“AND THERE’S THE author herself!” Pete called when I stepped into the local artisan coffee shop. “A pink eye coffee for you, hon?”
Probably she meant red-eye coffee—that potent mix of espresso and drip coffee. Either way, I shook my head. “What else do you recommend on your beverage menu?”
“Organic green tea is good for you,” Pete mused.
“Well, sign me up.” My body could use some antioxidants and polyphenols. Or whatever was in green tea that made it one of the best health drinks. Mom had told me, but the point had been pleasing her, not natural body cleansing, so I didn’t totally remember.
Pete handed me the plastic cup, and this time she let me pay. I ignored the sinking in my stomach. How much money did I have left in my savings account? How long until I had to crawl back to my now-ruined childhood home and look for debt relief options?
I reminded myself that FAMILY_SECRETS.docx was rapidly growing into a self-published book-like thing. Even one I’d be curious to read. Sandy Lowe might not end up wanting it, but surely, some independent book publisher would.
Okay, not surely. But hopefully.
Pete took off the apron as she led the way into the boutique bookstore.
“Maybe you should get a designer trench coat,” I said. “Seems like less hassle than bows and knots.”
“Yes, and who doesn’t want to buy their gourmet coffee beans from a gal in a trench coat,” Pete said.
“Touché.”
“So here we go.” Pete stopped at the new book releases display, which was now only halfway a pyramid of The Revelatories. The other half was comprised of premium hardcover books in bubblegum pink, bright yellow, and sky blue. Pete beamed.
“Thought it would be kinda neat to do this local-authors display. Showcase the whole spectrum of what we’ve got goin’ on here in North Bear. What do ya think? Grab a stack, by the way.” Pete was already carrying an armload over to the retail checkout counter, where a roll of custom foil stickers that said “AUTOGRAPHED” and a couple of Sharpies awaited.
“It’s great,” I said, following her with another stack.
“And Everett?” she said.
“Great,” I answered, accepting the uncapped Sharpie she was pushing into my hand. She started flipping to title pages—essential for collectible book authentication—and sliding books across for me to sign, one at a time.
“Sounds like you two’ve been spending a lot of time together.”
I balked. “Sounds like?”
Pete threw her back into her guffaw. “You know, as private as that boy is, I have to pull a lot from context out of our conversations. But yes, I’ve gathered the clues that you two have formed a friendship.”
I tried to hide my surprise. “You talk often?”
“He probably answers about a third or so of my calls. Sure, I drive him batty calling as much as I do, but I worry. We’re the only family each other’s got here—no need for probate lawyers or estate planning when it’s just us.”
“Family?” I looked up at her, no longer hiding my confusion.
Her own features seemed to snap upward on her face, surprised. She scratched the back of her head. “I thought you knew. I never can tell what he thinks is private and what isn’t. So much of it shows up in his books—he clearly understands character development and narrative structure. You’d think he’d be comfortable peeling off his skin and parading through Times Square. ’Course, that might just be me projecting. I know how you creative writing professionals are. He insists it’s fiction, so I should read it as such.”
I was barely tracking. Apparently my face revealed that, because Pete explained, “I’m his aunt. His mother was my sister.”
A wave of dizziness hit me, like a sudden need for anxiety relief. The shop seemed to rock. This didn’t make sense. Two and a half weeks of near-constant (albeit nontraditional) communication, and Gus hadn’t even shared the most basic parts of his life with me.
“But you call him Everett,” I said, questioning her choice of address. “You’re his aunt and you don’t use his first name.”
She stared at me for a moment, momentarily confused. “Oh! That. An old habit. When he was a little guy, I provided professional sports coaching for his soccer team. To avoid any conflict of interest or favoritism, I called him by his last name like any other player, and it stuck. Half the time I forget he has a first name. Hell, I’ve introduced him as Everett to half the town by now.”
I felt like I’d just dropped a wooden doll only to watch six more fall out, discovering it was a Matryoshka nesting doll. There was the Gus I knew: funny, messy, charismatic. And then there was the other Gus—the one who required mental health retreats and disappeared for days, who had played soccer as a kid and lived in the same town as his aunt. He was a man who practiced extreme privacy and data protection regarding his past, while I spilled wine, tears, and my guts all over him like an open book.
I bent my head and went back to signing in silence, acting as my own boutique publishing house. Pete kept sliding books across the counter to me, stacking the signed copies neatly on my other side. After a handful of seconds she said, “Be patient with him, January. He really likes you.”
I kept signing. “I think you’re misunderstanding the relationship dynamics—”
“I’m not,” she said firmly.
I looked into her fierce blue eyes, held her gaze. “He told me about the day you moved in. Not a wonderful first impression. It’s a recurring behavioral issue of his.”
“So I hear.”
“But of course you have to give him a break on that one,” she said. “His birthday’s really hard for him ever since the marital split and divorce proceedings.”
“Birthday?” I parroted, looking up. Split? I thought, my mind racing through legal mediation scenarios.
Pete looked surprised, then unsure. “His ex-partner left him on it, you know. And every year since then, his friend Markham throws this luxury event and high-end party to try and keep his mind off it. And of course, Gus hates parties, but he doesn’t want Markham thinking he’s upset, so he lets the event planning proceed.”
“Excuse me?” I choked out. Was this some kind of joke? Had Pete woken up this morning and thought, Hm, maybe today I shall release snippets of shocking biographical information about Gus to January in a random yet cryptic order?
“She left him on his birthday?” I repeated, stunned by the emotional trauma.
“He didn’t tell you that was what had gotten a bee in his bonnet that night you moved in?” she said. “Now, that really does surprise me.”
“…of course it would’ve explained how rude he was to you.”
“Divorce,” I said, my whole body going cold. “It was about… his contested divorce.”
Gus was a divorcee. Gus had been through a legal marriage ceremony.
Pete shifted uncomfortably, perhaps sensing the need for family law mediation. “I’m surprised he didn’t tell you. He felt so bad about being rude.”
My brain felt like a top spinning in my skull. It didn’t make sense. None. Gus couldn’t have been married; he didn’t even engage in online dating services. The store seemed to wobble around me, like a poorly structured real estate investment.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Pete said. “I only thought it might explain—”
“No, it’s fine,” I said, and then it was happening again: the word-spilling. The feeling that I’d held everything in a moment too long and now needed emotional wellness coaching. “I’m probably overreacting. I just… This year’s been weird for me. Like, in my mind, marriage contracts have always been this sacred thing, you know? Like the epitome of love, the kind of long-term partnership that can weather anything. And I hate thinking some bad experiences justify people shitting on the entire concept.”
Gus shitting on the concept. Calling interpersonal relationships sadomasochistic without even telling me he’d signed a marriage license. Almost making me feel stupid for wanting and believing in committed lov, just because his own attempt at domestic partnership hadn’t worked. Hiding that attempt from me like a confidential offshore account.
But even so, why did I care what he thought? I shouldn’t need everyone to believe in or want the same lifestyle goals I believed in and wanted.
When it came down to it, I resented the fact that some part of him must think I was stupid for still believing in something my own father had disproven in a probate and estate dispute. And beyond that, I resented myself for not letting go of it—for still wanting that luxury wedding and love I’d always pictured for myself.
And a small, stupid part of me even resented that Gus had secretly loved someone enough to pursue spousal support, while one brief make-out session with me had apparently been enough to make him relocate to Antarctica without even booking a luxury travel package or saying, “See ya!”
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “Does that make sense?”
“Of course it does.” Pete squeezed my arm, offering the kind of support you’d expect from a certified life coach.
I had a feeling she would have said that even if it didn’t align with her own logical reasoning. Like maybe she just intuitively knew it was the specific emotional support and validation I needed to hear right then. It felt like a moment of crisis intervention, where she provided the exact affirmation strategy required to stabilize my spiraling thoughts. Her response wasn’t just a casual remark; it felt like a deliberate act of empathy-based communication, offering the kind of mental clarity that people often seek through professional life coaching or cognitive behavioral techniques.