As The Seasons Change

Chapter Five 

They were supposed to leave on Sunday.

But then Sunday came with thick, silver skies and a snow warning stretching across most of Vermont and into New Hampshire. James shrugged when he told Eli they’d be staying a few extra days. “Just until the roads clear,” he said, grinning. “Clara doesn’t like the idea of white-knuckling it back to Boston in a snowstorm.”

Clara had been behind him when he said it, wrapping herself in the oversized cardigan she always wore when they visited. She met Eli’s eyes briefly, and something unreadable flickered across her expression—something that felt like hesitation... or guilt.

He’d nodded. “Of course. Makes sense.”

But inside, his stomach had tightened. The emotional space he’d carefully carved for himself had just gotten smaller.

That evening, the bookstore was quiet—snow starting to stick to the windows, turning the world into something muffled and slow.

Clara was curled up in one of the worn leather chairs near the fireplace, a book in her lap that she hadn’t turned the page of in over ten minutes. James had gone into town to meet an old high school friend for a drink.

Eli was behind the counter, pretending to work through inventory. He was watching Clara, though never for too long, never directly. Just long enough to memorize the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was lost in thought. She held a book as if it were something sacred.

“So,” she said, voice soft enough not to startle, “do you still hate poetry?”

He looked up, blinking. “Excuse me?”

“You used to tell James you didn’t trust any sentence that didn’t have a verb,” she said, half-smiling. “Back in college.”

Eli smirked. “I might have said that.”

“I remember.” She shifted in her chair, looking at him now. “But last time I was here, I noticed you’d rearranged the poetry shelf. You even added Ocean Vuong.”

He shrugged, caught. “I didn’t say I was incapable of change.”

Clara’s lips curved, but her smile faded quickly. “I think you’ve always liked it more than you let on.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it pressed at the edges of the room. Eli turned back to the old register, tracing a faded ring left by a long-forgotten coffee mug.

“I think,” Clara said slowly, “you just like hiding behind your preferences.”

He looked up at her sharply.

Her gaze was steady. “You’ve always been careful with what you let people see.”

“I’m not sure that’s a flaw.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

Another beat passed, filled only by the crackle of the fire.

“I don’t mean to pry,” she added. “I just... I think I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re holding something in.”

Eli met her eyes again, and something inside him cracked the smallest bit.

He wanted to tell her she was right.

He wanted to tell her he thought of her in the quiet moments—when the shop was empty, when the sun caught the edge of the snowdrift just so, when the poetry section felt too honest.

But instead, he said, “It’s hard to unlearn being guarded.”

Clara nodded slowly, and her expression softened. “It’s also hard to pretend everything’s simple when it’s not.”

That hit him squarely in the chest. He looked away first.

James returned an hour later, louder than usual, his cheeks flushed from the cold and the whiskey.

He kissed Clara on the forehead and turned to Eli. “You’ll never guess who’s still in town—Caleb Ritter. Still wearing those ridiculous boots from high school. Wants to go ice fishing.”

Eli made the appropriate sounds of interest. Clara smiled and nodded along. But something was gone. Whatever had stretched taut between them had snapped back into place—polite, restrained.

He hated how relieved he was.

And how much he missed the moment already.

The next day, Grace texted:

Hope the bookstore’s surviving the storm. Did your guests get snowed in?

Eli stared at the message for a long time before responding.

They’re staying a few more days. The weather’s too bad to drive.

A pause.

Then:

You okay with that?

He hesitated again, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

Not really. But it is what it is.

There was no reply for a while.

And then:

You know I’m around if you need a break. Or a distraction.

He stared at that line. “A distraction.”

But Grace wasn’t a distraction. Not really.

She was something else. Something he hadn’t let himself fully look at before.

And maybe now... maybe now he needed to.

That evening, as the snow thickened, Eli found himself watching Clara again—this time when she thought he wasn’t looking. She was reading in the chair by the fire, wearing one of James’ old sweatshirts, her legs curled beneath her, her focus distant.

She didn’t smile when she read. She didn’t frown either. She simply absorbed—quiet, thoughtful, unreachable.

Eli wondered what it would be like to be loved by someone like that.

To be the reason her brow furrowed. The name in the margins of her journal.

And for the first time in weeks, he imagined what it would be like if Grace were sitting in that chair instead.

He imagined her teasing him for his taste in coffee, asking him to read her something from the old poetry shelf, stretching her legs out until they brushed his across the rug.

The image startled him—not because it didn’t feel real, but because it did.

Clara was a storm in his chest.

But Grace... Grace was a doorway.

And maybe it was time he stopped standing in the hall.