Too late to let go

By the time I found out what Andre was hiding, it was already too late to let go. But I want to tell you how it started, because it started with a dead umbrella and a lemon tree, and I would do every minute of it again. The umbrella died on the corner of Fifth and Alder, turning itself inside out with a sound like a wet sigh. Julia Bennett looked at it. Nine dollars, and it hadn't lasted the season. It was a quarter to nine on a Thursday in October. She had closed the bookshop alone because Mrs. Halloran's knee was acting up again, and now her hair was plastered to her neck and the next bus was eleven minutes away. Eleven minutes on the app meant twenty in real life. She ducked into the shelter and dropped onto the bench. She wasn't alone. A man stood at the far end with one hand pressed to his ear and the other gripping a terracotta pot. In it was a small, lopsided lemon tree with four leaves and one very green lemon. "No, I said I'd handle it," he said, low and tight. "Tomorrow. I'll be there tomorrow." A pause. His jaw shifted. "I know what time." He hung up and closed his eyes for a second, like someone setting down something heavy. Then he turned, and the look was gone. He was smiling. It was a good smile. She noticed, and was mildly annoyed about it. "Sorry. I didn't mean to take the whole shelter hostage." "There's plenty of shelter." She nodded at the pot. "Yours, or are you holding it for someone?" "Housewarming gift. I've been told it's very hard to kill, which I'm choosing to believe." "It has four leaves." "It had six this morning." Julia laughed, and it came out warm and a little rusty. She hadn't laughed like that in a while. He crossed the shelter. Up close he was tall, with dark hair pushed back and a gray jacket soaked at the shoulders. His eyes were brown, almost amber in the yellow light. "Andre," he said, shifting the pot to offer a hand. "Julia." His hand was warm. He held hers a second longer than a stranger would, then let go without making anything of it. "What happened to your umbrella?" "Lost a fight with the wind." "Can I see the body?" She handed it over. He examined it gravely, poked a bent rib, and shook his head. "It's beyond saving. I'm sorry for your loss." "I'll hold a small service." "Tasteful. Maybe a trash can." A car threw a sheet of water off the curb, and Andre stepped to the street side without seeming to think about it. She noticed that too. "What do you do," he asked, "when you're not getting ambushed by weather?" "I work at a bookshop. Hollis & Finch, up on Fifth. There's an orange cat named Pickles who isn't ours but has never been told." "Do you love it?" Most people asked that the way they asked about the weather. He asked like he wanted the answer. "I do. People come in sad and leave with something they didn't know they needed." "That sounds like a place that fits you." He looked out at the rain. "That's rare. Most people never find one." There was something quiet and unguarded under it, as if he'd said more than he meant to. Julia studied him. "And you? What do you do?" "Logistics. Moving things from one place to another." "You said that like you've said it a lot." He laughed, caught. "That's annoyingly perceptive." "Occupational hazard. I spend all day guessing what people want to read from how they walk in." She looked at him a moment. "You walked in like someone who's very good at being fine." The smile stayed exactly where it was, but something behind it went still. "Okay," he said softly. "That's a little scary." "Sorry." "Don't be. It's just been a long time since anyone guessed." The bus app said fourteen minutes. It had gone up. "I'd split a car with you," he offered. "I'd make the detour." "I don't get into cars with men I met eleven minutes ago. Even ones with very sad lemon trees." "Good." He nodded, unoffended. "I'd think less of you if you said yes." Headlights swept across the shelter. The bus hissed to the curb, early for once in its miserable life. "That's me," she said. "I know." He held out her ruined umbrella, which she'd forgotten he still had. She tucked it into her tote. "Thank you, Julia. I had a bad afternoon, and these were the first ten minutes of it I actually enjoyed." It was so honest she didn't know what to do with it. "You're welcome." She took a window seat. He stayed on the curb with his tree and the rain running off his hair, and lifted one hand, not quite a wave. She lifted hers back. *** At home, in her third-floor walk-up above the dry cleaner on Alder and Ninth, she set her tote on the counter and felt something small and stiff under the paperbacks. A folded receipt, damp at the edges. On the back, in quick blue ink: Julia, I'm bad at this part, so I'll be direct. I'd like to hear about the lighthouse book from start to finish, preferably somewhere dry. Marlow's Coffee, Saturday, 10 a.m. If you don't show, I'll understand, and assume the tree killed me. Andre P.S. It has five leaves now. Progress. She read it twice. Then she realized how he'd done it: the umbrella. He had handed it back, and she hadn't looked. She had rules since her last relationship ended. Careful with her attention. Careful with her heart. She was at Marlow's at 9:52 on Saturday. He was already there. He stood when she walked in, which almost no one did anymore. He looked like he hadn't slept, but his face changed when he saw her, all at once, like a window opening. "You came." "You sound surprised." "I bet on the tree, honestly." She sat. He'd ordered her a cinnamon latte and then looked immediately worried. "I guessed. You seem like a cinnamon person. If I'm wrong, I'll drink it and suffer in silence." It was exactly right. She decided not to tell him, then told him anyway, and he pumped a fist under the table like a kid. "How did you get the note into my bag?" "Sleight of hand. I'm also a licensed magician." "You're a terrible liar." "I said I'd keep it to a minimum." His eyes danced. "Tell me about the lighthouse book." So she did. She told him about the keeper's daughter who stayed. She told him she'd read the last chapter on the bus and cried and blamed her allergies. He listened like it mattered, and when she stopped, embarrassed, he said, "Don't stop. I want to know if she gets anything for staying." "She gets the light," Julia said. "She gets to be the reason someone makes it home." Andre was quiet. For a moment he looked like a man who had been handed something he wanted and couldn't afford to hold. "That's a good ending," he said. "What would you want for her?" "Someone who stays for her." He said it lightly, then looked startled at himself and picked up his coffee. "Anyway. Your turn. Ask me something terrible." "Why were you really carrying a lemon tree around in the rain?" "I told you. Housewarming gift." "For whom?" "Dante. My oldest friend. Since we were kids." Something quick crossed his face. "He finally got a place that isn't a couch somewhere, and I wanted him to have something alive in it. I'm not good at gifts. I'm good at things that need looking after." Her chest went soft, absurdly. "That's the nicest thing you've said, and you said it like an insult." "I'll work on my delivery." Two hours went by like ten minutes. They argued about whether sequels ruined books. He was funny in a dry, sideways way, and when she teased him, he took it well and gave it back better. Twice his knee touched hers under the table. Neither of them moved. At noon, he laid his hand flat on the table between their cups, palm up, not quite reaching. Not asking. Just there. Julia looked at it for a long moment. Then she put her fingers in his. His breath went out of him, small and surprised. His thumb moved once across her knuckles, slowly, as if he were memorizing it. "This is a terrible idea," he murmured. "Why?" "Because I'm going to want to do it again." "Then do it again." He smiled, and it wasn't the easy one. It was smaller, and it looked like it cost him something. "Julia..." His phone buzzed against the table. He glanced down. She watched the color leave his face. It wasn't a name on the screen. It was a single letter. “V...”