life for a few minutes at a time.

  But those journals weren’t just any books. They were personal, private, and not for my eyes.

  That said, I couldn’t leave them on the front counter, either.

  I’d already checked the inside of the covers, but whoever they belonged to never put their name where I could easily find it.

  There was a date on each one, however, spanning over the course of three years. The journals were more than fifteen years old.

  Whatever happened to the author after the fact was a mystery. Perhaps the rest of their journals were in another box somewhere, one that hadn’t mistakingly been dropped off the night before.

  No one would’ve kept those journals around unless they meant something.

  “They do look pretty, though,” I mused aloud, reading over the beautiful writing on the inside of the cover. Whoever owned those journals had wonderful penmanship. It wasn’t something I saw very often. In a world of technology, no one wrote by hand anymore.

  “Who are you,” I asked, stroking the journal’s spine. Who did it belong to? More importantly, why did I have this overwhelming need to find out?

  The few times I’d tried to keep a journal, I filled half the pages before giving up. So for someone to keep writing day after day for years on end… well, it was something I admired.

  Had they done some sort of research and placed their findings inside those books? Did they fall on troubled times and simply needed a place to record their thoughts?

  Maybe they were love letters that never reached their recipient.

  No matter what was inside those books, I didn’t have the heart to throw them away.

  So there they sat, outside my peripheral vision but still close enough for me to see if I turned my head the right way.

  Customers came and went, but no one asked about the journals or seemed remotely interested in buying a book. By the end of the night, I’d spent more time trying not to look at the journals than doing my job. Aside from tidying up the place and making a handful of sales, the day had been a complete waste. Unless you include whatever my mind came up with about those journals, of course.

  They could’ve belonged to just about anyone. A surgeon, a researcher, an artist, an author… it had to be someone special.

  Someone with a lot of passion. Someone who had the dedication to continue their writing for several years.

  Considering the flow of the letters on the inside of the covers, I had a feeling they belonged to a woman as well, but it was honestly just a hunch.

  With no one to claim the journals and no safe place for me to keep them, I locked up the shop, then packed up the journals and took them home. They’d be safe for now, but I also knew I couldn’t cart them around forever.

  One more day. Two at most.

  I’d give it a week. If the owner didn’t show by then, I’d have no choice but to break them down. I just hope it doesn’t come to that.

  Chapter Two

  “Let me get this straight. You brought them home, but you haven’t read them yet?”

  My sister would’ve been the type of person to read well past the front cover, so I wasn’t surprised when she wanted to know more about them.

  “It isn’t any of my business,” I told her as I settled down for dinner. And it isn’t any of yours, either. I kept the last bit to myself as it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference.

  “But you brought them home,” she reminded me, drawing the words out. “You wouldn’t do that unless you wanted to look at them yourself.”

  “Or I’m trying to keep them safe.”

  “From what?” she laughed. “Dust? Come on, you know you want to look.”

  “You’re getting us mixed up again,” I said, only half-listening as I worked on dinner, making sure to keep the journals far out of reach as to not damage them.

  “You are one of the strangest people I’ve ever known.”

  “And that’s what makes me special. Look, even if I don’t know the author, that doesn’t mean I’d feel good reading their personal thoughts. Because they are personal, Bridget. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “But lugging them around in your car is okay?” She didn’t sound convinced, and to be honest, neither was I.

  I insisted it was so I could keep them safe, but temptation is a cruel mistress and not something I can hold out against for very long. “There are only two used bookstores in town,” I said matter-of-factly. “Someone has to come by for them soon, I just know it.”

  “And you’re afraid of upsetting what? A future customer?”

  I imagined Bridget shaking her head at me. “If they dumped

  off a bunch of books after closing, then I’m pretty sure physical books aren’t their thing.”

  “Or they just work late.” I’d probably have to wait until the weekend to know for sure.

  “And what happens if no one picks them up in a few weeks? Will you keep them then?”

  Of course not. “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

  “Doing the right thing is boring. Have a little fun. Just because you read them, that doesn’t mean the owner has to know.”

  “That’s like saying it’s okay to take a twenty out of the register and put it back later.”

  “Dad was fine with it,” she bit back, “and that was almost twelve years ago.”

  “After you told him it was to get something for Mom,” I reminded her. “Which totally wasn’t what you planned to do.”

  No, the twenty was so she could treat her new secret boyfriend to a dinner she couldn’t afford. Even after all these years, she still acted like a sixteen-year-old.

  “Good night, Evie.” It was the same thing my sister said when she didn’t want to talk. Usually, I egged her on and got her to open up, but I wasn’t in the mood.

  Once we hung up and I sat down for dinner, I looked back on the day’s events. Aside from a handful of sales and the journals, the day had been pretty lackluster. Of course, going from a shop that’s almost in debt to an apartment that’s only big enough from one person wasn’t any better.

  “This is no way to live,” I said with a sigh, repeating something my sister had said a million times before.

  She was right, of course, but I couldn’t let the store go. It was too important, too personal, and the only thing I had left.

  When the house sold, I unloaded everything, putting funds aside for future repairs the shop might need.

  That money went into a few renovations when a storm knocked down one of the trees in town, busting the front

  window. I used the rest of the money to repaint the front of the shop and add the golden lettering my father had always wanted but could never afford.

  Bridget begged me not to do it, but my pride got in the way and now I was just getting by because of it.

  “Something has to give,” I mumbled under my breath.

  Like it or not, it’d probably be me.

  I checked outside the shop the next morning, hoping to
find another box that might lead me to their owner. The one I found was smaller, had no journals to speak of, and no clues as to where the books originally came from. The books probably didn’t even come from the same house, but I’d thought someone might’ve left a note about them or something.

  Perhaps they hadn’t realized the mistake, or maybe the person who wrote those journals hadn’t dropped them off at all.

  Maybe a family member dropped them off without looking inside the box. It did have Books written on the side of it, so there was probably no reason for anyone to check the contents unless they belonged to the author themselves. All through the night, I resisted the urge to look past the front covers. I wanted to, god did I want to, but my conscience got the better of me.

  My sister was a bad influence, but somehow I held out. She was right, though. I couldn’t keep dragging the journals home with me forever. A part of me wondered why I was so interested in them. Folks dropped stuff off by accident all the time. Then again, they usually called me soon after the fact.

  The journals, however, were unspoken for.

  There was no note waiting for me outside the front door and nothing taped to the one in the back. Whoever wrote those journals had no idea they were missing.

  Not wanting to repeat the day before, I set the journals behind the front counter and busied myself by updating the wall of books up front. A series of books sat on the light gray wall, their covers clearly visible to anyone walking by.

  They were my top picks. Heavily discounted, they were the books I wanted to sell most of all because of the worlds that

  existed inside of them.

  Customers rarely looked at the wall, which was a real shame. We all need an escape sometimes.

  The rest of the shop was much like any other. Books were cataloged based on genre and age group with a smaller sitting area in the children’s section. It was a beautiful, warm shop with more memories than I could count.

  And if you went all the way to the back, there was an old spiral staircase leading up to yet another beautiful lounge no one ever cared to use. It was my happy place and where I went to collect my thoughts whenever I got the chance.

  Bridget insisted I hire some help, but considering the lack of business and how high the bills had become, I managed on my own. It may have been exhausting, but it wasn’t like I could just walk away. Even if my family didn’t own the shop, even if I had somewhere else to go, I’d stay.